Epilogue #3
"You're going to have a baby?" Edward said finally, his voice unusually gentle. "Phee, that's wonderful! When did you know?"
"I've suspected for about two weeks, but I've been hiding the morning sickness because Alexander's been so focused on making tonight perfect, and I didn't want to distract him," Ophelia explained, feeling oddly relieved to have told someone, even if it wasn't the person who most needed to know.
"Mother will probably guess the moment she sees me, because mothers always know these things, but I'm hoping I can maintain the pretense through the ball at least."
"You're hoping to get through an entire evening of rich food, overwhelming perfumes, and social anxiety without being sick?" Henry asked skeptically. "Phee, you were sick at your wedding from nerves alone. Adding morning sickness to that equation seems like a recipe for disaster."
"I wasn't sick from nerves alone," Ophelia protested. "The flowers were overwhelming, and my stays were too tight, and the whole situation was impossible."
"And tonight will be different because...?" Robert prompted.
"Because tonight I'm not a terrified bride being forced into marriage with a stranger. Tonight I'm a duchess who's actually happy in her marriage, celebrating with her husband who, despite all probability, I've come to love rather desperately."
"Even though he's still rather pompous?" Charles asked with a grin.
"Even though he's occasionally pompous," Ophelia agreed, smiling despite her queasy stomach.
"He's been trying so hard to be more relaxed, more human.
You should see him with the tenants now—he actually remembers their names and asks about their families, and last week he helped one of the farmer's children retrieve a kite from a tree.
He climbed the tree himself, can you imagine? "
"The Duke of Montclaire climbed a tree?" Edward asked incredulously. "Our Duke of Montclaire? The man who once told me that spontaneous physical activity was for people who couldn't afford proper planning?"
"The very same," Ophelia confirmed with obvious pride. "He tore his coat and got sap in his hair, and he was rather angry about it afterward, but he did it because little Tommy Watson was crying, and apparently Alexander cannot bear to see children cry."
"He's gone soft," Robert said, but there was approval in his tone. "You've changed him."
"I've done nothing of the sort," Ophelia protested. "He's simply allowed himself to be more of who he always was beneath all that ice and propriety. The man who stood at the altar covered in my sickness and still married me was always there; he just needed permission to exist."
Margaret, who had been silent through this entire exchange, suddenly spoke up. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard, Your Grace. To see past someone's defences to who they really are and love them for it—that's what all the novels talk about but rarely achieve in their descriptions."
"Don't let Alexander hear you comparing our life to a novel," Ophelia warned with a laugh. "He has very strong opinions about romantic fiction and its unrealistic portrayal of human relationships."
"Even though he's living a romantic fiction himself?" Henry pointed out. "Proud duke brought low by love for unsuitable bride, learning to be human through the power of affection; it's practically Gothic in its drama."
Before Ophelia could respond, Mary appeared in the doorway with a determined expression that brooked no argument.
"Your Grace, if you're to be ready in time, we need to begin immediately.
The woman who is to fix your hair has arrived, and she's having some sort of French crisis about the humidity and its effect on curl retention. "
"I suppose I should go," Ophelia said, rising carefully from her chair and trying not to show how the movement made her stomach lurch.
"Gentlemen, please try not to destroy anything while I'm gone.
Margaret, would you like to come with me?
We can prepare together, and it will give you a chance to avoid whatever mayhem my brothers are about to cause. "
Margaret looked pathetically grateful for the escape route and quickly rose to follow Ophelia from the room. As they climbed the stairs toward Ophelia's chambers, with Mary trailing behind muttering about timing and French temperaments, Margaret ventured a question.
"Your Grace, is His Grace really as intimidating as everyone says? Edward tells me he's much improved, but the stories I've heard about his coldness and pride are rather terrifying."
Ophelia paused on the landing, considering how best to answer.
"Alexander can be intimidating when he chooses to be, and there are moments when his ducal manner is quite overwhelming.
But beneath all that, he's actually rather vulnerable and surprisingly kind.
