Chapter Eight
The next morning brought solicitors.
Alexander had sent his solicitor, Mr. Ridges and Robert received him in the study with all the enthusiasm of a man calculating the money he would acquire from the union.
Ophelia was not invited to the negotiations about her own future, naturally. She sat in the morning room, pretending to embroider while straining to hear the raised voices from behind the closed door.
“Preposterous!” That was Robert.
“Quite standard, I assure you.” The solicitor’s dusty voice.
“Standard for whom?”
“For a duchess, Mr. Coleridge.”
“My sister isn’t a duchess yet.”
“But she will be. And His Grace is being most generous.”
“Generous?” Robert’s laugh was bitter. “He’s buying her like a horse at auction.”
Ophelia set down her embroidery and moved closer to the door.
“The pin money alone is...”
“Insufficient.”
“Mr. Coleridge, three thousand pounds per annum is hardly...”
“For a duchess? It’s insulting.”
“Then what would you suggest?”
“Five thousand.”
There was a pause. Papers rustling.
“I’ll have to consult with His Grace.”
“You do that. And while you do, tell His Grace that my sister’s children...”
Ophelia fled back to her seat as footsteps approached the door. Mr. Ridges emerged, looking slightly ruffled, which for him was the equivalent of complete dishevelment.
“Miss Coleridge.” He bowed precisely. “I shall return tomorrow with His Grace’s response to your brother’s… suggestions.”
After he left, Robert emerged from the study looking thunderous.
“Well?” Ophelia asked.
“He’s trying to buy you cheap.”
“Robert...”
“Three thousand a year! As if you were some minor country squire’s daughter.”
“I am some minor country squire’s daughter. With merchant blood, remember?”
“You’re about to be a duchess. He should treat you as one.”
“He’s treating me as what I am. An unwanted necessity.”
Robert’s face darkened. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Phee...”
“I need to know, Robert. The settlements. What happens if he dies? If I die? If there are children?”
“Standard provisions. You’ll have a sum and property if you’re widowed. Any daughters will have dowries. Sons inherit, naturally.”
“And if there are no children?”
Robert’s face grew careful. “Then the estate would pass to his nearest male relative.”
“So I’d have nothing.”
“You’d have your share. A house in London. An income.”
“But no home. No real security.”
“We’re trying to ensure...”
“I know.” She touched his arm gently. “I know you’re trying to protect me. But we both know there’s only so much protection money can buy.”
“If he hurts you...”
“He won’t. Not physically. He’s too proper for that.”
“There are other ways to hurt someone.”
“Yes.” She thought of cold grey eyes and ‘necessary’ and a proposal that felt like a funeral. “There are.”
The negotiations continued for three days.
Back and forth went Mr. Ridges, growing slightly more frazzled with each visit.
Five thousand per annum was agreed upon for pin money.
Generous dowries for any daughters. A London house and country estate for her widowhood.
It was all very thorough, very practical, very much like arranging the sale of a particularly valuable property.
Alexander never came himself. He sent notes—brief, impersonal messages about arrangements. The wedding would be at St. George’s, small and private. The wedding breakfast at Montclaire House. The honeymoon...
“Honeymoon?” Ophelia stared at the latest note.
“It’s customary,” her mother said carefully.
“For a love match, perhaps. But for this?”
“The appearance must be maintained.”
Appearance. Yes, that was what mattered. The appearance of a proper marriage, even if the reality was something else entirely.
“Where?” she asked.
“His estate in Kent. Two weeks.”
Two weeks alone with a man who could barely stand to look at her. The thought made her stomach churn.
“I need to shop,” she said suddenly.
“Shop?”
“For clothes. I can’t go to… Kent… with what I have.”
It was an excuse to get out of the house, away from the negotiations and plans and the constant reminder of what was coming. Her mother understood.
“I’ll come with you.”
They went to Bond Street, where Ophelia spent Alexander’s money with grim determination. If she was going to be a duchess, she’d at least look the part. The modiste, sensing wealth and desperation, was only too happy to help.
“Such beautiful fabric, mademoiselle! And this color—oh, it brings out your eyes beautifully!”
Her eyes were brown. Nothing brought them out beautifully. But she bought the dress anyway.
“You’ll need evening gowns,” the modiste continued. “For entertaining.”
Would they entertain? Would Alexander want to parade his merchant bride before society? Or would he hide her away, embarrassed by what he’d been forced to accept?
She bought evening gowns anyway.
“And nightclothes, of course. For your… wedding night.”
The words hung in the air like a threat. Her wedding night. With a man who found her presence distasteful.
“Something simple,” she said quickly.
“Nonsense! A bride must be beautiful for her husband!”
Beautiful. As if silk and lace could transform her into something Alexander might actually want.
She bought the nightgowns anyway.
By the time they returned home, she had a wardrobe fit for a duchess and a headache that threatened to split her skull.
“Lie down,” her mother urged, “and rest.”
But rest brought dreams of cold grey eyes and formal proposals and a lifetime of being necessary but never wanted.
Instead, she wrote letters. To distant cousins, informing them of her betrothal. The responses would be predictable...shock, speculation, thinly veiled envy. The Coleridge girl marrying a duke? How had she managed that?
If only they knew it wasn’t managing but surrendering.
***
A week passed. Then ten days. The wedding approached with the inevitability of winter.
Alexander sent another note. Would she like to see Montclaire House before the wedding?
She stared at the invitation, for that’s what it was, formally worded and properly sealed. Her future home, and she needed an invitation to see it.
“You should go,” her mother said.
“Should I?”
“It will be your home. Better to see it now than be surprised later.”
She sent back her acceptance, equally formal. Indeed, I would like to see Montclaire House. Thank you for the invitation.
