Chapter Five
The house looked exactly as it had yesterday; oversized, over-decorated, and trying too hard. Like everything about the Coleridges, it practically shouted its worth to anyone who’d listen.
Except her, a voice in his mind noted. She didn’t shout anything. She barely whispered.
The butler who answered the door wore the same expression of barely concealed panic as yesterday. “Your Grace. You’re expected.”
The drawing room, when he entered, was a study in barely controlled chaos. The four brothers were arranged strategically around the room like guards at their posts. The mother sat near the fireplace, embroidery in her lap but clearly not attending to it. And there, in her usual corner, sat Ophelia.
She wore a different dress today...pale yellow that should have made her look sallow but somehow didn’t. Her hair was arranged more carefully than yesterday, though still nothing fashionable. She looked, he realized, like someone who’d tried to look special but didn’t quite know how.
“Your Grace.” Robert’s greeting had all the warmth of a December wind. “Punctual, I see.”
“I endeavour to be.” Alexander bowed precisely. “Mrs. Coleridge. Miss Coleridge. Gentlemen.”
The ‘gentlemen’ was perhaps generous, but he was attempting civility.
“I trust,” he continued, addressing himself to Ophelia, “that we might walk in the garden as discussed?”
“The garden. Right.” Charles laughed, though it contained no humor. “Our magnificent garden that’s not at all middle-class.”
“Charles,” Mrs. Coleridge warned him again.
“What? We all know what he thinks of us. Might as well acknowledge it.”
“Perhaps,” Ophelia said quietly, rising from her chair, “we could proceed with the walk? Before the conversation devolves further?”
She moved toward the French doors that led to the garden, pausing only to collect a shawl that she probably didn’t need given the warmth of the morning. Alexander noticed her hands were trembling slightly as she arranged it around her shoulders.
“I’ll accompany you,” Mrs. Coleridge said, starting to rise.
“Actually,” Henry interjected, “I think Mary should chaperone. Mother, you look tired.”
Mrs. Coleridge did indeed look tired, though Alexander suspected it had more to do with her sons than any physical exhaustion.
Mary, the housekeeper, appeared as if summoned by magic. A comfortable-looking woman who managed to curtsey to him while still conveying distinct disapproval.
“Shall we?” Ophelia moved toward the doors without waiting for an answer.
The garden was exactly as advertised—chaotic, vibrant, and utterly lacking in proper English restraint. Roses climbed where they shouldn’t, herbs mixed promiscuously with flowers, and yes, there were vegetables. Actual vegetables. Growing where people could see them.
“It’s not magnificent,” Ophelia said, noticing his expression. “But it’s alive.”
“Very… alive,” he managed.
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying disorganized.” She moved down a gravel path that had seen better decades. “Though I suppose your gardens are all properly regimented? Every blade of grass standing at attention?”
“There’s something to be said for order.”
“And something to be said for freedom. Though I suppose we’re about to give that up, aren’t we?”
The directness of it caught him off-guard. “Miss Coleridge...”
“Shall we sit?” She indicated a bench near what might generously be called a rose arbor but looked more like roses in rebellion. “I have a feeling this conversation requires sitting.”
They sat, Mary positioning herself at a discreet but watchful distance. The silence stretched, broken only by the enthusiastic humming of bees who clearly approved of the garden’s chaos.
“Miss Coleridge,” Alexander began, then stopped. The speech he’d practiced seemed suddenly ridiculous. “I suppose we should discuss… that is, we need to address…”
“The proposal?” she supplied helpfully. “Indeed, I thought that might be on the list.”
“You’re very direct.”
“Would you prefer if I were indirect? I could flutter my fan and speak in riddles if that would help.”
“Do you have a fan?”
“No. I’ve never mastered the art of fan communication. Too many signals to remember. What if I accidentally indicated I was desperately in love when I meant to say it’s warm today?”
Despite himself, Alexander felt his mouth twitch. “That would be unfortunate.”
“Especially given our circumstances.” She smoothed her skirts, the gesture betraying her nervousness despite her calm tone. “Shall we proceed with the business at hand?”
“Business.” The word sat heavy between them. “Yes, I suppose that’s what this is.”
“Your Grace,” she said carefully, “we both know why you’re here. We both know what has to happen. Perhaps we could dispense with pretense?”
Alexander was quiet for a moment, studying her profile as she gazed out at the chaotic garden.
In daylight, he could see things he’d missed yesterday—the faint shadows under her eyes suggesting sleepless nights, the way she held herself carefully still as if movement might shatter something, the white knuckles where her hands gripped each other in her lap.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Let’s dispense with pretense.”
He stood, because it seemed wrong to propose while sitting, then realized standing while she sat made him loom over her, so he took a few steps away, then turned back. The whole thing was already catastrophically awkward.
“Miss Coleridge,” he began formally. “As you’re aware, circumstances have arisen that necessitate a union between our families.”
“How romantic,” she murmured, but so quietly he could pretend not to hear.
“My grandfather’s will requires that I marry you within the year or forfeit my inheritance. Your family’s… interest… in seeing the feud ended aligns with this requirement.”
