Page 116 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Yes, but you've never called me that before. Not like that. Not like it meant something."
He turned to look at her then, and even in the dim light, she could see something had shifted in his expression. "It did mean something. It meant that anyone who insults you insults me. It meant that we're united, whether we planned it or not. It meant..." he paused, seeming to struggle with words. "It meant I'm tired of pretending you don't matter."
Her heart stopped, then resumed at double speed. "I matter?"
"You've mattered since the beginning. I just didn't want to admit it." He ran his hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect arrangement in that gesture she'd come to recognize as his tell for emotional distress. "Do you have any idea how terrifying you are?"
"Terrifying? Me?" Ophelia couldn't help but laugh. "I'm about as terrifying as a butterfly."
"No, butterflies are predictable. They follow patterns, respond to stimuli in expected ways. You're chaos incarnate. You arrive in my perfectly ordered world and immediately start changing things; the servants smile more, there are flowers everywhere, you make me feel things I've spent years learning not to feel."
"Is feeling really so terrible?"
"It is when you've built your entire life on not feeling. When emotion has only ever led to loss and pain." He turned back to the window. "My mother died when I was young. She was everything warm and bright in that house. When she was gone, my father retreated into coldness, removed every trace of her, acted like she'd never existed. I learned that loving someone meant losing them, and the only way to survive the loss was to never love at all."
Ophelia wanted to reach for him but didn't know if she had the right. "That's not survival, Alexander. That's just existing."
"I was quite good at existing until you arrived."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what I'm doing. Tonight, when Harrington insulted you, I wanted to call him out. Actually challenge him to a duel over words. That's insane."
"That's protective. That's caring."
"That's dangerous."
They arrived at Montclaire House before she could respond. The great entrance was lit with torches, and servants appeared to help them from the carriage. Both of them were muddy, exhausted, and emotionally wrung out from the evening's events.
"Your Graces," Mrs. Morrison appeared, taking in their disheveled state with raised eyebrows. "Shall I have baths drawn?"
"Yes," Alexander said, then paused. "And Mrs. Morrison? Have some brandy sent to the library. The good stuff from the cellar."
"The 1798, Your Grace?"
"Perfect."
Ophelia looked at him in surprise. "Brandy?"
"We've just spent seven thousand pounds, saved eight families, and made enemies of half the county's landowners. I think that calls for a drink, don't you?"
An hour later, bathed and changed into simpler clothing, he in shirtsleeves and trousers, she in a soft wool dress that was warm and comfortable rather than fashionable, they met in the library. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the book-lined walls. The brandy decanter sat on a side table, catching the light like liquid amber.
Alexander poured two generous measures and handed one to her. "Do you like brandy?"
"Well, it is strong."
"It's meant to be. Liquid courage, my grandfather used to call it."
"Did he need much courage?"
"He married my grandmother, who was apparently a terror. So yes, probably." Alexander took a deep drink of his own brandy, then settled into one of the leather chairs by the fire. "My goodness, what a night."
Ophelia curled up in the chair opposite, tucking her feet under her in a way that would have horrified any proper chaperone. But they were alone, and she was exhausted, and the brandy was already making her feel warm and slightly loose-limbed.
"You were magnificent tonight," she said, watching him over the rim of her glass. "The way you handled Harrington, turned his own cruelty against him—it was brilliant."
"It was expensive."
