Page 27 of Married to a Frozen Duke
“Perhaps he was thinking of redemption. His brother jilted Cordelia. Perhaps he wanted to make amends.”
“By forcing his grandson to marry me? That’s not amends, Mama. That’s revenge. On all of us.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping tea, watching the sun set over the chaotic garden.
“Do you remember,” her mother said suddenly, “when you were little, you used to make up stories about the flowers? Each one had a personality, a history.”
“The roses were always nobility. Proud and beautiful but thorny.”
“And the violets?”
“The violets were the quiet ones. The ones who did their work without fuss, who bloomed even when no one was watching.”
“You always liked the violets best.”
“Someone had to.” Ophelia smiled slightly. “They’re overlooked, but they’re hardy. They survive.”
“Like you.”
“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I? A violet in a garden of roses.”
“Oh, my dear girl.” Her mother reached over, taking her hands. “You’re worth a thousand roses.”
“But he doesn’t want violets, does he? He wants… I don’t know what he wants. Nothing, probably. To wake up and find this was all a nightmare.”
“What do you want?”
Ophelia considered the question. What did she want? It seemed almost frivolous to think about it.
“I want not to be afraid,” she said finally. “I want to walk into a room without wondering if I’m embarrassing him. I want to speak without calculating whether my words are too common, too merchant-class. I want…” She paused. “I want to be enough. Just once, I want to be enough as I am.”
“You are enough.”
“Not for him. Not for the Duke of Montclaire. I’ll never be enough for him.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“Perhaps. But he’ll be my fool. For better or worse.”
Later, alone again, Ophelia pulled out her journal and tried to write.
*Today,* she began, then stopped. What did one write on one’s betrothal day? *Today I became betrothed to a man who finds me distasteful but necessary. The proposal was everything I expected and nothing I hoped. I said yes because I had no choice. He said yes because he had no choice. We’ll be married in two weeks and miserable for the rest of our lives. But at least the ring is pretty.*
She set down the pen, unable to continue. Tomorrow there would be settlements to discuss, arrangements to make, a wedding to plan that no one wanted. Tomorrow she’d have to face the reality of what her life was becoming.
But tonight, she sat by her window, twisting a ring that didn’t quite fit, thinking about a man with cold grey eyes who’d called her necessary.
It wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever been called. But somehow, it hurt more than all the times she’d been overlooked, ignored, forgotten. Because at least then she’d been nothing. Now she was something; a necessary evil, a required burden, a problem to be solved.
She thought about his face when he’d proposed, the way his jaw had tightened as if the words physically pained him. The way he’d stood at careful distance, as if her commonness might be contagious. The way he’d said “circumstances necessitate” like he was reading a death sentence.
Which, in a way, he was. The death of his freedom, his choices, his carefully ordered life. And she was the executioner, whether she wanted to be or not.
Two weeks. In two weeks, she’d walk down an aisle toward a man who could barely stand to look at her. She’d promise to love, honor, and obey someone who’d made it clear he wanted none of those things from her. She’d become a duchess, with all the privilege and none of the joy that should accompany it.
The thought should have made her cry. Instead, she felt oddly numb, as if all her emotions had been used up and there was nothing left but resignation.
Tomorrow she’d have to start preparing. Learn what duchesses did, how they acted, how they spoke. Learn to be what he needed her to be—invisible, proper, adequate.
