Chapter Seven
The carriage ride home was silent. Alexander stared out the window, seeing nothing, thinking about brown eyes and trembling fingers and the way she’d said ‘necessary’ like it was a curse word.
Frederick was waiting in his study when he arrived, already halfway through Alexander’s best brandy.
“Well?” his cousin asked. “How terrible was it?”
“She accepted.”
“Obviously. I meant the proposal itself.”
Alexander poured himself a drink, drained it, poured another. “It was… adequate.”
“Adequate. You proposed to your future wife and it was adequate.”
“What did you expect? Poetry? Declarations of love?”
“I expected you to at least try not to behave like a fool.”
“I tried.”
“Did you?”
Alexander was quiet for a long moment, remembering her face, her quiet voice saying ‘necessary’ like it explained everything and nothing.
“No,” he admitted finally. “I didn’t try. I did exactly what they expected. What she expected. I was cold and formal and treated the whole thing like a business transaction.”
“And?”
“And she accepted anyway. Because she had no choice.”
“Alex...”
“She asked me when I wanted the wedding. Like she was asking when I wanted my boots polished. Two weeks, we agreed. Two weeks until I bind myself forever to a woman I barely know and don’t want.”
“And who doesn’t want you either, from the sound of it.”
“No. She made that quite clear but she’ll do her duty, she said. Bear my children. Run my household. Stand by my side until one of us dies.”
“Cheerful.”
“She also said she wouldn’t pretend to be happy about it. Or pretend I’m anything other than what I am.”
“Which is?”
“A man forced into marriage with someone beneath him.”
Frederick was quiet for a moment. “Is that what you are?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Is she beneath you?”
Alexander thought about Ophelia sitting in that chaotic garden, saying she wanted a life where she wasn’t constantly reminded she wasn’t good enough.
“Society would say yes.”
“I didn’t ask what society would say.”
“Then I don’t know. She’s… not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Different. She’s quiet but not weak. Plain but not… unappealing. She sees things. Sees through things. Through me.”
“That terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
“Nothing terrifies me.”
“Liar.” Frederick stood, preparing to leave. “You’re terrified that she sees exactly who you are; a man so concerned with appearances that he’d rather be miserable than risk society’s censure. And you know what the really frightening part is?”
“What?”
“She’s marrying you anyway. Which means she’s either desperate or she sees something in you that you don’t see yourself. Either way, you don’t deserve her.”
“She’s a Coleridge.”
“She’s a person. A person you’re going to hurt very badly if you’re not careful.”
After his cousin left, Alexander sat alone in his study, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows. In two weeks, he’d be married. In two weeks, Ophelia Coleridge would become Ophelia Montclaire, Duchess of Montclaire.
The thought should have filled him with dread.
Instead, he felt something else, something harder to define.
Not anticipation, certainly not that. But…
curiosity? About what she’d be like as a duchess.
About whether she’d really excel at being invisible as she claimed.
About what she saw when she looked at him with those steady brown eyes.
He thought about writing to her. An apology, perhaps. Or at least an acknowledgment that the proposal had been badly done. But what would he say? “Sorry for being exactly what you expected”? “Forgive me for confirming your worst assumptions”?
Instead, he wrote to his solicitor, instructing him to be generous with the settlements. If he couldn’t give her affection or respect or even basic kindness, at least he could ensure she’d never want for anything material.
It was, he knew, a poor substitute for what she really wanted. But it was all he had to offer.
***
At Coleridge House, dinner was a subdued affair. Mr. Coleridge had finally emerged from his study, looking older and more tired than his years. He’d kissed Ophelia’s forehead, murmured something about hoping she’d be happy, then retreated into silence.
The brothers picked at their food, occasionally shooting dark looks at the empty chair where Ophelia usually sat. She’d claimed a headache and taken a tray in her room, which fooled no one.
“A fortnight,” Robert said finally. “She’s giving herself a fortnight to prepare for a lifetime of misery.”
“Maybe it won’t be miserable,” Mrs. Coleridge said without conviction.
“Did you see his face? He looked like he was swallowing poison.”
“Ah! Did you see hers?” Henry added. “She looked like she was drinking it.”
“We could still stop this,” Charles said. “Tell him to find another solution.”
“There is no other solution,” their father said quietly. It was the first time he’d spoken during the meal. “The will is specific. Ophelia must marry the duke.”
“Then we make sure he treats her well,” Edward said with forced determination. “We make sure he knows that if he hurts her...”
“He’ll hurt her.” Henry’s voice was flat, certain. “Not physically, probably. But he’ll hurt her with indifference. With coldness. With the constant reminder that she’s not good enough for him. He’ll kill her slowly with a thousand small cuts of contempt.”
“Henry,” Mrs. Coleridge protested.
“It’s true and we all know it. We’re sending Phee to live with a man who can barely stand to look at her. Who proposed to her like she was a particularly unpleasant medicine he had to swallow.”
“Then we make the best of it,” their father said firmly. “We ensure the settlements are generous. We maintain cordial relations. We support Ophelia as best we can.”
“Cordial relations,” Robert laughed bitterly. “With the Montclaires.”
“With our sister’s husband’s family,” their father corrected. “Like it or not, in two weeks we’ll be connected to them. Ophelia is making this sacrifice for all of us. The least we can do is not make it harder for her.”
“Fine,” Robert said. “But if he makes her cry again...”
