Chapter Three #3
Alexander stared at her, genuinely lost for words. In all his preparation for this meeting, he'd never imagined having an actual conversation. Certainly not one where the Coleridge daughter showed more sense than anyone else in both families combined.
"I... apologise," he said stiffly. "If I've been... discourteous."
"You've been exactly what I expected." She moved back to the window, gazing out at the gardens.
"Cold, formal, and thoroughly disgusted by the entire situation.
Which is fine. I don't need you to like me, Your Grace.
I don't even need you to notice me most of the time. I'm quite good at being invisible."
Something in the way she said it, matter-of-fact and without self-pity, made his chest tighten oddly.
"But," she continued, "if we're going to do this, and it seems we must, could we at least do it without the constant hostility? It's exhausting, and we'll have decades of marriage to be miserable in. No need to start early."
"You're very pragmatic."
"Someone has to be. Have you met my brothers?"
Despite the situation, despite everything, Alexander found himself almost smiling again. "They are rather... intense."
"That's one word for it." She turned back to him. "So, Your Grace, what happens now? Do you propose? Do we negotiate terms like my brother suggested? Do you storm out in disgust and we repeat this charming scene tomorrow?"
"I... hadn't actually planned that far."
"No? The great Duke of Montclaire without a plan? How remarkably human of you."
The gentle irony should have offended him. Instead, he found it oddly refreshing. Everyone else either fawned over him or feared him. This quiet girl with her forgettable face and sharp tongue did neither.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "we should discuss... arrangements."
"Arrangements." She sighed. "How romantic. What sort of arrangements?"
"If we marry..."
"When. When we marry. Unless you've found another Miss Coleridge hidden somewhere?"
"When we marry," he corrected, though the words felt strange in his mouth, "you'll live at Montclaire House, naturally."
"Naturally."
"You'll have your own chambers."
"How generous."
"A generous allowance."
"For what? Purchasing my silence?"
"For whatever duchesses purchase. Gowns, I suppose. Ribbons. Whatever it is ladies buy."
"Ribbons." Her tone was perfectly flat. "Yes, I'll need lots of ribbons. It's what I live for."
"I'm trying to be..."
"Practical? Businesslike? Cold?"
"Fair."
She looked at him for a long moment. "Fair would be neither of us having to do this. But since that's not an option, I suppose your arrangements will have to do."
"You'll have duties, of course. Social obligations. The Duchess of Montclaire has responsibilities.”
"I'm aware. I shall need to be decorative at balls, charming at dinner gatherings, and invisible the rest of the time. I excel at invisible."
"That's not..." He stopped, because actually, that was rather what he'd been thinking.
"Your Grace," she said quietly, "I know what you need. A wife who won't embarrass you, won't make demands, won't interfere with your life. Someone you can present when necessary and forget about otherwise. I can be that wife."
"And what do you need?"
The question seemed to surprise her. "I... what?"
"What do you need from this arrangement? You must want something."
She was quiet for a moment, considering. "Respect," she said finally. "Not affection, I don't expect that. But basic respect. Not to be treated like a servant or a fool. To have some small space that's mine. And..."
"And?"
"And for you to at least try not to actively hate me. I know I'm a Coleridge, I know what that means to you. But I'm also a person. A rather boring person, granted, but still."
"You're not boring." The words escaped before he could stop himself.
She looked startled. "I'm not?"
"Boring people don't deliver speeches about maritime disasters and ribbons."
"Perhaps I'm only interesting when I'm nervous."
"Are you nervous?"
"Aren't you?"
They stood there, two people who'd been thrown together by fate and dead dukes, trying to navigate something neither of them wanted but both were stuck with.
"Your brothers will want a formal proposal," Alexander said finally.
"Probably. They enjoy drama."
"And you?"
She shrugged. "I suppose you should do something. Though perhaps without the brothers present? I'd rather not have my proposal accompanied by growling and possible violence."
"Tomorrow then? I could call again. We could walk in the garden, properly chaperoned, of course."
"Our garden?" She glanced out the window at the chaos of flowers and vegetables. "You'll loathe it. The roses don't know their place, and the vegetables are showing. It's all very middle-class."
"Perfect then. A middle-class garden for a middle-class proposal to a middle-class bride."
She flinched slightly, and he immediately felt like a fool.
"I apologise. That was..."
