Chapter Three #2
"How unfortunate," Alexander said with a smile that could have frozen fire. "Though perhaps understandable, given the circumstances."
"The circumstances," Robert repeated, his jaw tightening, "being your grandfather's bizarre attempt at posthumous matchmaking."
"Quite." Alexander moved further into the room with the confidence of a man who'd never met a space he couldn't dominate. "Though I prefer to think of it as... reconciliation."
Henry actually laughed at that, though it contained no humor whatsoever. "Reconciliation? How wonderfully optimistic of you, Your Grace."
"I do try to see the best in situations," Alexander replied with magnificent insincerity. "Even impossible ones."
The brothers bristled collectively.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Coleridge said with the kind of desperate brightness that suggested someone needed to intervene before bloodshed occurred, "Your Grace would care for some refreshment? Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"
"Tea would be... adequate."
Adequate. The word hung in the air like a particularly insulting banner. Even the tea wasn't good enough for the Duke of Montclaire.
A painful silence descended while tea was summoned. Alexander remained standing, apparently too superior to actually sit in their presence. The brothers glowered. Mrs. Coleridge fidgeted. And Miss Coleridge... watched.
She hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, hadn't done anything but observe him with those carefully blank eyes. It was oddly disconcerting. He was used to women who simpered or flirted or at least had the decency to be obviously impressed. This one just... sat there. Like she was waiting for something.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Coleridge ventured when the silence had stretched beyond endurance, "introductions are in order? Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Miss Coleridge?"
Alexander turned toward the corner where she sat, and she rose with a grace that suggested extensive training in the art of being overlooked. Her curtsey was perfect—not too deep, not too shallow, exactly what was required and nothing more.
"Miss Coleridge." He bowed with precise correctness. "A pleasure."
"Your Grace." Her voice was soft, cultured, and completely expressionless. "How kind of you to call."
Their eyes met for a moment, brown to grey, and something passed between them; not attraction, certainly not that, but perhaps a mutual recognition of the absurdity of their situation.
"I trust you're well?" he asked, because something had to be said.
"Perfectly well, thank you. And yourself?"
"Quite well."
"How nice."
"Indeed."
It was possibly the inanest exchange in the history of human discourse, and everyone knew it.
"Perhaps," Charles said with the subtlety of a brick through glass, "His Grace would like to explain why he's here? Though we all know, of course. It is hard to forget that particular clause."
"Charles," Mrs. Coleridge murmured warning him.
"What? We're all thinking it. He's here because he has to be, we're receiving him because we have to, and she..." he gestured toward his sister, "...is sitting there because she has to. It's all very civilized and completely ridiculous."
"Charles!" Robert's voice was quite loud.
"He's not wrong," Alexander said coolly. "This is hardly a conventional courtship."
"Courtship?" Edward laughed unpleasantly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you prefer? Negotiation? Transaction? Surrender?"
"How about extortion?" Henry suggested pleasantly.
The tea arrived at that moment, which was fortunate as Robert looked ready to make a rather insulting comment.
Mrs. Coleridge poured with hands that only shook slightly, the delicate clink of china providing a peculiarly civilized soundtrack to what was essentially a barely contained war.
"Sugar, Your Grace?"
"No. Thank you."
Of course not. The Duke of Montclaire probably took his tea as black and bitter as his disposition.
Miss Coleridge accepted her cup with steady hands, though Alexander noticed she didn't actually drink from it. She held it like a prop, something to do with her hands while the men circled each other like hostile dogs.
"I suppose," Robert said after everyone had been served and no one was actually drinking, "we should discuss terms."
"Terms?" Alexander's eyebrow rose with aristocratic precision. "This isn't a business contract, Mr. Coleridge."
"Isn't it?" Henry set down his cup with deliberate force. "You need a Coleridge bride. We have one. Seems like business to me."
"How refreshingly mercantile of you."
The insult landed exactly as intended. Robert's face flushed an alarming shade of red. The twins actually stood up, as if preparing for physical combat. Henry's smile became positively dangerous.
And then, unexpectedly, a soft voice cut through the tension.
"Your Grace."
