Chapter Thirteen
"Your Grace?" The innkeeper appeared with a bundle of cloth. "My wife found this. It is our son's and you're welcome to it."
It was a shirt. Clean, simple, obviously homemade, but a shirt nonetheless. Alexander took it with more gratitude than he'd ever felt for any of his hundred silk shirts at home.
"Thank you."
"Your wife, Your Grace...she's a real lady."
"She's a duchess," Alexander corrected automatically.
"No, I mean a real lady. Kind. Speaks to everyone the same, doesn't put on airs." The innkeeper paused. "You're lucky, if you don't mind me saying."
Lucky. There was that word again. Though not applied to the Coleridges this time, but to him.
"Indeed," Alexander said slowly. "I suppose I am."
The innkeeper beamed and left, leaving Alexander to contemplate this reversal. He'd spent all day thinking about the Coleridge curse, the bad luck of marrying into their family. But here was someone suggesting he was the lucky one.
He put on the borrowed shirt. It was rough cotton, too short in the sleeves, and pulled across his shoulders. He looked, he imagined, like a laborer trying to dress above his station.
Which was ironic, considering.
Jeffords appeared with his boots, which had been cleaned and dried by the fire. "Best I could do, Your Grace."
"It's fine, Jeffords. Get yourself some rest."
"Your Grace, about tomorrow, you should know that I've sent word to the estate. They shall send a carriage first thing."
Tomorrow. He'd have to face tomorrow eventually. But for tonight, he was trapped in an inn with his Coleridge bride, wearing borrowed clothes and his own humiliation.
He climbed the narrow stairs to their room, knocked quietly, then entered.
Ophelia was sitting on the bed in a borrowed nightgown, brushing her hair with a comb that had survived in her reticule. The evening light from the window made her look softer, younger. Less like a duchess, more like...
"The shirt fits," she observed. "Sort of."
"It's a shirt. That's all that matters."
"Your standards really have lowered."
"My standards have drowned. Along with everything else today."
She set down the comb. "The bath water's still warm, if you want it."
A bath meant undressing. In this tiny room. With her here.
"I shall manage without."
"You have mud in your hair."
"I do not."
She stood, crossed to him, reached up and pulled something from his hair. A dried leaf with mud attached.
"You were saying?"
He stared at the leaf. "That's been there all evening?"
"Probably."
"And no one said anything?"
"Would you have wanted them to?"
"I... no."
"Then be grateful for the discretion."
She was standing close enough and he could smell the soap she'd used. Her hair was down, still damp, curling slightly. Without the elaborate styling, she looked...
"I'll take that bath," he said abruptly, stepping back.
"I shall... turn around."
"Or you could go downstairs."
"Where everyone's drinking and will want to talk to the new duchess? I think not."
She had a point. She curled up in the chair, which was ridiculously small for sleeping in, and deliberately faced the window.
Alexander bathed as quickly as possible, trying not to think about the impropriety of the situation. His wedding night, bathing in tepid water in a small tub while his wife sat three feet away pretending he didn't exist.
His ancestors were definitely disowning him from beyond the grave.
"You can look now," he said once he was dressed again in his dried trousers and the borrowed shirt.
She turned, and they faced each other across the tiny room. The bed loomed between them like an accusation.
"This is ridiculous," she said finally.
"Which part? The broken carriage? The inn? The shared room? The..."
"The awkwardness. We're married. We survived the wedding. We've been rained on, muddy, stared at by strangers, and forced to dance. Surely we can manage sleeping in the same bed without dying of propriety."
"Can we?"
"We're adults. We're exhausted. We're married. Yes, we can."
She climbed into the bed, staying firmly on one side. After a moment's hesitation, Alexander did the same, staying as close to his edge as possible.
They lay there in the dark, both rigid, both clearly awake.
"This is horrible," he said to the ceiling.
"Which part now?"
"All of it. But specifically this. We're lying here like corpses."
"What would you prefer?"
"I don't know. Something less... artificial."
"We could talk."
"About what?"
"I don't know. Normal things. What do you usually think about before sleep?"
"Estate management. Parliamentary bills. How to avoid social obligations."
"How thrilling."
"What do you think about?"
"Stories, usually. I make them up in my head."
"What kind of stories?"
"Adventures, mostly. People doing exciting things in faraway places. Pirates. Explorers. Lady knights saving kingdoms."
"Lady knights?"
"Why should men have all the fun?"
"Because men don't vomit on their enemies."
"That could be a useful battle tactic, actually."
Despite himself, he laughed. "You're absolutely insane."
"Probably. But I'm your insane wife now."
"Don't remind me."
They fell silent again, but it was less tense. The rain continued to pound on the roof, and somewhere below, someone was singing off-key.
"Alexander?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for not leaving me at the altar."
"I couldn't. The contracts were already signed."
"Still. You could have made it much worse."
"The day's not over yet."
"It nearly is, though. We've survived almost all of our wedding day."
"Barely."
"But still survived."
He turned his head to look at her in the dim light. She was facing the ceiling, her profile just visible.
"Do you always look for silver linings?"
"Someone has to. You clearly don't."
"I'm a realist."
"You're a pessimist."
"Based on today, I'm an optimist. Things could apparently be much worse."
"See? You're learning."
