Chapter Six
The walk back to the house felt like a funeral march. Alexander could see faces at the windows and surely those were the brothers watching, waiting. The moment they entered the drawing room, the interrogation began.
“Well?” Robert demanded.
“It’s done,” Ophelia said simply, holding up her hand with the ring.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“That’s it?” Charles asked. “You’re betrothed? Just like that?”
“How else would it happen?” Ophelia moved to her chair, sitting with careful precision. “Did you expect sonnets?”
“I expected…” Robert paused, clearly unsure what he’d expected. “Something.”
“You got something. A betrothal. Which is what everyone wanted, isn’t it?”
“Phee,” Edward said quietly, using what must have been a childhood nickname. “Are you all right?”
“I’m betrothed to the Duke of Montclaire,” she replied with false brightness. “How could I be anything but delighted?”
The sarcasm was so sharp it could have cut glass.
“Your Grace,” Henry said, his tone dangerous. “Perhaps you’d like to explain how you proposed to our sister?”
“I proposed. She accepted. I’m not sure what explanation is required.”
“Did you at least try to be kind?” Mrs. Coleridge asked softly.
The question hung in the air, and Alexander found he couldn’t answer it. Had he been kind? He’d been honest. He’d been practical. But kind?
“His Grace was perfectly correct,” Ophelia said, saving him from responding. “He stated the situation clearly, made his offer, and I accepted. Everything was very proper.”
“Proper,” Robert repeated. “Our sister’s betrothal was ‘proper.’”
“Would you prefer improper?” Alexander asked coolly.
“I’d prefer you acted like you cared,” Charles snapped.
“Charles!” Mrs. Coleridge protested.
“What? We’re all thinking it.”
“Enough.” Ophelia’s voice cut through the argument. “It’s done. Fighting about it won’t change anything.”
“We need to discuss settlements,” Robert said grimly. “Terms. Arrangements.”
“Of course you do,” Alexander muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. By all means, let’s discuss terms. Should we negotiate here, or would you prefer to meet at my solicitor’s office? I’m sure you’d be more comfortable in a counting house atmosphere.”
The insult landed exactly as intended. Robert’s face flushed dark red, Henry’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and the twins actually stood up.
“How dare you...” Robert started.
“How dare I what? Speak truthfully? You want to negotiate your sister’s marriage like a business transaction and...”
“That’s exactly what you made it!” Charles interrupted. “You proposed to her like she was a debt to be paid!”
“Because that’s what this is! Your sister for my inheritance. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“Our sister,” Henry said with icy precision, “is worth ten of you.”
“Then she’s marrying quite beneath herself, isn’t she?”
“You pompous, arrogant...”
“Stop.” Ophelia stood, and something in her bearing made them all fall silent. “Just… stop. All of you.”
She moved to the window, her back to them all.
When she spoke, her voice was steady but tired.
“Your Grace, my brothers will require certain assurances about my wellbeing and financial security. That’s reasonable, I think.
Robert, as head of the family in father’s absence, you may meet with His Grace’s solicitors to arrange whatever needs arranging.
I assume a special license will be procured? ”
“I… yes,” Alexander said, thrown by her sudden practicality.
“Good. A small ceremony, I think. No need for spectacle.” She turned back to face them. “When?”
“When what?”
“When do you want the wedding?”
The question caught him off-guard. “I hadn’t… that is, whenever is convenient.”
“Nothing about this is convenient,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “But shall we say a fortnight? That gives time for settlements and whatever else needs doing.”
“A fortnight?” Mrs. Coleridge gasped. “But your dress, the preparations...”
“I have dresses. The church is available. What other preparations do we need? It’s not as if we’re celebrating a love match.”
The words were delivered calmly, but they landed like slaps.
“Ophelia,” her mother said softly. “You don’t have to...”
“Yes, I do. We all know I do. So let’s not pretend otherwise.” She moved toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to… I need some air.”
She left before anyone could respond. The room fell into uncomfortable silence.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Henry said with poisonous sweetness. “You’ve made my sister cry. Quite an achievement for your betrothal day.”
“She wasn’t crying.”
“No. She’s too controlled for that. But she wanted to.” Henry drained his brandy. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Alexander wanted to respond, wanted to defend himself, but what defense was there? He’d proposed to their sister like she was a business merger. He’d made it clear he found the entire situation distasteful. He’d been, in every way, exactly what they expected him to be.
“I should go,” he said stiffly.
“Yes,” Robert agreed. “You should.”
“My solicitor will contact you about the settlements.”
“Fine.”
“A fortnight, then.”
“A fortnight.”
Alexander bowed precisely to Mrs. Coleridge, nodded to the brothers, and left. As he passed through the hall, he caught a glimpse through a doorway; Ophelia, standing in what looked like a small study, staring at the ring on her finger as if it were a shackle.
She must have sensed his presence because she looked up. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, he saw everything—the disappointment, the resignation, the brave attempt to make the best of an impossible situation.
He should have said something. Apologized, perhaps. Or at least acknowledged what this was costing her. Instead, he nodded and kept walking.