Chapter Two
"Mama, do you think the roses mind being pruned? They seem to protest so vigorously."
Miss Coleridge carefully trimmed another stem, wincing slightly as a thorn caught her glove. The afternoon light filtered through the drawing room windows, casting everything in shades of honey and gold, including her mother's drowsy expression.
"I'm sure they recover admirably, Ophelia." Mrs. Coleridge's voice carried the soft quality of someone emerging from what was definitely not an afternoon nap. "Though perhaps they'd protest less if you hummed to them. You have such a lovely voice."
"I doubt my humming would improve their disposition." She placed the rose in her arrangement, then frowned. "It certainly couldn't make them any thornier."
Her mother's gentle laugh filled the comfortable silence that followed. This was her favorite time of day. The house quiet, her brothers elsewhere, just the soft tick of the clock and the whisper of stems against glass.
"You're very thoughtful today," Mrs. Coleridge observed. "More than usual, I mean."
"Am I?" She adjusted another bloom, though it needed no adjusting. "I suppose I was wondering what we're having for dinner. Cook mentioned something about lamb."
"That was yesterday, dear."
"Was it? How foolish of me." She knew perfectly well it was Thursday and Cook always made fish on Thursdays, but maintaining conversations about nothing in particular had become something of an art form.
It was safer than discussing anything of substance, which invariably led to topics she'd rather avoid; her age, her prospects, her future.
The peace was shattered by the distinctive sound of the front door meeting the wall with unnecessary force, followed by boots, multiple pairs, thundering across the entry. Her shoulders tensed automatically.
"The cavalry has returned," she murmured, setting down her scissors.
Mrs. Coleridge sighed. "And in such fine voice."
Indeed, Robert's booming tones were already echoing through the hall, punctuated by Henry's drawl and what sounded like the twins arguing about horses? Hazard? It was difficult to tell and ultimately unimportant. Whatever had them annoyed would spill into the drawing room momentarily.
She was proven right within seconds. The door burst open and Robert strode through, still in his riding coat, mud on his boots, and a letter clutched in his fist like a weapon.
His face was the particular shade of red that suggested either apoplexy or news from the Montclaires.
Given the paper in his hand, she suspected the latter.
"Those, insufferable..." He caught sight of his mother and modified his language with visible effort. "Those blackguards."
"Robert!" Mrs. Coleridge protested weakly.
Henry followed, already heading for the brandy with the purposeful stride of a man who knew he'd need fortification. "I take it we're discussing our dear neighbours?"
"The Montclaires," Robert spat the name like something rotten. "The old Duke is dead."
"How... unfortunate," their mother managed, though her tone suggested she found it anything but.
The twins tumbled through the door next, Charles already reaching for the decanter while Edward collapsed dramatically into a chair.
"No longer among the living," Edward confirmed cheerfully.
"I heard it at the club. Apparently, the funeral was a frightfully big event.
All black horses, black plumes, the full theatrical production. "
"Good riddance," Charles muttered, pouring generous measures all around.
Ophelia remained in her corner, keeping her hands busy with the flowers. Deaths and funerals were matters for the men to discuss. Her opinion was neither needed nor wanted, which suited her perfectly.
"But that's not the best part," Robert said, waving the letter with unnecessary vigor. "Oh no, the old rogue had one last insult to deliver."
Henry took the letter, scanning it with the practiced eye of someone who'd read too many legal documents. His expression shifted from mild interest to genuine surprise to something that might have been unholy amusement.
"My goodness," he murmured. "He's actually done it."
"Done what?" Charles demanded.
Henry cleared his throat and read aloud: "'Let it be known that too long have Montclaire and Coleridge lived at daggers drawn..."
"Pretty words for forty years of spite," Edward interrupted.
"...and therefore,'" Henry continued, "my heir shall take to wife Miss Coleridge within one year of my decease, or the Montclaire estate shall pass into trusteeship."
The silence that followed was complete. Even she stopped arranging flowers, her hands frozen mid-gesture.
Then chaos erupted.
"Marriage?" Charles knocked over his glass.
"To a Coleridge?" Edward shot to his feet.
"To our sister?" Robert's voice could have shattered crystal.
