Page 128 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Do you want to add anything?" she asked when she'd finished.
"Yes, give it here." He took the pen and added a postscript:
Mr. C. Coleridge and Mr. E. Coleridge are invited to dine at Montclaire House this Friday at eight o'clock. Please note that the portrait gallery will be closed for cleaning, and we regretfully request that all guests refrain from handling decorative objects. Formal dress required.- Montclaire
"You're impossible," Ophelia said, reading his addition.
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
The three days that followed were marked by Alexander's increasing dread and Ophelia's attempts to reassure him. They had settled into a new rhythm since their drunken confessions—still awkward at times, both uncertain of how to be affectionate in daylight hours, but trying. He would take her hand at dinner, and she would sit beside him in the library in the evenings, reading while he worked on correspondence. Small touches, tentative kisses, the careful construction of intimacy between two people who had started as strangers.
The servants had noticed the change immediately, of course. Mrs. Morrison's unprecedented smiling had continued, and Alexander had caught several footmen exchanging knowing looks when he and Ophelia walked together in the gardens. Even his valet, Sinclair, had commented that His Grace seemed "more settled" lately, which Alexander chose to interpret as approval.
"They'll be here tomorrow," Ophelia said on Thursday evening as they sat by the fire. She was curled against his side, a position that still felt new and slightly alarming but not unpleasant.
"Don't remind me."
"You might actually enjoy their company if you give them a chance."
"I might also enjoy having my teeth pulled, but I'm not eager to test the theory."
"Edward knows a great deal about horses. You could talk about that."
"Your brother Edward thinks the aristocracy is a parasitic institution that should be abolished."
"Yes, but he also knows about horses."
Alexander considered this. He did appreciate a good horse, and good horsemen were rare enough that even a Coleridge who knew his bloodlines might be tolerable. "What about Charles?"
"Charles is... Charles. He means well."
"That's not reassuring."
"He's very sorry about the vase."
"The vase can't be unbroken by an apology."
"No, but he offered to commission something new for the space. That was in one of the letters he burned, apparently."
This was news to Alexander. "He offered to replace it?"
"He wanted to, but he was too embarrassed to send the letter. He thought you'd see it as an insult, trying to replace something irreplaceable with new money."
Alexander was quiet for a moment, processing this. It was actually rather thoughtful, recognizing both the loss and the impossibility of true replacement. "And you said he burned multiple letters?"
"Three, according to Mother. He's not good with words when he's genuinely sorry. He gets tongue-tied, says the wrong thing, makes it worse. It's why he usually just blusters through."
"So his obnoxiousness is actually discomfort?"
"Sometimes. Not always, he can be genuinely obnoxious. But when he cares, when he's really trying, he becomes almost inarticulate with the effort of not saying the wrong thing."
Alexander found this oddly relatable. How many times had he stood frozen, wanting to say something kind to Ophelia but unable to find words that didn't sound stilted or formal? Perhaps he and Charles Coleridge had more in common than either would care to admit.
"I'll try to be civil," he said finally.
"That's all I ask."
"But if he breaks anything..."