“He won’t,” their father said. “Because Ophelia won’t let him see her cry. She’s stronger than all of us in that way. She has always been.”
Upstairs, Ophelia sat at her window, still wearing her yellow dress, still staring at the ring on her finger. It was beautiful, she supposed. The pearl caught the dying light, seeming to glow from within. A ring with history, with meaning, with generations of Montclaire brides who’d worn it.
Montclaire brides who’d been wanted. Chosen. Loved.
She thought about the proposal, if one could call it that. He’d stood there, tall and handsome and utterly miserable, talking about circumstances and requirements like he was reading from a legal document. She’d known it would be bad, but somehow the reality was worse than her imagination.
‘Necessary,’ he’d called her. Like medicine, she’d said, and he hadn’t denied it.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
It was her mother, carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might want some company.”
“I’m poor company tonight.”
“Then we’ll be poor company together.” Mrs. Coleridge set the tray down and took the chair across from her daughter. “It’s a beautiful ring.”
“It’s his grandmother’s. Generations of Montclaire brides, he said.”
“And now you.”
“Now me.” Ophelia twisted the ring, watching the light play across the pearl. “The Coleridge contamination of the bloodline.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s what he’s thinking. What they’re all thinking. The merchant’s daughter who somehow trapped a duke into marriage.”
“You didn’t trap anyone.”
“No. A dead man did that for me.” She laughed, but it was hollow. “Imagine dying and thinking ‘I know what would solve everything—forced marriage!’ What was the old duke thinking?”
“Perhaps he was thinking of redemption. His brother jilted Cordelia. Perhaps he wanted to make amends.”
“By forcing his grandson to marry me? That’s not amends, Mama. That’s revenge. On all of us.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping tea, watching the sun set over the chaotic garden.
“Do you remember,” her mother said suddenly, “when you were little, you used to make up stories about the flowers? Each one had a personality, a history.”
“The roses were always nobility. Proud and beautiful but thorny.”
“And the violets?”
“The violets were the quiet ones. The ones who did their work without fuss, who bloomed even when no one was watching.”
“You always liked the violets best.”
“Someone had to.” Ophelia smiled slightly. “They’re overlooked, but they’re hardy. They survive.”
“Like you.”
“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I? A violet in a garden of roses.”
“Oh, my dear girl.” Her mother reached over, taking her hands. “You’re worth a thousand roses.”
“But he doesn’t want violets, does he? He wants… I don’t know what he wants. Nothing, probably. To wake up and find this was all a nightmare.”
“What do you want?”
Ophelia considered the question. What did she want? It seemed almost frivolous to think about it.
“I want not to be afraid,” she said finally. “I want to walk into a room without wondering if I’m embarrassing him. I want to speak without calculating whether my words are too common, too merchant-class. I want…” She paused. “I want to be enough. Just once, I want to be enough as I am.”
“You are enough.”
“Not for him. Not for the Duke of Montclaire. I’ll never be enough for him.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“Perhaps. But he’ll be my fool. For better or worse.”
Later, alone again, Ophelia pulled out her journal and tried to write.
*Today,* she began, then stopped. What did one write on one’s betrothal day?
*Today I became betrothed to a man who finds me distasteful but necessary.
The proposal was everything I expected and nothing I hoped.
I said yes because I had no choice. He said yes because he had no choice.
We’ll be married in two weeks and miserable for the rest of our lives. But at least the ring is pretty.*
She set down the pen, unable to continue. Tomorrow there would be settlements to discuss, arrangements to make, a wedding to plan that no one wanted. Tomorrow she’d have to face the reality of what her life was becoming.
But tonight, she sat by her window, twisting a ring that didn’t quite fit, thinking about a man with cold grey eyes who’d called her necessary.
It wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever been called. But somehow, it hurt more than all the times she’d been overlooked, ignored, forgotten. Because at least then she’d been nothing. Now she was something; a necessary evil, a required burden, a problem to be solved.
She thought about his face when he’d proposed, the way his jaw had tightened as if the words physically pained him. The way he’d stood at careful distance, as if her commonness might be contagious. The way he’d said “circumstances necessitate” like he was reading a death sentence.
Which, in a way, he was. The death of his freedom, his choices, his carefully ordered life. And she was the executioner, whether she wanted to be or not.
Two weeks. In two weeks, she’d walk down an aisle toward a man who could barely stand to look at her.
She’d promise to love, honor, and obey someone who’d made it clear he wanted none of those things from her.
She’d become a duchess, with all the privilege and none of the joy that should accompany it.
The thought should have made her cry. Instead, she felt oddly numb, as if all her emotions had been used up and there was nothing left but resignation.
Tomorrow she’d have to start preparing. Learn what duchesses did, how they acted, how they spoke. Learn to be what he needed her to be—invisible, proper, adequate.
But tonight, she allowed herself one moment of grief for the proposal she’d never have. The one where someone looked at her with joy instead of resignation. Where someone said her name like it was precious instead of problematic. Where someone wanted her for herself instead of circumstances.
It was foolish, she knew. Fairy tales were for children, and she’d never been allowed to be a child for very long. But still, just for tonight, she grieved.
Tomorrow she’d be practical again. Tomorrow she’d be the quiet, sensible Miss Coleridge who did what was necessary without complaint.
Tonight, she was just Ophelia, betrothed to a man who’d rather be anywhere else, wearing a ring that didn’t fit, preparing for a life that would never be hers.