Page 125 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Alexander."
"Yes?"
"Go to sleep."
"Excellent suggestion." He caught her hand as she turned to go. "Ophelia?"
"Yes?"
"This was the best worst day ever."
"That makes no sense."
"It makes perfect sense if you're me." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with surprising gentleness. "Thank you for being annoying and perfect and here."
"You're welcome."
She left him there, returning to her own room through the connecting door. But sleep was long in coming, her mind too full of everything that had changed in the course of one evening. Alexander loved her. Or was falling in love with her. Or something in that general vicinity.
And she loved him. The realization wasn't as surprising as it should have been. She'd been falling for him in pieces; his unexpected kindness to the Wheelers, his defense of her tonight, the vulnerability he hid beneath all that ice.
Through the door, she heard him fall into bed with another thud and muffled laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The morning sun streaming through his bedroom windows felt like tiny daggers piercing directly into Alexander's brain. He lay very still, hoping that if he didn't move, perhaps the pounding in his head would cease, or better yet, perhaps the memories of the previous evening would prove to be some elaborate, brandy-induced dream.
But no. The memories remained stubbornly real and horrifyingly detailed. He had told Ophelia she was beautiful. Multiple times. He had called her annoying in what he'd apparently thought was an endearing manner. He had confessed to falling in love with her. He had sat on the floor of his bedroom, defeated by his own boots, while she helped him like he was a child.
Alexander pulled a pillow over his face and seriously considered suffocating himself with it. Death seemed preferable to facing Ophelia after everything he'd said. She probably thought he was pathetic. A duke who couldn't hold his liquor, rambling about feelings like some lovesick poet.
A soft knock at the connecting door interrupted his self-recrimination.
"Alexander? I know you're awake. I can hear you bringing the catastrophe upon you from here."
Her voice held amusement, which somehow made everything worse. She was laughing at him. Of course she was. He'd made an absolute fool of himself.
"I'm dying," he called back, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Please send my regards to society and tell them I've expired from acute embarrassment."
The door opened anyway, because apparently his wife had no respect for his desire to die in peace. He heard her footstepsapproaching his bed, then felt the mattress dip as she sat beside him.
"I brought headache powder," she said gently. "And tea. And toast, though I suspect you won't want that yet."
He peaked out from under the pillow. She was dressed in a soft morning gown of pale green, her hair loosely pinned up, and she was smiling at him with such warmth that his chest tightened.
"You're not running away screaming," he observed suspiciously.
"Why would I run away?"
"Because last night I apparently lost all sense of propriety and dignity and spent several hours telling you things that should never have left my brain."
"You mean telling me you think I'm beautiful and that you're falling in love with me?" She helped him sit up, handing him the glass with the headache powder mixed in water. "Yes, how terrible. I'm absolutely scandalized."
He drank the mixture, grimacing at the taste. "I called you annoying. Repeatedly."
"You also called me perfect. I've decided to focus on that part."
"I couldn't get my boots off."
