"Terms?" Alexander's eyebrow rose with aristocratic precision. "This isn't a business contract, Mr. Coleridge."
"Isn't it?" Henry set down his cup with deliberate force. "You need a Coleridge bride. We have one. Seems like business to me."
"How refreshingly mercantile of you."
The insult landed exactly as intended. Robert's face flushed an alarming shade of red. The twins actually stood up, as if preparing for physical combat. Henry's smile became positively dangerous.
And then, unexpectedly, a soft voice cut through the tension.
"Your Grace."
Everyone turned to look at Ophelia, who had set down her teacup and risen from her chair.
"Perhaps you and I might speak more privately? With suitable chaperonage, of course." She glanced at her mother. "After all, if we're to be married, we should at least attempt conversation."
The room went silent. Alexander stared at her, genuinely surprised for the first time since entering. He'd expected tears, fury or possibly mercenary calculation. He hadn't expected calm practicality.
"I... yes. Of course."
"The morning room is just through here," she said, moving toward a connecting door. "Mama, perhaps you'd join us?"
Mrs. Coleridge looked uncertain, glancing between her sons and her daughter.
"Go," Robert said grimly. "We shall... wait here."
"Try not to challenge each other to anything while we're gone," Ophelia said with surprising dryness. "It would be awkward to return to bloodshed."
She led the way into the morning room, her mother trailing behind like an anxious duckling. Alexander followed, feelingoddly wrong-footed. This wasn't going according to plan. Not that he'd had much of a plan beyond 'endure this horror with dignity,' but still.
The morning room was smaller, more intimate, with windows overlooking the chaotic garden. Miss Coleridge moved to stand by those windows, her hands clasped in front of her, her posture perfect.
"Your Grace," she said once her mother had settled into a chair with her embroidery, "perhaps we might speak plainly?"
"By all means."
She turned to face him fully, and he was struck again by how utterly ordinary she was. No beauty to distract, no charm to bewitch, nothing but quiet composure and those watchful brown eyes.
"You don't want to marry me," she said simply. "I don't particularly want to marry you. But here we are, trapped by a dead man's whim."
Alexander blinked. "That's... remarkably direct."
"Would you prefer if I pretended otherwise? Simpered and flattered and told you what an honour it would be?" Something that might have been humor flickered in her eyes. "I could, if you'd like. I've been thoroughly instructed in the art of feminine deception."
Despite himself, Alexander felt his mouth twitch. "Have you indeed?"
"Oh yes. I can be quite accomplished when necessary. Would you like to hear me play the pianoforte? I promise not to cause any maritime disasters."
"Maritime disasters?"
"Our cousin Margaret once played Mozart so badly, ships reportedly changed course thinking it was a foghorn."
This time he did smile, just slightly. "That seems unlikely."
"You haven't heard Cousin Margaret play."
They stood there for a moment, not quite comfortable but not exactly hostile either. It was... odd.
"May I be frank, Your Grace?" she asked.
