Chapter Two #2
"I sound as if I'm tired." She set down her scissors with a definitive click.
"Tired of being invisible except when I'm useful.
Tired of watching you all waste energy on ancient grudges.
Tired of being the Coleridge everyone forgets exists until moments like this when suddenly I'm terribly important. "
The silence that followed was uncomfortable in the way only truth could make it.
"We don't forget you," Charles said, though he had the grace to look ashamed.
"What did I wear to church last Sunday?"
No one answered.
"What's my middle name?"
More silence.
"When is my birthday?"
Robert opened his mouth, then closed it.
"October fifteenth," she supplied helpfully. "I'll be four-and-twenty. Well past the age where anyone might expect a brilliant match, even without our family's... complications."
"That's not...” Edward started.
"True? Of course it is." She rose, smoothing her skirts; a plain morning dress of pale blue that none of them would remember an hour from now.
"I am the invisible Coleridge daughter. The one who plays pianoforte adequately, dances without causing comment, and arranges flowers that no one notices.
And now, suddenly, I'm visible. Because the Duke of Montclaire needs a Coleridge bride, and I'm the only one available. "
"We're trying to protect you, sister" Robert said stiffly.
"From what? A life of wealth and title?" She laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Or from the terrible fate of marrying without love? Because I hate to disappoint you, but that was always my most likely future. At least this way, the lack of affection comes with a coronet."
"You're worth more than that," Mrs. Coleridge said softly.
"Am I?" She moved to the window, looking out at the garden where everything grew in cheerful disorder.
"I'm three-and-twenty, with a minimal dowry and a family reputation that ensures I'll never marry well.
My choices are spinsterhood, a marriage of convenience to someone of our own class who needs my dowry, or this. A duchy."
"With a man who hates our family," Robert reminded her.
"Indeed, but at least he'll hate me for being a Coleridge rather than ignoring me for being forgettable. It's almost refreshing."
"You can't mean that," Charles said.
She turned from the window, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "When he comes, and we all know he will come, I shall meet with him. I'll hear what he has to say. And then I shall decide."
"You'll decide?" Robert's tone suggested she'd declared intention to something unbelievable.
"It is my life, isn't it? My future marriage? My choice to make?"
"Not when it affects the entire family!"
"Everything affects the entire family," she shot back with uncharacteristic heat. "Henry's gambling debts affect the family. Charles's mistresses affect the family. Edward's ridiculous wagers affect the family. The only difference is that this time, my decision might actually help instead of harm."
"By sacrificing yourself?"
"By ending this ridiculous feud that has consumed two families for four decades!" The words burst out before she could stop them. "By doing something useful for once in my forgotten little life!"
She pressed her hand to her mouth, shocked by her own vehemence. The room was utterly still.
"I'm going to my chambers," she said quietly. "Please let me know when the duke arrives. I'll need time to prepare myself for the business transaction."
She left before any of them could respond, closing the door with careful precision behind her.
The walk to her room felt longer than usual, each step heavy with the weight of what was coming.
Tomorrow, or the next day, the Duke of Montclaire would arrive.
He would look at her with those cold grey eyes she'd glimpsed across ballrooms, seeing not a woman but a bitter necessity.
He would propose because he had to, she would accept because. .. because what else was there?
Her room was exactly as she'd left it; neat, organized, unremarkable.
She sat at her dressing table, studying her reflection.
Brown hair, neither particularly glossy nor particularly dull.
Brown eyes, neither particularly large nor particularly bright.
A face that was pleasant enough but would never launch ships or inspire poetry.
The perfect bride for a man who needed a wife he could ignore.
She thought of the Duke of Montclaire—tall, imposing, devastatingly handsome in that cold, untouchable way of his.
She'd seen him at gatherings, always at a careful distance, always surrounded by people who seemed slightly afraid of him.
He never danced with wallflowers. Never noticed the girls in the corners.
Well, he'd notice her now because he had no choice.
The thought brought no satisfaction, only a hollow kind of dread.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in."
It was her mother, looking older and more worried than she had just an hour ago.
"My dear," she said softly, sitting beside her daughter on the small settee by the window. "You don't have to do this. Whatever your brothers say, whatever anyone says...you don't have to do this."
"Don't I?" She leaned against her mother's shoulder, a gesture from childhood. "Who else is there, Mama? It has to be me."
"That doesn't mean you have to accept him."
"And let the feud continue? Let another generation grow up with this poison?" She sighed. "I'm tired, Mama. So very tired of it all."
"You're too young to be so tired."
"Perhaps. But here we are." She managed a small smile. "Who knows? Perhaps the duke will be so horrible that refusing him will feel like victory rather than sacrifice."
Mrs. Coleridge squeezed her hand. "And if he's not horrible?"
"Then I suppose I'll be a duchess." The words felt strange in her mouth, foreign and ill-fitting. "The Duchess of Montclaire. Can you imagine?"
"No," her mother said honestly. "I can't. I can only imagine my daughter, married to a man who doesn't love her, doesn't want her, and will likely make her miserable."
"Well," she said with forced lightness, "at least I'll be miserable in style."
But later, alone in the darkness of her room, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of what was coming. The Duke of Montclaire didn't want a wife but he wanted to keep his estate. She didn't want a husband but she wanted to be left alone with her flowers and books and quiet life.
They would be perfect for each other in their mutual disappointment.
The thought was cold comfort as she stared at the ceiling, imagining tomorrow's humiliation. The duke would come, proud and resentful. Her brothers would bristle and posture. She would sit quietly, the forgotten Coleridge daughter suddenly remembered, suddenly valuable, suddenly trapped.
Just once, she thought as sleep finally claimed her, just once I'd like to be wanted for myself. Not because I'm useful. Not because I'm the only option. But because someone actually chose me.
But that was found in novels, not real life.
And tomorrow, real life would arrive at their door wearing an expensive coat and an expression of barely concealed disgust.
She could hardly wait.