Ophelia very carefully did not look up, though she felt their eyes turn toward her one by one, as if they'd just remembered she existed. The forgotten Coleridge daughter, suddenly remembered at the worst possible moment.
"This is about Aunt Cordelia," Henry said quietly, and the room stilled. "This is their twisted idea of... what? Atonement?"
"It's revenge," Robert corrected harshly. "Pure and simple. They want to humiliate us again. Take another Coleridge woman and..."
"And what?" Mrs. Coleridge's voice was surprisingly steady. "Marry her? Make her a duchess? How terribly insulting."
"You can't be serious," Robert turned to stare at his mother.
"I'm merely pointing out that as revenge goes, it seems rather poorly thought out."
"The new Duke has to marry her," Edward said slowly, as if working through a puzzle. "Has to. Or he loses everything."
"Exactly." Henry's smile was sharp as glass. "The mighty Duke of Montclaire, forced to come begging for a common Coleridge bride. Oh, this is delicious."
Ophelia found her voice, though she kept it carefully neutral. "I don't suppose anyone thought to ask if I have an opinion on the matter?"
They all turned to look at her for perhaps the first time in months.
"Opinion?" Robert said blankly, as if the concept of her having opinions was entirely foreign.
"Yes. An opinion. About being married off to settle a forty-year-old feud that started before I was born."
"Well, obviously you can't marry him," Charles said, as if this were the most natural conclusion in the world.
"Obviously," she repeated dryly. "How foolish of me not to realise."
"He's a beast," Edward added helpfully. "Cold, arrogant, probably sleeps on a bed of money just to remind himself how rich he is."
"You've met him?" she asked mildly.
"Don't need to. You can tell just by looking at him. He walks like he owns the world."
"He owns half of Kent," Henry pointed out. "So he's not entirely wrong."
"We shall refuse," Robert declared with the authority of someone used to having his declarations treated as law. "I'll write back immediately and tell them..."
"Tell them what?" She set down her flowers entirely, folding her hands in her lap. "That Miss Coleridge declines? On what grounds? That her brothers object?"
"On the grounds that it's insulting!"
"To whom?" She met his gaze steadily. "To me? Or to you?"
Robert's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
"Because," she continued in the same mild tone, "it seems to me that I'm the one being offered a duchy, while you're the ones being offered the chance to watch a Montclaire grovel. I'm not entirely certain who should be more insulted."
"You can't actually be considering this," Henry said, studying her with newfound interest.
"I'm considering very little at the moment, as no one has actually asked me anything." She returned to her flowers, though her hands weren't quite as steady as before. "The Duke hasn't called. No proposal has been made. You're all getting rather ahead of yourselves."
"He'll come," Robert said grimly. "Tomorrow, most likely. Or the day after. He certainly needs this settled quickly."
"Then I suppose we shall deal with it when he does." She kept her voice deliberately light, though her stomach churned at the thought. The Duke of Montclaire, here, in their drawing room. The man her brothers had spent her entire life teaching her to despise.
"You won't be alone with him," Charles said suddenly, as if this were a great concession. "We shall all be here."
"How comforting," she murmured. "Nothing says successful courtship quite like four hostile brothers glowering from the corners."
"This isn't a courtship," Robert snapped. "It's a business transaction."
"Ah. How romantic. I've always dreamed of being a business transaction."
Mrs. Coleridge stirred. "Perhaps we might discuss this more calmly..."
"Calmly?" Robert's voice climbed. "They want to take our sister!"
"I wasn't aware I was going anywhere," she said. "Though I suppose a duchess would have her own carriage. That might be nice. I could actually arrive at assemblies on time instead of waiting for Charles to finish his fourth adjustment of his cravat."
"This isn't amusing," Robert said severely.
"No," Ophelia agreed. "It's not. But shouting won't change it, will it? The will is signed. The requirement is set. Either I marry the Duke, or he loses his estate. Those are the facts."
"You could refuse him," Henry suggested, and there was something calculating in his tone. "Publicly. Imagine...the Duke of Montclaire, rejected by a Coleridge."
"And then what?" She kept her attention on the roses, though she could feel their eyes on her. "We go back to glaring at each other across ballrooms? Teaching our children to hate people they've never met? Another forty years of this exhausting feud?"
"You sound as if you want to marry him," Robert accused.