“My family’s interest,” she repeated. “Not mine?”
“I… that is…” He paused, before saying again, “your interests as well, I presume.”
“Do you? Presume, I mean. About my interests?”
“Miss Coleridge...”
“I’m sorry.” She stood as well, moving to examine a particularly aggressive climbing rose. “Please continue with your business proposal. I shouldn’t interrupt.”
Alexander felt heat rise in his face. “It’s not a business proposal.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve mentioned circumstances, requirements, interests. You haven’t mentioned anything that typically accompanies a proposal.”
“Such as?”
She turned to face him, and for the first time since he’d met her, there was fire in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Affection? Respect? Even just basic human consideration? But I suppose that’s too much to expect when one is merely solving a problem.”
“You are not a problem.”
“No? Then what am I?”
The question hung between them, and Alexander found he had no good answer. She wasn’t a problem, exactly, but she wasn’t… what? What wasn’t she?
“You’re…” he started, then stopped. “You’re necessary.”
The word landed between them like a stone in a pond. Ophelia’s face went very still.
“Necessary,” she repeated. “Like medicine. Unpleasant but required.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Alexander ran a hand through his hair, destroying Sinclair’s careful work. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you want me to say. That I’m happy about this? That I’ve secretly harbored feelings for you? That this isn’t the most distasteful thing I’ve ever had to do?”
She flinched at ‘distasteful,’ and he immediately wished he could take the word back.
“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean,” she said quietly. “I’d rather have your honest distaste than false affection.”
“I don’t…” He paused, frustrated. “I don’t find you distasteful.”
“Just my family? My circumstances? My birth?”
“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not that complicated, Your Grace.” She moved back to the bench, sitting with careful precision.
“You need a wife you can tolerate to keep your inheritance. I need a husband to satisfy your grandfather’s will and end this feud.
Neither of us has a choice. So perhaps we could simply acknowledge that and move forward? ”
Alexander stared at her, this quiet girl with her direct words and steady gaze. She was offering him exactly what he’d thought he wanted; a businesslike arrangement devoid of emotional complications. So why did it feel wrong?
“Is that what you want?” he asked. “A business arrangement?”
“What I want is irrelevant.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
She looked up at him, surprise clear on her face. “Since when do you care what I want?”
Since… when? Since she’d asked him not to actively hate her? Since she’d said she excelled at being invisible? Since this moment, watching her try so hard to be practical about something that was breaking her heart?
“I’m trying,” he said stiffly, “to be… considerate.”
“How novel.” But there was less bite in it now, more exhaustion. “Very well. What I want is to not be the subject of a scandal. What I want is for my family to stop fighting yours. What I want is a life where I’m not constantly reminded that I’m not good enough. Can you offer that?”
“I can offer you position, wealth, security...”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know if I can offer that. I don’t know if I’m capable of… not seeing you as a Coleridge.”
“At least you’re honest.” She stood again, and this time moved toward him with purpose.
“Then let me be honest too. I will marry you because I have no choice. I will be your duchess because that’s what’s required.
I will bear your children and run your household and stand by your side at every tedious social function until one of us dies.
But I will not pretend to be happy about it.
And I will not pretend you’re anything other than what you are; a man forced into marriage with someone beneath him. ”
“You’re not beneath me.”
“By every measure society uses, I am.”
“Society is often wrong.”
“And yet you care desperately what society thinks.”
He couldn’t deny it, so he didn’t try. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. “This was my grandmother’s.”
Ophelia stared at the box as if it might bite her. “Your grandmother’s?”
“It’s been in the family for generations. Reset several times, but the pearl is original. From the East Indies, I believe.”
She made no move to take it or even look at it properly. “And you’re giving it to me?”
“That’s generally what one does with betrothal rings.”
“One generally proposes first.”
Alexander felt heat rise in his face again. This was not going according to plan.
“Miss Coleridge,” he began again, more formally. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
The words came out stiff, uncomfortable, like clothes that didn’t fit properly. They hung in the air between them, inadequate and somehow insulting despite being exactly what was required.
“That’s it?” she asked after a moment. “That’s your proposal?”
“What more would you like?”
“Nothing. It’s perfect. Exactly as romantic as expected.” She held out her hand, not for the ring but palm up, businesslike. “Yes, Your Grace. I shall marry you.”
He opened the box and removed the ring, taking her outstretched hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly. The ring slid on easily—too easily, actually. It would need to be resized.
“It’s loose,” she observed.
“It can be adjusted.”
“Of course. Everything can be adjusted, can’t it? Even expectations.”
They stood there for a moment, her hand in his, the ring catching the morning sunlight. It looked wrong on her finger. Too big, too formal, too much history for someone who’d barely been allowed to have a present.
“We should tell the others,” she said, pulling her hand away.
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“Your Grace? Miss?” Mary’s voice carried from her discreet distance. “Perhaps you should return to the house?”
“Yes,” Ophelia said, already moving. “We should. Before my brothers send a search party.”