Chapter Fourteen
Dawn came too early and with it, a pounding on the door.
"Your Graces! Carriage from Montclaire Estate!"
Alexander opened his eyes to find himself nose to nose with Ophelia. Sometime in the night, they'd migrated toward the center of the bed. Not embracing, but close enough that he could see the freckles across her nose that powder usually hid.
She opened her eyes, seemed to realize their proximity, but didn't immediately pull away.
"Survived the night," she said softly.
"Apparently."
"No catastrophes."
"The day's young."
"Such optimism from you this morning."
"It's not morning. Morning is civilized. This is still night pretending."
A knock came again. "Your Graces?"
"We're awake," Alexander called and then said to Ophelia: "We should get ready."
"With what? My clothes are ruined, remember?"
Right. Her trousseau was destroyed. She had nothing but the borrowed dress from yesterday.
"You'll have to wear the maid's dress."
"To arrive at your estate? The servants will think you've married a commoner."
"Haven't I?"
She hit him with the pillow. "That's for being rude before breakfast."
"Assault. I can have this marriage annulled on grounds of violence."
"You'd have to admit you were attacked with a pillow, in an inn, while wearing a borrowed shirt."
"Good point."
They rose and dressed with awkward efficiency, taking turns looking away. The morning light streaming through the window was unforgiving, showing just how thoroughly destroyed their appearance was.
Alexander looked like a laborer, and Ophelia looked like a maid. The Duke and Duchess of Montclaire, indeed.
"Ready to face your new life?" he asked as they prepared to leave.
"Ready to face breakfast," she corrected. "One disaster at a time."
Downstairs, the common room was mostly empty but for a few early travelers. The innkeeper's wife had laid out a simple breakfast; bread, butter, some preserved fruits.
"Your Graces," she said, curtsying. "I hope you slept well?"
"Very well, thank you," Ophelia said warmly.
"The bed was... sufficient," Alexander managed.
The woman beamed as if he'd given her highest praise.
They ate quickly, both aware of the carriage waiting outside. This strange interlude was ending. Soon, they'd be back in the real world, where he was a duke and she was his unsuitable wife.
"Your Graces?" A footman in Montclaire livery appeared, looking shocked at their appearance. "The carriage is ready."
Alexander stood, then remembered. "The bill. I need to pay for breakfast."
"Oh, Your Grace, that's not necessary," the innkeeper began.
"Of course it is." Alexander turned to the footman. "Thomas, isn't it? Do you have any money?"
"I... yes, Your Grace." The footman produced a purse.
Alexander paid their bill, adding a generous amount extra. "For your kindness," he told the innkeeper and his wife.
They walked outside to find not one but three carriages—one for them, one for the servants that had come along and one for what remained of their luggage.
"Bit excessive," Ophelia murmured.
"It's called being prepared. Though apparently, we should have brought four. One for catastrophes."
She smiled slightly as he handed her into the carriage. This one was everything the inn was not—luxurious, pristine, screaming wealth and privilege.
"Back to reality," she said as they settled into the velvet seats.
"This was reality too," Alexander pointed out. "Just a different version."
"Which did you prefer?"
He thought about it as the carriage pulled away from the inn. "Neither. Both were disasters in their own way."
"But honest disasters."
"What?"
"Yesterday, everything that could go wrong did. But we dealt with it honestly. No pretending, no society manners, just... surviving."
"And you think that's better?"
"I think it's real."
The carriage rolled through the morning countryside, and Alexander watched her looking at the world go by. She still wore the maid's dress, her hair simply styled, no jewels or elaborate anything. She looked nothing like a duchess.
But she'd survived yesterday with more grace than he had, handled disaster with humor instead of rage, made the unbearable slightly bearable.
"We'll get you new clothes," he said suddenly.
"I should hope so. Unless you want a duchess who dresses like a maid."
"You don't look like a maid."
"No? What do I look like?"
He studied her. "Like someone who survived a shipwreck."
"Flattering."
"Or like someone who weathered a storm."
"Better."
"Or like someone who married the wrong person and is making the best of it."
"That's both of us."
"Yes. I suppose it is."
They rode in silence for a while, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who'd shared something difficult and come through the other side.
"Do you still think I'm a bad luck charm?" she asked eventually.
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. But..." He paused, trying to find the right words. "Perhaps not all bad luck is actually bad."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. I'm still trying to understand."
"Let me know when you do."
"Could take fifty years."
"You said we'd be dead in fifty years."
"Maybe we'll haunt people. Tell them about the worst wedding in history."
"And the muddy carriage."
"And the inn."
"And the borrowed clothes."
"And the snorting laugh."
"I don't snort!"
"You absolutely snort."
She hit him with her reticule. "That's twice I've assaulted you. Definitely grounds for annulment."
"I'd have to admit to being defeated by a reticule and a pillow. My reputation would never recover."
"Your reputation is already destroyed. Remember? Vomit at the altar?"
"Don't remind me."
But he was almost smiling, and so was she, and maybe that was progress too.
The estate gates appeared ahead, massive and imposing. Reality was about to become very real indeed.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No. You?"
"Not even slightly."
"Good. At least we're consistent."
The carriage swept through the gates and up the long drive. Montclaire House loomed ahead, all centuries of dignity and tradition.
"It's very... large," Ophelia observed.
"It's home."
"Your home."
"Our home now."
She looked at him with surprise. "You mean that?"
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"You said you'd love, honour, and cherish me."
"That was different. Those were vows. They don't count."
"Convenient logic."
"I'm a duke. I can have whatever logic I want."
The carriage stopped. The massive doors opened and a regiment of servants appeared.
"The Duchess of Montclaire," Alexander said quietly. "That's you now."
"I know."
"Can you do it?"
She looked at him, this woman who'd survived the worst wedding day in history, who'd trudged through mud, slept in an inn, and still found reasons to laugh.
"Can you?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Then we shall try together."
"Together," he repeated, tasting the word. It felt foreign but not entirely unpleasant.
"Unless you'd prefer to continue alone?"
"After yesterday? I don't think alone is an option anymore."
"No," she agreed. "I suppose not."
The footman opened the door. Alexander stepped out, then turned to hand her down. She took his hand, and for a moment they stood there.
"Progress?" she asked quietly.
"Progress," he agreed.