Page 8 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"And the daughter?"
Alexander paused in the act of selecting gloves. "What daughter?"
"The one you're supposed to marry. Miss Coleridge. I assume she exists?"
"One assumes." He pulled on his gloves with unnecessary force. "Though I've never noticed her, which tells you everything you need to know. She's either too plain to be seen or too scheming to be obvious about it."
"Those are your only options? Plain or scheming?"
"She's a Coleridge. What else could she be?"
Frederick appeared to consider this. "Happy? Sad? Fond of butterflies? Allergic to strawberries? You know, an actual person."
"Don't be ridiculous." Alexander collected his hat with the gravity of a man selecting weapons for a duel. "Coleridges aren't people. They're a collective irritation that happens to walk upright."
"You're going to be a delightful husband."
"I'm going to be a dutiful husband. There's a difference." He moved toward the door, then paused. "And no, you cannot come with me."
"But..."
"No."
"I could wait in the carriage. Provide a swift escape route if needed."
"Frederick."
"What if they harm you? Who will inherit? I don't think I'm ready for the responsibility..."
"Goodbye, Frederick."
Alexander left his cousin mid-protest, descending the stairs with the measured tread of a man approaching his doom. The journey to Coleridge House was mercifully short—only three miles, though they were quite possibly the longest three miles in England.
The neighborhood, when they reached it, was exactly what he'd expected. New money trying desperately to look like old money and failing rather spectacularly. The houses were big but somehow wrong. Too much gilt, too many columns, as if someone had looked at a picture of a proper estate and decided to add everything at once.
Coleridge House itself sat like a wedding cake that had gotten ambitious—all white stone and unnecessary ornamentation. The gardens were… well, they were certainly enthusiastic. Roses climbed where they shouldn't, herbs mixed with flowers in cheerful chaos, and was that… indeed, that was definitely a vegetable patch visible from the front drive. How wonderfully middle-class.
His carriage drew to a stop before the front steps, and Alexander took a moment to steel himself. Somewhere inside that architectural embarrassment was Miss Coleridge, his future bride, the woman who would bear his children and share his name. The thought was not appealing at all.
The door was answered by a butler who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else; a sentiment Alexander could appreciate.
"The Duke of Montclaire to see Mr. Coleridge," he announced himself with all the enthusiasm of a man declaring his own ruin.
The butler's eyes widened slightly, though whether from awe or alarm was unclear. "Your Grace. We've been… expecting you."
I'll wager you have,Alexander thought grimly as he was led through an entrance hall.
The drawing room door opened, and Alexander stepped into what could only be described as an ambush disguised as a social call.
***
Meanwhile, in that very drawing room five minutes earlier, chaos reigned supreme.
"He's here!" Charles announced, peering through the curtains with all the subtlety of a cannon blast. "Heavens, look at that carriage. Could it be any more pompous?"
"It's the Montclaire crest," Edward added, pressing his nose to the glass. "That is too much for a morning call, is it not?"
"Get away from the window!" Robert barked, pacing the carpet with the energy of a caged bear. "We're not peasants gawking at passing nobility."