"Honest." She lifted her chin. "At least you're honest about your disdain. It's better than false flattery."
"Miss Coleridge..."
"We should return to the others before my brothers decide you've harmed me and come seeking revenge."
She moved toward the door, but he caught her arm gently. She froze, looking down at his hand on her sleeve.
"I am sorry," he said quietly. "This isn't what either of us wanted."
"No." She met his eyes. "But it's what we have. We might as well make the best of it."
She pulled away and returned to the drawing room, where the brothers were indeed looking ready to mount a rescue mission.
"Nobody's injured," she announced. "Disappointed?"
"Relieved," Robert said, though his expression suggested otherwise.
"His Grace will call again tomorrow," she said calmly. "We shall walk in the garden. I trust that's acceptable to everyone?"
The brothers exchanged glances.
"Alone?" Henry asked suspiciously.
"With Mama. Or perhaps Mary. Someone suitably responsible who won't challenge anyone to a duel."
"I suppose that's... acceptable," Robert said grudgingly.
Alexander took this as his cue. "Until tomorrow then." He bowed to the room at large, then specifically to Miss Coleridge. "Miss Coleridge."
"Your Grace."
He left with as much dignity as he could muster, which was considerable but somewhat dented by the entire experience.
The carriage ride home was quiet, giving him too much time to think about brown eyes and sharp tongues and the way she'd said 'ribbons' like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.
***
Back at Coleridge House, the explosion was immediate.
"The arrogance!" Robert slammed his fist on the table.
"The condescension!" Henry added.
"The... the cravat!" Edward seemed to have run out of more substantive complaints.
"It was a very nice cravat," their sister said mildly, sinking into her chair.
"You're defending him?" Charles looked aghast.
"I'm observing that he has good taste in neckwear. Though terrible taste in wives, apparently."
"Don't say that," Mrs. Coleridge said firmly. "You're worth ten of him."
"By what measure? Birth? No. Fortune? No. Beauty? Definitely no. Social standing? Let's not even discuss it." She picked up her abandoned teacup but found it cold and set it down again. "He's right to disdain me. By his standards, I'm completely unsuitable."
"His standards are idiotic," Robert declared.
"His standards are what they are. And by tomorrow, I'll be betrothed to them."
"You don't have to!"
"Yes, Robert, I do." She stood, suddenly exhausted. "We all know I do. So let's stop pretending otherwise."
She left them to their continued ranting and climbed the stairs to her room. Tomorrow the Duke of Montclaire would propose to her in their chaotic garden. He'd probably phrase it like a business proposition, she'd accept because she had no choice, and that would be that. The trap would close.
But at least, she thought as she sat at her window, at least he'd been honest. No false promises, no pretended affection. Just two people making the best of an impossible situation.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
***
At Montclaire House, Alexander stood at his study window, staring out at nothing in particular.
"Well?" Frederick appeared in the doorway, having apparently been lying in wait. "How terrible was it?"
"It was..." Alexander paused, searching for words. "Not what I expected."
"Better or worse?"
"Different."
"That's helpfully vague. What's she like then? This Miss Coleridge?"
Alexander considered. "Quiet. Plain. Sharp-tongued when provoked."
"Sounds delightful."
"She told me I was trapped by the same circumstances she was. That I probably lie awake wondering how my life came to this."
Frederick whistled low. "Perceptive little thing."
"She said she could be invisible. That she excels at it."
"Useful skill in a duchess."
"She asked me not to actively hate her."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Can you? Not actively hate her?"
Alexander was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. She's a Coleridge."
"She's also, by your own account, a person. A rather interesting one, from the sound of it."
"Interesting is generous."
"Fine. Not boring then."
"No," Alexander admitted. "Not boring."
"When's the wedding?"
"I haven't proposed yet."
"But you will."
"Tomorrow. In their garden, which apparently contains vegetables. Visible ones."
His cousin laughed. "How horrifying! Vegetables in plain sight. Whatever is the world coming to?"
"Pray, be silent, Frederick."
"Make me, Your Almost-Married Grace."
Alexander threw a cushion at his cousin's head, missing by a mile. Some things, at least, never changed.
But tomorrow...
Tomorrow everything would change.
Tomorrow he'd propose to a young lady with brown eyes and a sharp tongue, who excelled at being invisible and thought he probably lay awake at night wondering how his life came to this.
She wasn't wrong.
He did.