Page 26 of Married to a Frozen Duke
“A fortnight,” Robert said finally. “She’s giving herself a fortnight to prepare for a lifetime of misery.”
“Maybe it won’t be miserable,” Mrs. Coleridge said without conviction.
“Did you see his face? He looked like he was swallowing poison.”
“Ah! Did you see hers?” Henry added. “She looked like she was drinking it.”
“We could still stop this,” Charles said. “Tell him to find another solution.”
“There is no other solution,” their father said quietly. It was the first time he’d spoken during the meal. “The will is specific. Ophelia must marry the duke.”
“Then we make sure he treats her well,” Edward said with forced determination. “We make sure he knows that if he hurts her...”
“He’ll hurt her.” Henry’s voice was flat, certain. “Not physically, probably. But he’ll hurt her with indifference. With coldness. With the constant reminder that she’s not good enough for him. He’ll kill her slowly with a thousand small cuts of contempt.”
“Henry,” Mrs. Coleridge protested.
“It’s true and we all know it. We’re sending Phee to live with a man who can barely stand to look at her. Who proposed to her like she was a particularly unpleasant medicine he had to swallow.”
“Then we make the best of it,” their father said firmly. “We ensure the settlements are generous. We maintain cordial relations. We support Ophelia as best we can.”
“Cordial relations,” Robert laughed bitterly. “With the Montclaires.”
“With our sister’s husband’s family,” their father corrected. “Like it or not, in two weeks we’ll be connected to them. Ophelia is making this sacrifice for all of us. The least we can do is not make it harder for her.”
“Fine,” Robert said. “But if he makes her cry again...”
“He won’t,” their father said. “Because Ophelia won’t let him see her cry. She’s stronger than all of us in that way. She has always been.”
Upstairs, Ophelia sat at her window, still wearing her yellow dress, still staring at the ring on her finger. It was beautiful, she supposed. The pearl caught the dying light, seeming to glow from within. A ring with history, with meaning, with generations of Montclaire brides who’d worn it.
Montclaire brides who’d been wanted. Chosen. Loved.
She thought about the proposal, if one could call it that. He’d stood there, tall and handsome and utterly miserable, talking about circumstances and requirements like he was reading from a legal document. She’d known it would be bad, but somehow the reality was worse than her imagination.
‘Necessary,’ he’d called her. Like medicine, she’d said, and he hadn’t denied it.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
It was her mother, carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might want some company.”
“I’m poor company tonight.”
“Then we’ll be poor company together.” Mrs. Coleridge set the tray down and took the chair across from her daughter. “It’s a beautiful ring.”
“It’s his grandmother’s. Generations of Montclaire brides, he said.”
“And now you.”
“Now me.” Ophelia twisted the ring, watching the light play across the pearl. “The Coleridge contamination of the bloodline.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s what he’s thinking. What they’re all thinking. The merchant’s daughter who somehow trapped a duke into marriage.”
“You didn’t trap anyone.”
“No. A dead man did that for me.” She laughed, but it was hollow. “Imagine dying and thinking ‘I know what would solve everything—forced marriage!’ What was the old duke thinking?”