He came himself to collect her, which she hadn’t expected. She’d assumed he’d send a carriage, maintain his distance until absolutely necessary.
But there he was in the entrance hall, perfectly dressed as always, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but there.
“Miss Coleridge.”
“Your Grace.”
They stared at each other across the entrance hall, neither quite sure what to say.
“Shall we?” He offered his arm with painful correctness.
She took it, her hand barely touching his sleeve but even through gloves and fabric, she could feel his tension.
The carriage ride was silent. He sat across from her, staring out the window. She sat perfectly still, hands folded, trying not to exist too loudly.
“The house is old,” he said suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Montclaire Manor. It’s old. Sixteenth century, with later additions. It might be… overwhelming.”
Was he trying to prepare her or warn her?
“I’m sure it’s lovely.”
“It’s large.”
“Yes, I imagined it would be.”
Silence fell again. Then:
“Your brothers hate me.”
The unexpected honesty startled her. “Yes.”
“Do you?”
She considered the question. “I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
“But if you did know me?”
“Then I probably would.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Honest.”
“Would you prefer dishonesty?”
“I’d prefer…” He paused. “I don’t know what I’d prefer.”
“For this not to be happening?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we have that in common, at least.”
They looked at each other then, really looked, and for a moment there was something almost like understanding between them. Then he looked away, and the moment passed.
Montclaire Manor was, as promised, overwhelming. It rose from its parkland like something from a fairy tale—all towers and wings and centuries of accumulated grandeur. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
“This will be mine?” she asked faintly.
“Yours to manage. The duchess traditionally oversees the household.”
“How many servants?”
“Forty? Fifty? I don’t really know.”
He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. Why would a duke concern himself with such things?
He led her through room after room; the great hall with its wooden support ceiling, the long gallery with portraits of dead Montclaires, the library that could have swallowed her father’s entire house, the ballroom that had hosted kings.
“It’s… substantial,” she managed.
“The family wing is more comfortable. Your chambers are being prepared.”
“My chambers?”
“The duchess’s suite. They connect to mine.”
Connect. The word sent an unexpected shiver through her.
“Would you like to see them?”
“I… yes.”
The duchess’s suite was beautiful; a sitting room in soft blues and creams, a dressing room larger than her current bedroom, and a bedchamber dominated by a bed that could have slept a small army.
“It’s been redecorated,” he said. “My mother’s taste was… different.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s yours. Or shall be.”
In four days.
“The connecting door,” she said, not looking at it. “Does it lock?”
“From both sides.”
The relief must have shown on her face because he stiffened.
“I’m not a beast, Miss Coleridge. Despite what your brothers think.”
“I didn’t say such a thing!”
“You thought it.”
“I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
“That I’d force myself on you? Demand my rights as a husband?”
The bluntness made her face burn. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Expect to be left alone. I have no interest in… that is, I won’t trouble you.”
“Ever?”
“We’ll need an heir, eventually. But there’s time for that. When we’re both more… accustomed to the situation.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“You’ll do your duty when necessary, but otherwise maintain your distance. Yes, Your Grace, I see perfectly.”
Something flickered in his eyes, like... annoyance? Or something else?
“Is that not what you want?”
“What I want…” She turned to look out the window at the perfectly manicured gardens below. “What I want has never mattered less than it does right now.”
“That’s not...”
“Isn’t it? Tell me, Your Grace, if what I wanted mattered, would we be here? Would you be showing me rooms I’ll occupy in four days as your unwanted wife?”
“You’re not unwanted.”
“No, I’m necessary. You made that quite clear.”
“I’m trying to be kind.”
“By showing me the cage before you lock me in?”
“It’s hardly a cage. You’ll have everything...”
“Except affection. Respect. A husband who can bear to look at me.”
“I’m looking at you now.”
“And hating every moment of it.”
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different. Tired.
“I don’t hate you.”
“You hate what I represent.”
“Yes.”
“Then you hate me. Because I am what I represent. A Coleridge. A merchant’s daughter. Everything your family has taught you to despise.”
“You’re also a person.”
“Am I? Sometimes I wonder if any of us are people to each other. We’re just… symbols. Representatives of our families’ fears and prejudices and wounded pride.”
“That’s rather philosophical.”
“I have a lot of time to think. Being invisible gives one that luxury.”
“You’re not invisible.”
“Aren’t I?” She turned to face him. “When you look at me, what do you see?”
He was quiet, studying her. “I see…” He paused. “I see someone I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? I’m simple. Boring. Forgettable.”
“You’re not any of those things.”
“Then what am I?”
“Unexpected.”
The word hung between them, and for a moment, she thought he might say something more. Then a clock chimed somewhere, breaking the spell.
“We should return,” he said. “Your family will worry.”
“Yes.”
The journey back was quieter but less tense. They’d said things that needed saying, even if they solved nothing.
As he handed her down at Coleridge House, he held her hand a moment longer than necessary.
“Four days,” he said.
“Four days.”
“Are you afraid?”
The question surprised her with its gentleness.
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything. Of not being enough. Of being too much. Of living the rest of my life as someone’s regret.”
“You’re not my regret.”
“Not yet.”
She pulled her hand away and went inside, not looking back.
Four days.
Four days until she became Ophelia Montclaire, Duchess of Montclaire.
Four days until her life ended and something else began.
She climbed the stairs to her room, each step an effort.
Tomorrow there would be more preparations.
The final fitting for her dress. The wedding breakfast menu to approve; not that she cared what they served.
The flowers to choose... she’d already decided on violets, though no one would understand why.
Her journal lay open on her desk, the last entry still visible: *Today I became betrothed to a man who finds me distasteful but necessary.*
She picked up her pen and added: *In four days, I marry him. Heaven help us both.*
She could survive being necessary.
Couldn’t she?