Chapter Twenty-Two #4
"I like it. You should be drunk more often."
"Terrible idea. I'd say even more things I shouldn't." But he was smiling as he said it, that rare, genuine smile she'd only seen glimpses of before. "Like how I've wanted to do this since the inn."
He kissed her neck, and Ophelia shivered.
"Or how I think about you constantly, even when I'm trying very hard not to."
Another kiss, just below her ear.
"Or how terrified I am that I'm going to ruin this somehow because ruining things is what I do with feelings."
"Alexander," she said softly, pulling back to look at him. "You're not going to ruin this."
"How do you know?"
"Because we've already survived the worst. A disastrous wedding, horrible first weeks, my brothers' visit, tonight's catastrophe. We're apparently very good at surviving things together."
"Together," he repeated, as if testing the word. "I'm not good at together."
"You were excellent at together tonight. We worked perfectly as a team."
"We did, didn't we?" He looked genuinely surprised. "That was... unexpected."
"Maybe we should try it more often. Working together instead of against each other."
"Radical idea."
"I'm full of radical ideas. It's the merchant blood."
"Don't." His tone suddenly serious despite the slurred edges. "Don't do that. Don't diminish yourself."
"I was jesting."
"I know, but... don't. You're not less than me. Different, yes. But not less. Never less."
The sincerity in his voice, even drunk, made her throat tight with emotion. "You really mean that."
"I mean everything I'm saying. That's the problem with drunk honesty—it's still honesty." He studied her face as if memorizing it. "Heavens, you're beautiful. Have I mentioned you're beautiful?"
"A few times."
"It bears repeating. Beautiful. Annoying. Perfect. Terrible for my self-control."
"Your self-control seems pretty thoroughly destroyed already."
"Completely decimated. Obliterated. Other words meaning destroyed that I can't think of because you're sitting in my lap and my brain has stopped working properly."
She kissed him again and he made a sound that was almost a whimper.
"That's not helping my brain work better," he mumbled against her lips.
"Good. This is happiness,” she added.
“But I do not know how to be happy.”
The admission was so quietly sad that Ophelia's heart ached. She cupped his face in her hands, making him look at her. "Then we'll learn together."
"Together again. You're very insistent on together."
"Because we're married. Together is rather the point."
"I thought the point was securing my inheritance and ending the feud."
"That was the beginning. This is the middle."
"What's the end?"
"I don't know. But I'd like to find out with you."
He stared at her for a long moment, then pulled her into another kiss, this one desperate and needy. "I want that too. Which is terrifying."
"There's that word again."
"It's a very applicable word when it comes to you."
They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses and touches, the fire dying down to embers. Alexander's hands had found their way under her hair, massaging her neck in a way that made her melt against him.
"We should probably stop," he said eventually, though he made no move to actually stop.
"Why?"
"Because I'm very drunk and you're somewhat drunk and we should probably have our first... whatever this is... when we can remember it clearly tomorrow."
"You won't remember this tomorrow?"
"Oh, I'll remember. I'll remember too much. I'll wake up mortified at everything I've said."
"Don't you dare take any of it back."
"I won't take it back. I might hide in my study for a week avoiding you out of embarrassment, but I won't take it back."
"No hiding. We should stop hiding."
"Bold words from someone who literally hid in the servants' hall to avoid me last week."
"That was different. I was being strategic."
"Strategic hiding is still hiding." But he was smiling as he said it. "We're both excellent at hiding."
"Then we'll be excellent at not hiding together."
"Your obsession with togetherness is showing again."
"You should get used to it."
They fell into comfortable silence, Ophelia still in his lap, his arms around her, both drowsy from brandy and emotional exhaustion. The clock on the mantel chimed midnight.
"We should go to bed," Alexander said, then immediately flushed. "Separately. To our separate beds. In our separate rooms."
"Very separate," Ophelia agreed, though she made no move to get up.
"Very, very separate."
"Extremely separate."