They lay there quietly, and gradually, Alexander felt himself relaxing. The bed was actually comfortable, despite his expectations. The sheets did smell of lavender. The rain on the roof was oddly soothing.
"Ophelia?"
"Yes?"
"Your family really doesn't have a curse, does it?"
"No. Though we do seem to have a talent for chaos."
"I've noticed."
"It's not always bad, though."
"Isn't it?"
"Well, I married a duke. That's not bad."
"You married a duke who hates your family."
"Hated."
"Still hate."
"But maybe less than this morning?"
He thought about it. This morning, he'd seen the Coleridges as everything wrong with society—grasping, crude, climbing above their station.
But Ophelia had been none of those things today.
She'd been ill, yes. Mortifying, absolutely.
But also... practical. Resilient. Surprisingly good company when the world was falling apart.
"Maybe," he conceded.
"Progress."
"Minimal progress."
"Still progress."
A loud crash from below made them both jump.
"Just drunks," Alexander said.
"Or highwaymen come to rob us all."
"They'd be disappointed. I have three and six to my name."
"Three and six? The mighty Duke of Montclaire has three and six?"
"I had three shillings and sixpence. The room cost two shillings."
"So you're poorer than most of the merchants downstairs."
"Temporarily."
"Still. How the mighty have fallen."
"Are you enjoying this?"
"A little bit."
"You're enjoying my misery?"
"I'm enjoying that you're human. You've seemed rather above such petty concerns before."
"I've never been inhuman."
"Haven't you? You proposed to me like I was a business contract."
"You were a business contract."
"I was a person."
"You were both."
"But you only saw the contract."
He couldn't deny it. "And now?"
"Now you're lying in an inn bed wearing a borrowed shirt with one shilling and sixpence to your name."
"Your point?"
"You're almost a person too."
"Almost?"
"Well, you're still rather stiff."
"I'm lying in bed with a woman I barely know."
"Your wife."
"My wife whom I barely know."
"We could fix that."
"How?"
"By talking. Like we're doing now."
"This is talking?"
"What would you call it?"
"Mutual suffering."
She laughed again, that little snorting sound. "You're not actually suffering right now, are you?"
He considered. His clothes were ruined, his dignity destroyed, his wedding night was a disaster, and he was lying in an inn with a Coleridge. But... he was warm, dry, fed, and surprisingly not miserable.
"No," he admitted. "Not actively suffering."
"See? Progress."
"You're very focused on progress."
"The alternative is despair, and that seems unproductive."
"You're a very strange person."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I'm choosing to take it as one."
"You can't just decide compliments."
"Why not? You decided I was a disaster before you met me."
"You proved me right."
"Did I? I've been quite helpful today, actually."
He thought about it. She had been helpful. She'd managed the innkeeper, kept her composure despite everything, made their situation bearable with surprising grace.
"You have," he conceded.
"Was that a compliment?"
"An observation."
"I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."
"You're impossible."
"I'm a Coleridge. We're all impossible."
"That's the truest thing you've said all day."
She turned to face him, and suddenly they were much closer than intended, both having moved toward the center of the bed without realizing it.
"We should sleep," she said quietly.
"Yes."
Neither moved.
"This is strange," she said.
"Very strange."
"But not... terrible?"
"No. Not terrible."
"Progress," she whispered.
"You and that word."
"It's a good word."
"It's an optimistic word."
"What's wrong with optimism?"
"It leads to disappointment."
"And pessimism leads to misery."
"At least misery is predictable."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Is it?"
"Yes. You'd rather be predictably miserable than possibly happy?"
"I'd rather not have expectations that can be shattered."
"Like expecting a normal wedding?"
"Exactly."
"But now we have a story no one will ever forget."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
She smiled slightly. "It'll be fine. In fifty years, we shall laugh about this."
"In fifty years, we'll be dead."
"Such optimism."
"Such realism."
"Same thing, from you."
They looked at each other in the dim light, and Alexander felt something shift. Not dramatically, not earth-shattering, just... a small change. Like a door opening just a crack.
"Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Ophelia."
She turned away, curling onto her side and after a moment, he did the same.
The rain continued as the inn settled into nighttime quiet. And Alexander lay there, thinking about progress and silver linings and a woman who snorted when she laughed.
His wedding day was nearly over. He'd survived it, barely. Tomorrow, they'd go to his estate and begin the business of being married properly. Tonight, though...
Tonight, they were just two people who'd survived a disaster together. And perhaps that was enough.
"Alexander?" Her voice was sleepy.
"What?"
"We're not actually cursed, you know."
"The evidence suggests otherwise."
"No, the evidence suggests we're interesting."
"I preferred being boring."
"That is a lie."
Maybe she was right. Maybe boring had been... boring.
But he didn't say that. Instead, he lay there listening to her breathing gradually even out into sleep, and thought about how strange life could become in the span of a single day.
This morning, he'd been the Duke of Montclaire, pristine and untouchable.
Tonight, he was in an inn, wearing a borrowed shirt, next to his Coleridge wife who'd destroyed his dignity and somehow made him not entirely hate it.
Progress, indeed.
The last thing he thought before sleep took him was that perhaps the Coleridge curse wasn't about bad luck at all. Perhaps it was about surviving whatever ridiculous thing life threw at you and somehow finding a way to laugh about it.
If so, he was definitely cursed now. But maybe that wasn't entirely bad.
Maybe.…