Page 30 of Married to a Frozen Duke
Two weeks alone with a man who could barely stand to look at her. The thought made her stomach churn.
“I need to shop,” she said suddenly.
“Shop?”
“For clothes. I can’t go to… Kent… with what I have.”
It was an excuse to get out of the house, away from the negotiations and plans and the constant reminder of what was coming. Her mother understood.
“I’ll come with you.”
They went to Bond Street, where Ophelia spent Alexander’s money with grim determination. If she was going to be a duchess, she’d at least look the part. The modiste, sensing wealth and desperation, was only too happy to help.
“Such beautiful fabric, mademoiselle! And this color—oh, it brings out your eyes beautifully!”
Her eyes were brown. Nothing brought them out beautifully. But she bought the dress anyway.
“You’ll need evening gowns,” the modiste continued. “For entertaining.”
Would they entertain? Would Alexander want to parade his merchant bride before society? Or would he hide her away, embarrassed by what he’d been forced to accept?
She bought evening gowns anyway.
“And nightclothes, of course. For your… wedding night.”
The words hung in the air like a threat. Her wedding night. With a man who found her presence distasteful.
“Something simple,” she said quickly.
“Nonsense! A bride must be beautiful for her husband!”
Beautiful. As if silk and lace could transform her into something Alexander might actually want.
She bought the nightgowns anyway.
By the time they returned home, she had a wardrobe fit for a duchess and a headache that threatened to split her skull.
“Lie down,” her mother urged, “and rest.”
But rest brought dreams of cold grey eyes and formal proposals and a lifetime of being necessary but never wanted.
Instead, she wrote letters. To distant cousins, informing them of her betrothal. The responses wouldbe predictable...shock, speculation, thinly veiled envy. The Coleridge girl marrying a duke? How had she managed that?
If only they knew it wasn’t managing but surrendering.
***
A week passed. Then ten days. The wedding approached with the inevitability of winter.
Alexander sent another note. Would she like to see Montclaire House before the wedding?
She stared at the invitation, for that’s what it was, formally worded and properly sealed. Her future home, and she needed an invitation to see it.
“You should go,” her mother said.
“Should I?”
“It will be your home. Better to see it now than be surprised later.”