He simply spent so many years protecting himself from feeling anything that he's forgotten how to show emotion without feeling exposed. "
"That sounds rather sad," Margaret observed.
"It was sad," Ophelia agreed, resuming their climb. "But it's getting better. Every day he becomes a little more comfortable with being human rather than just being a duke."
They reached Ophelia's chambers, where the promised French woman was indeed having what appeared to be a passionate argument with herself about the various challenges presented by English weather.
The woman threw up her hands dramatically when she saw Ophelia, launching into a rapid stream of French that seemed to be equal parts greeting and lamentation.
"Madame la Duchesse, you arrive at last! But regard the atmosphere, the moisture in the air! It conspires against us, this English weather. How am I to create magnificence when nature itself works against my art?"
"I'm certain you'll manage something wonderful, Madame Dubois," Ophelia said soothingly, settling into the chair before her dressing table while Mary began laying out the various implements of torture that would transform her into a proper duchess for the evening.
"You always do, despite the atmospheric challenges. "
The next two hours passed in a blur of preparations that would have been exhausting even without the constant battle against nausea.
Ophelia's hair was curled, pinned, repinned, and adorned with pearls that had belonged to Alexander's grandmother.
Her face was subtly enhanced with powder that promised to give her a healthy glow despite her pallor.
The corset was a particular challenge, as even the gentlest tightening made her stomach rebel, and they finally had to compromise on a level of support that would maintain the gown's silhouette without actually causing her to faint.
The gown itself was a masterpiece of golden silk that caught the light like captured sunshine, with delicate embroidery that must have taken dozens of hours to complete.
It was, Ophelia reflected as Mary fastened the final hooks, exactly the sort of gown a duchess should wear to prove her marriage was a triumph rather than the disaster everyone had predicted.
"You look magnificent, Your Grace," Margaret breathed, having observed the entire transformation with wide-eyed fascination. Her own preparation had been simpler but no less effective, her pale blue gown complementing her fair coloring perfectly.
"I look like someone playing dress-up," Ophelia corrected, though she had to admit the overall effect was rather impressive. "I suppose that's what we all do at these events; play elaborate games of pretend where everyone knows the rules but no one admits they're playing."
A knock at the door interrupted her philosophical musings, and Alexander entered, already dressed in his evening attire.
He stopped short when he saw her, his expression shifting from distracted concern to something that made Ophelia's heart perform those acrobatics she'd noticed becoming more frequent lately.
"You look..." he started, then seemed to run out of words, which was unusual enough for Alexander that Ophelia couldn't help but smile.
"Adequate?" she suggested teasingly. "Presentable? Sufficiently duchess-like?"
"Beautiful," he said simply, moving closer with that intent focus that still sometimes took her breath away. "Though you look rather pale. Are you certain you're well enough for this evening?"
"I'm perfectly well," Ophelia assured him, though she could feel her traitorous stomach beginning to rebel against the combination of nerves and the rather overwhelming scent of his cologne. "Perhaps a little nervous about your speech. Six drafts seems rather excessive, don't you think?"
"Seven, actually," he admitted with a slightly sheepish expression that was still new enough to be charming. "I added another classical reference this afternoon. Cicero on the nature of friendship and alliance. I thought it might be appropriate given the theme of reconciliation."
"Alexander," Ophelia said gently, reaching up to touch his face in a gesture that had become wonderfully familiar, "you don't need Cicero or philosophical metaphors or elaborate rhetoric. You just need to be yourself."
"Myself is what got us into the original disaster," he pointed out with a wry smile. "Perhaps a little classical assistance wouldn't be amiss."
Before Ophelia could respond, another knock heralded the arrival of Mrs. Morrison, looking harried in a way that suggested crisis.
"Your Graces, forgive the interruption, but the guests are beginning to arrive, and Lord Frederick is already in the brandy. He's telling the story about the vase and the wager to anyone who will listen, and I thought you should know before he reaches the truly embarrassing parts."
Alexander sighed with the expression of a man who had expected disaster and was oddly relieved to have it arrive early. "Of course he is. Thank you, Mrs. Morrison. We'll be down momentarily."