Chapter Four
The eighth Duke of Montclaire stood before his mirror at the unconscionable hour of seven in the morning, practicing the most important speech of his life with all the enthusiasm of a man rehearsing his own eulogy.
“Miss Coleridge,” he addressed his reflection, which looked about as convinced as he felt. “I am here to offer you the position...no, that’s not right.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Coleridge, circumstances necessitate that we… oh, Heavens.”
“Having trouble with your romantic declarations?” Frederick’s voice from the doorway was entirely too cheerful for the hour and the occasion.
“What are you doing here?” Alexander didn’t turn from the mirror, still adjusting his cravat with obsessive precision. “It’s seven in the morning.”
“Well, well, I couldn’t miss my dear cousin’s proposal day, could I? It’s not every day one watches a man march to his matrimonial doom with such spectacular resignation.”
“Your support is, as always, underwhelming.”
Frederick threw himself into a chair with his characteristic disregard for furniture. “What support would you like? Shall I write you poetry? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, you need a bride, and a Coleridge will do’?”
“Pray, desist!”
“‘The Duke stood tall, his heart full of dread, to marry a girl he wished was dead instead’?”
“Frederick.”
“Too morbid? How about...”
“Do, for once, still your tongue and let me think.” Alexander abandoned the mirror, pacing to the window. The morning was disgustingly cheerful, all sunshine and birdsong, as if nature itself was mocking his misery.
“You’re overthinking this,” Frederick said, suddenly serious. “It’s a business arrangement. You both know it. Just be straightforward.”
“Straightforward.” Alexander laughed bitterly. “Yes, nothing says romance like ‘I’m legally obligated to marry you or lose everything I own.’”
“Well, when you put it like that…” Frederick considered. “Perhaps flowers? Women like flowers.”
“She arranges flowers. It’s apparently her primary occupation.”
“Jewellery then?”
“What jewellery? ‘Here’s a bracelet to commemorate this joyless transaction’?”
“You’re right, that might send mixed signals.” Frederick studied his cousin with unusual perspicacity. “You know, you could try being kind.”
“Kind?” Alexander said the word as if it were foreign.
“Revolutionary concept, I know. But considering you’ll be married to her for the rest of your natural life, a little kindness might make the whole thing more bearable.”
“She’s a Coleridge.”
“She’s also, by your own account, a person who asked you not to actively hate her. That’s a fairly low bar, Alex. Even you can manage not to actively hate someone.”
Alexander returned to the mirror, straightening a cravat that didn’t need straightening. “I don’t hate her.”
“No?”
“I hate the situation. I hate her family. I hate that my grandfather’s last act was to trap me in this farce.” He paused. “But her specifically? She’s… inoffensive.”
“High praise indeed. ‘Miss Coleridge, you’re inoffensive. Marry me.’”
“This isn’t helpful, cousin.”
“Nothing about this situation is helpful.” Frederick stood, suddenly serious. “But you’re going through with it anyway, so you might as well not make it worse than it needs to be. Miss Coleridge didn’t choose this either. Remember that.”
Alexander was quiet for a moment. “She said we were both trapped by the same circumstances.”
“Smart girl.”
“She said I probably lie awake wondering how my life came to this.”
“Perceptive girl.”
“She said she excels at being invisible.”
“Sad girl.” Frederick moved toward the door. “Try not to make her sadder, would you? It’s unbecoming of a duke to cause unnecessary misery.”
“When did you become so philosophical?”
“When my best friend and cousin decided to marry a girl he’s never properly looked at.” Frederick paused at the door. “Actually look at her today, Alex. You might be surprised.”
After Frederick left, Alexander stood alone in his room, contemplating the day ahead. In a few hours, he would propose to Miss Coleridge, her name was Ophelia, wasn’t it? He’d overheard one of the brothers say it. Ophelia Coleridge. Soon to be Ophelia Montclaire, Duchess of Montclaire.
The names felt wrong in his mind, like trying to force pieces from different puzzles together.
His valet entered with a selection of coats. “For the occasion, Your Grace?”
Alexander surveyed them with the intensity of a general reviewing battle plans. “The blue. No, the grey. Actually…” He paused. “Which would be least intimidating to a young lady?”
Sinclair blinked, clearly unprepared for this consideration. “The blue, Your Grace? It’s less severe.”
Less severe. Was that what he was aiming for now? To be less severe?
“The blue it is then.”
As Sinclair helped him into the coat, Alexander caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked what he was—a duke, wealthy, powerful, cold. Everything the Coleridges despised. Everything their daughter would have to accept.
“Your Grace?” Sinclair ventured. “Might I suggest…”
“Yes?”
“A ring, Your Grace. For the proposal.”
Alexander stared at him. “A ring.”
“It’s customary, Your Grace.”
Of course. A ring. He’d been so focused on getting through the ordeal, he’d forgotten the basic requirements. “The family vault. There must be something suitable.”
“The late duchess’s pearl ring, perhaps? It’s been reset several times over the generations.”
His grandmother’s ring. The thought of it on a Coleridge finger made his jaw clench. But then, everything about this made his jaw clench.
“Fetch it.”
The ring, when produced, was elegant in its simplicity; a pearl surrounded by diamonds, nothing ostentatious but clearly valuable. It would probably be the finest thing Miss Coleridge, Ophelia, had ever worn.
He pocketed it with the same enthusiasm one might pocket a stone and left.
The carriage ride to Coleridge House seemed both eternal and far too brief. Every rotation of the wheels brought him closer to his fate, to the moment when he’d bind himself forever to a family he’d been taught to despise since childhood.
The morning was growing warmer, the sun climbing higher, and still he sat in his carriage outside their gates, unable to make himself give the order to proceed.
“Your Grace?” His coachman’s voice carried a note of concern. “Shall we continue?”
“Yes.” The word came out sharp, decisive. “Yes, proceed.”