Chapter Ten
Montclaire House was controlled chaos when they arrived. Servants scattered at their approach, then rallied. Alexander disappeared immediately without a word. Ophelia was whisked to the duchess's chambers, her chambers now, where an army of maids descended.
"Your Grace," the housekeeper said carefully, "would you like to change?"
Your Grace. She was Your Grace now, for better or worse.
"Yes, please."
They'd laid out another dress—pale blue silk that probably cost more than her father's annual income. She let them strip her of the ruined wedding dress, wash her face and fix her hair.
"The duke sent these," a maid said, producing a bottle of peppermint water and some ginger tablets. "For your stomach, Your Grace."
The medicine seemed more dutiful than kind, but she took it gratefully.
"Now then, Your Grace," the housekeeper said briskly, "you have a wedding breakfast to endure."
The ballroom had been set up with tables, flowers, and enough food for an army. Guests were already arriving, pretending nothing had happened while clearly eager to discuss it.
Alexander appeared at her elbow, now immaculate in fresh clothes. You'd never know what had happened an hour ago, except for the coldness in his eyes.
"Your Grace," he said formally.
"Your Grace," she replied.
"Can you manage this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No. But I thought I'd ask for form's sake."
They stood side by side greeting guests who all said the right things while thinking about the disaster they'd witnessed. Lady Jersey actually had the audacity to say, "Such an affecting ceremony! The bride was quite overcome with emotion!"
"Quite," Alexander said with desert-dry tone.
The breakfast was torture. Every clink of silverware reminded Ophelia of her still-uncertain stomach. The toasts were painful.
Frederick stood first, clearly already drunk: "To my cousin and his bride! May their marriage be... memorable!"
Henry followed: "To my sister, the bravest woman I know. And to her husband, who has proven today that he is capable of... endurance."
Finally, Alexander stood.
"My wife and I," he began, the words 'my wife' delivered with professional detachment, "thank you for witnessing our union. It has been... unprecedented."
Nervous laughter rippled through the room.
"Marriage requires adaptation, and we've certainly begun adapting early. Today, we've started something neither of us anticipated, but we've started it nonetheless."
He raised his glass. "To beginnings, however inauspicious."
It wasn't warm or romantic, but it was practical, which was all they could manage.
The rest of the breakfast blurred past. She picked at food, responded when spoken to, smiled when required. Alexander remained at her side, a solid if cold presence.
Finally, mercifully, it was time to leave.
"The carriage is ready, Your Grace," Sinclair announced.
Kent awaited them...two weeks alone in the country.
Her family gathered to say goodbye. Her mother kissed her cheek and whispered, "Be strong." Her father pressed her hand. The twins made inappropriate jests. Henry said something cutting about dukes.
Robert pulled her aside. "If he mistreats you..."
"He won't."
"How can you know?"
"Because he stood there," she said simply. "He was furious, I saw it, but he stood there and finished the ceremony. A cruel man would have humiliated me completely."
"Or he's just protecting his inheritance."
"Perhaps. But the result is the same."
She hugged him, this brother who'd barely noticed her for twenty-three years but was now concerned.
Alexander appeared. "We should depart. The weather is worsening."
The carriage was loaded and the moment arrived. As she climbed in, Ophelia turned back to look as her entire family stood in the doorway, watching her leave.
She was no longer one of them. She was a Montclaire now.
Alexander climbed in after her, sitting across from her as was proper. The door closed and the carriage lurched forward.
They were alone.
"Two hours to Kent," he said into the silence.
"Yes."
"Do you require anything?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Don't lie. It's tedious."
She looked at him, startled by his bluntness.
"I'm not fine," she admitted. "Are you?"
"I'm married to a Coleridge who vomited on me at the altar. No, I'm not fine."
The brutal honesty of it was somehow refreshing.
"That was the worst wedding in the history of matrimony," he continued conversationally.
"Probably."
"Definitely. We've set a record that will stand for generations."
Despite everything, Ophelia felt her mouth twitch slightly. "An achievement of sorts."
"Indeed. We're champions of disaster."
They looked at each other across the carriage, and something shifted—not friendship or affection, but perhaps acknowledgment of their mutual catastrophe.
"Your coat was new, wasn't it?" she ventured.
"How did you know?"
"It was perfect. Wedding clothes."
"It's being burned as we speak, I imagine."
"I'm sorry."
"For which part? The vomiting or the marriage?"
"Both, I suppose."
"As am I."
They fell into silence that wasn't quite comfortable but was less hostile. The rain continued to fall as they rolled toward Kent.
"Ophelia," he said suddenly.
She started at hearing her given name from him.
"Yes?"
"Today was... unfortunate. But it's done now. We're married, for better or worse."
"Much worse, apparently."
"Yes, well. We can make this as miserable as expected, or we can attempt to make it tolerable."
"Tolerable. How romantic."
"Romance was never part of this arrangement."
"No, I suppose not."
"What I'm attempting to say is that we should establish some sort of... understanding."
"What kind of understanding?"
"The kind where we maintain civility despite our circumstances."
"Civility."
"It's better than open warfare."
"That's a rather low bar, Your Grace."
"It's the bar we have," he replied, while the rain intensified.