Everyone turned to look at Ophelia, who had set down her teacup and risen from her chair.
"Perhaps you and I might speak more privately? With suitable chaperonage, of course." She glanced at her mother. "After all, if we're to be married, we should at least attempt conversation."
The room went silent. Alexander stared at her, genuinely surprised for the first time since entering. He'd expected tears, fury or possibly mercenary calculation. He hadn't expected calm practicality.
"I... yes. Of course."
"The morning room is just through here," she said, moving toward a connecting door. "Mama, perhaps you'd join us?"
Mrs. Coleridge looked uncertain, glancing between her sons and her daughter.
"Go," Robert said grimly. "We shall... wait here."
"Try not to challenge each other to anything while we're gone," Ophelia said with surprising dryness. "It would be awkward to return to bloodshed."
She led the way into the morning room, her mother trailing behind like an anxious duckling. Alexander followed, feeling oddly wrong-footed. This wasn't going according to plan. Not that he'd had much of a plan beyond 'endure this horror with dignity,' but still.
The morning room was smaller, more intimate, with windows overlooking the chaotic garden. Miss Coleridge moved to stand by those windows, her hands clasped in front of her, her posture perfect.
"Your Grace," she said once her mother had settled into a chair with her embroidery, "perhaps we might speak plainly?"
"By all means."
She turned to face him fully, and he was struck again by how utterly ordinary she was. No beauty to distract, no charm to bewitch, nothing but quiet composure and those watchful brown eyes.
"You don't want to marry me," she said simply. "I don't particularly want to marry you. But here we are, trapped by a dead man's whim."
Alexander blinked. "That's... remarkably direct."
"Would you prefer if I pretended otherwise? Simpered and flattered and told you what an honour it would be?" Something that might have been humor flickered in her eyes. "I could, if you'd like. I've been thoroughly instructed in the art of feminine deception."
Despite himself, Alexander felt his mouth twitch. "Have you indeed?"
"Oh yes. I can be quite accomplished when necessary. Would you like to hear me play the pianoforte? I promise not to cause any maritime disasters."
"Maritime disasters?"
"Our cousin Margaret once played Mozart so badly, ships reportedly changed course thinking it was a foghorn."
This time he did smile, just slightly. "That seems unlikely."
"You haven't heard Cousin Margaret play."
They stood there for a moment, not quite comfortable but not exactly hostile either. It was... odd.
"May I be frank, Your Grace?" she asked.
"You haven't been so far?"
"I've been moderately frank. This would be extremely frank."
He gestured for her to continue, curious despite himself.
"I know what you think of my family," she said quietly.
"New money, no breeding, social climbers trying to buy their way into respectability.
And you're not entirely wrong. My brothers are loud, combative, and occasionally embarrassing.
My father made his fortune in trade and isn't ashamed of it.
We're everything you've been taught to despise. "
Alexander said nothing, because what was there to say? She wasn't wrong.
"But," she continued, "I also know what my family thinks of yours. Cold, arrogant, so obsessed with bloodlines you've forgotten how to be human. And they're not entirely wrong either."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You walked into our home prepared to hate us. You've been looking down your nose since you arrived, finding fault with everything from our tea service to our window treatments. You've already decided I'm either a fortune hunter or too foolish to know better. Am I wrong?"
Alexander felt heat rise in his face. "You're very outspoken for someone in your position."
"My position?" She laughed, though there was no joy in it. "You mean as the sacrificial lamb? The peace offering? The convenient solution to everyone's problems?"
"I didn't say..."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face. You look at me and see a burden you have to bear. A Coleridge contamination of your precious bloodline."
"And what do you see when you look at me?" The question emerged before he could stop it.
She tilted her head, studying him with those disconcerting eyes. "I see a man who's as trapped as I am. Who's doing his duty because he has no choice. Who probably lies awake at night wondering how his life came to this."
The accuracy of it was like a physical blow.
"But," she added more gently, "I also see someone who could make this easier for both of us, if he chose to."
"How?"
"By stopping this pretense that either of us wants this. By accepting that we're both victims of the same ridiculous feud. By perhaps, and I know this is revolutionary, treating me like a person rather than a problem to be solved."