Good reputation.Alexander nearly snorted. What constituted good reputation in the Coleridge household? The ability to tally accounts without using one's fingers? Not being caught sampling the merchandise? He pictured some creature raised in trade, with grasping hands and calculating eyes, probably dressed in whatever gaudy fashion her brothers deemed expensive enough to broadcast their ill-gotten wealth.
"Swear it, Your Grace. Here, before witnesses. Swear it now."
The formal address from his grandfather's lips carried weight because it was a reminder that with or without the oath, Alexander would soon hold the title and all its responsibilities.
The two men regarded each other across the expanse of decades of carefully cultivated enmity.
Alexander's jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his teeth grind. Every fiber of his being revolted against the idea. The Coleridge men were everything he despised—coin-heavy merchants playing at being gentlemen, their very existence an insult to centuries of proper breeding. And now he was to take their sister...this Miss Coleridge, to wife? This unknown girl who was doubtless cut from the same coarse cloth?
He thought of their last encounter at the Jennings ball—the eldest Coleridge brother practically inventorying the silver, the younger ones laughing with the subtlety of street vendors. Miss Coleridge, wherever she'd been secreted away, was certainly no different. Probably worse, trained to be cunning where they were merely crude.
"Very well." He inclined his head with the minimum degree required for family respect. "It shall be done."
The words tasted of ashes and betrayal.
The Duke studied him with those penetrating eyes, as if he could read the rebellion already forming in his heir's mind. "You will treat her with the respect due to your duchess."
Respect.The thought was laughable. Respect for a Coleridge?
"Naturally, Grandfather. I shall treat Miss Coleridge exactly as she deserves."
Something that might have been concern flickered across the Duke's face. "Alexander!"
"I have given my word," Alexander cut him off, his voice like winter ice. "Miss Coleridge shall be my bride within the year. Though I confess I cannot even recall laying eyes upon the girl. Has she ever been presented? Or do they keep her locked away with their ledger books?"
The Duke's breathing grew more labored. "You... you have much to learn about... about seeing clearly..."
His eyes began to close, but he forced them open once more, fixing Alexander with a final, penetrating stare. "Remember... your oath..."
The seventh Duke of Montclaire drew one last, shuddering breath, and then breathed no more.
For a moment, the room held perfect stillness. Then Cousin Margret released a wail that suggested she'd been practicing. Uncle Bartholomew fumbled for his watch as if time might somehow reverse itself. Great-Aunt Wilhelmina sniffed decisively and muttered something about the inconvenience of deaths in spring.
Mr. Hedgley began the solemn business of sealing the will with the efficiency of a man who had more pressing appointments.
Alexander, now the eighth Duke of Montclaire in all but formal recognition, stood motionless, staring at the documentthat would either unite two families or destroy them both in the attempt.
Miss Coleridge.
His mind churned with bitter speculation. What would she be like, this sister who'd been kept so carefully from view? Probably ugly and loud, with her brothers' merchant manners and their grasping ambition. Or perhaps sly and scheming, trained to entrap a titled husband with whatever feminine wiles her mother had managed to purchase from some displaced governess.
The thought of those Coleridge brothers gloating, slapping each other's backs in their vulgar way, celebrating their sister's elevation—hisforced elevation of her—made his stomach turn. They'd probably smoke their cheap cigars in every gentleman's club that would still admit them, boasting about their newfound connection to the Montclaire name.
If peace must come, it shall be on my terms,he vowed silently.And Heaven help Miss Coleridge when she discovers what it means to be my duchess. She'll learn her place quickly enough; silent, obedient, and as invisible as she's apparently been all these years.
He turned on his heel with military precision and strode toward the door.
"Your Grace," Mr. Hedgley called after him, using the address that was not yet formally his but soon would be. "Shall I send word to the Coleridge family of the late duke's requirements?"
Alexander paused at the threshold. "No need, Mr. Hedgley. News of this particular catastrophe will travel faster than gossip at Almack's." His smile was sharp as winter frost. "I suspect we shall hear their response from here. The Coleridge brothers have never been accused of either subtlety or silence. They'll probably celebrate with champagne they can't properly pronounce."
As he swept from the room, leaving death and duty in his wake, one final thought occupied his mind:Miss Coleridge is a complete cipher. But blood tells, as Grandfather always said. And Coleridge blood runs thick with everything I despise—the stench of trade, the grasping for status, the vulgar display of new money.
He had a year to claim his bride...though what choice was there, really? One Miss Coleridge, undoubtedly as common as her brothers, soon to bear the Montclaire name.
The very thought made him want to break something expensive, preferably something the Coleridgees had touched.
Chapter Two
