Page 40 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Your Grace," Carrington appeared with a cloak. "If you would..."
"Thank you." Alexander wrapped the cloak around himself, hiding the worst of the damage. "Is the second carriage ready?"
"What second carriage?" Ophelia asked.
"I brought two, anticipating rain. Though not..." He gestured curtly at himself. "This."
"You brought two carriages?"
"Fortunately, as it turns out." His tone was clipped, businesslike.
Her family had gathered, all looking quite shocked when Alexander addressed them with cold formality.
"Mrs. Coleridge, you'll ride with us to Montclaire House. Your daughter requires assistance."
"I... yes, of course."
The brothers started forward, but Alexander held up a hand. "The rest of you will follow in your own carriages."
"If you think we're leaving her alone with you..." Robert started.
"I'm covered in vomit, Coleridge. I assure you, romance is not on my mind." The blunt statement was delivered with cutting precision.
The carriage ride was excruciating. Alexander sat across from them, wrapped in his cloak, the smell permeating the enclosed space. He stared out the window with a jaw so tight it might crack. Ophelia's mother held her daughter's hand and no one spoke for several minutes.
Finally, Alexander said abruptly: "My valet informed me you were ill this morning."
Ophelia looked up. "What?"
"You were sick this morning. You could have delayed."
"Would that have changed anything?"
"It might have changed the venue of the disaster."
"But not the fact of it."
They looked at each other across the carriage, his grey eyes hard and unforgiving.
"No," he agreed coldly. "Not the fact."
Chapter Ten
Montclaire House was controlled chaos when they arrived. Servants scattered at their approach, then rallied. Alexander disappeared immediately without a word. Ophelia was whisked to the duchess's chambers, her chambers now, where an army of maids descended.
"Your Grace," the housekeeper said carefully, "would you like to change?"
Your Grace. She was Your Grace now, for better or worse.
"Yes, please."
They'd laid out another dress—pale blue silk that probably cost more than her father's annual income. She let them strip her of the ruined wedding dress, wash her face and fix her hair.
"The duke sent these," a maid said, producing a bottle of peppermint water and some ginger tablets. "For your stomach, Your Grace."
The medicine seemed more dutiful than kind, but she took it gratefully.
"Now then, Your Grace," the housekeeper said briskly, "you have a wedding breakfast to endure."
