Page 79 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Required by whom?"
"By society. By tradition. By the very nature of the system we're part of."
"A system that's making us both miserable?"
"A system that maintains order. That ensures everyone knows their role and plays it properly."
Ophelia sank into one of the leather chairs facing his desk, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour. "So I'm to be polite but distant. Kind but not friendly. Present but not really there."
"You're to be a duchess," he said more gently. "I know it's not what you're used to, but it's what you are now."
"And you think I'm being strategic, don't you? Making friends with the servants for some nefarious purpose?"
He was quiet for a moment too long.
"You do," she said, hurt creeping into her voice. "You think I'm plotting something. Building a power base or whatever military term you want to use."
"Aren't you?"
"No! I'm being friendly because I'm lonely and they're kind and I don't know how else to be. But you see Coleridge manipulation in everything I do, don't you?"
"I see patterns," he said carefully. "You arrive here with nothing, and within two weeks, every servant in this house would do anything for you. They already look to you before me for decisions about household matters."
"Because I asked their opinions! Because I treated them like human beings with valuable knowledge instead of furniture that occasionally speaks!"
"And in doing so, you've undermined my authority."
"Your authority?" She stood, anger finally overtaking hurt. "Your authority that keeps everyone at a distance? Your authority that has made this house feel like a beautiful tomb? That authority?"
"Yes, that authority. The authority that has maintained this estate for five hundred years."
"Well, perhaps after five hundred years, it's time for a change."
"Not this kind of change. Not Coleridge change."
The word hung between them like a slap. Always it came back to that; she was a Coleridge, therefore suspect, therefore calculating, therefore wrong.
"I see," she said quietly. "So I should be more like you. Cold and perfect and untouchable."
"You should be appropriate to your station."
"My station," she repeated. "Yes, I shall try to remember my station."
She left his study, closing the door with excessive care when what she wanted was to slam it. In the hall, she encountered James, who looked uncertain whether to acknowledge her after the scene in the servants' hall.
"Your Grace," he said formally, beginning to bow.
"James," she replied with equal formality, the warmth she'd shown at breakfast now frozen over. "Please inform Mrs. Morrison that I'll take luncheon in my chambers."
"Of course, Your Grace."
She swept past him, her new gown rustling with expensive authority, and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Mary was there, organizing the wardrobe, and looked up with a smile that faded when she saw Ophelia's expression.
"Your Grace? Is everything alright?"
"Perfectly fine, Mary. I've just been reminded of my position, that's all."
"Your position?"