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"We're ridiculous," Ophelia said.
"We're drunk."
"We're both."
"An excellent combination." He helped her stand, steadying her when she swayed slightly. "Can you make it to your room?"
"Can you?"
"Probably. Possibly. The floor is being very uncooperative."
They made their way to the stairs, Alexander keeping one hand on her waist, ostensibly to steady her but really just to maintain contact.
"Thank you," Ophelia said as they reached her door.
"For what?"
"For tonight. For defending me. For saving those families. For getting drunk and telling me things."
"Thank you for making me feel things even when I didn't want to."
"You're welcome, I think?"
"It's a compliment. Probably. I'm too drunk to be sure."
She stood on her toes and kissed him once more, softly. "Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Ophelia." He touched her face one more time. "I meant it all. Everything. The falling in love part especially."
"I meant it too."
He backed away toward his own door, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I'm going to be so embarrassed tomorrow."
"I won't let you be embarrassed."
"How will you stop me?"
"I'll kiss you until you forget to be embarrassed."
"Solid plan. Excellent strategy." He paused at his door. "Ophelia?"
"Yes?"
"We're going to be alright, aren't we? Despite everything?"
"We're going to be better than alright."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He smiled, that genuine smile she was already addicted to. "Then I can handle the embarrassment."
They went into their separate rooms, but for the first time since their marriage, the connecting door between them didn't feel like a barrier. It felt like possibility.
Ophelia changed for bed in a daze, her lips still tingling from his kisses, her mind replaying every rambling confession he'd made. Alexander, her cold, controlled husband, had spent the evening telling her she was beautiful and annoying and perfect. He'd said he was falling in love with her.
Through the connecting door, she could hear him moving around, probably struggling with his boots given his inebriation. The thought made her smile. The perfectly proper Duke of Montclaire, drunk and stumbling and admitting to feelings.
A soft thud and muffled curse confirmed her boot theory.
"Are you alright?" she called through the door.
"The boots are winning," came the reply. "Boots should not be this complicated."
"Do you need help?"
A pause. "That would be highly improper."
"Since when has this evening been proper?"
Another pause, longer. Then: "Good point."
She opened the connecting door to find him sitting on the floor, one boot off, the other stubbornly refusing to cooperate. His hair was completely disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned, and he looked so unlike the Duke of Montclaire that she had to laugh.
"Don't laugh at my predicament. It's very serious."
"Very serious," she agreed, kneeling to help with the recalcitrant boot. "Hold still."
"I'm holding. Everything's spinning a bit, but I'm holding."
She managed to work the boot off, and he sighed in relief. "My hero."
"Heroine."
"That too." He looked up at her from his position on the floor. "You're very kind to help me."
"We're married. Helping is part of it."
"Is it? I should read the contract again. I don't remember that clause."
"It's in the fine print."
"Ah. I always skip the fine print." He managed to get to his feet, swaying slightly. "You should go back to your room before I say more things I shouldn't."
"What else could you possibly say? You've already confessed to falling in love with me."
"I could tell you about the inappropriate dreams. Or how I've memorized the way you take your tea. Or that I actually like your snorting laugh. Or..."
"Alexander."
"Yes?"
"Go to sleep."
"Excellent suggestion." He caught her hand as she turned to go. "Ophelia?"
"Yes?"
"This was the best worst day ever."
"That makes no sense."
"It makes perfect sense if you're me." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with surprising gentleness. "Thank you for being annoying and perfect and here."
"You're welcome."
She left him there, returning to her own room through the connecting door. But sleep was long in coming, her mind too full of everything that had changed in the course of one evening. Alexander loved her. Or was falling in love with her. Or something in that general vicinity.
And she loved him. The realization wasn't as surprising as it should have been. She'd been falling for him in pieces; his unexpected kindness to the Wheelers, his defense of her tonight, the vulnerability he hid beneath all that ice.
Through the door, she heard him fall into bed with another thud and muffled laugh.