“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not that complicated, Your Grace.” She moved back to the bench, sitting with careful precision. “You need a wife you can tolerate to keep your inheritance. I need a husband to satisfy your grandfather’s will and end this feud. Neither of us has a choice. So perhaps we could simply acknowledge that and move forward?”
Alexander stared at her, this quiet girl with her direct words and steady gaze. She was offering him exactly what he’d thought he wanted; a businesslike arrangement devoid of emotional complications. So why did it feel wrong?
“Is that what you want?” he asked. “A business arrangement?”
“What I want is irrelevant.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
She looked up at him, surprise clear on her face. “Since when do you care what I want?”
Since… when? Since she’d asked him not to actively hate her? Since she’d said she excelled at being invisible? Since this moment, watching her try so hard to be practical about something that was breaking her heart?
“I’m trying,” he said stiffly, “to be… considerate.”
“How novel.” But there was less bite in it now, more exhaustion. “Very well. What I want is to not be the subject of a scandal. What I want is for my family to stop fighting yours. What I want is a life where I’m not constantly reminded that I’m not good enough. Can you offer that?”
“I can offer you position, wealth, security...”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know if I can offer that. I don’t know if I’m capable of… not seeing you as a Coleridge.”
“At least you’re honest.” She stood again, and this time moved toward him with purpose. “Then let me be honest too. I will marry you because I have no choice. I will be your duchess because that’s what’s required. I will bear your children and run your household and stand by your side at every tedious social function until one of us dies. But I will not pretend to be happy about it. And I will not pretend you’re anything other than what you are; a man forced into marriage with someone beneath him.”
“You’re not beneath me.”
“By every measure society uses, I am.”
“Society is often wrong.”
“And yet you care desperately what society thinks.”
He couldn’t deny it, so he didn’t try. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. “This was my grandmother’s.”
Ophelia stared at the box as if it might bite her. “Your grandmother’s?”
“It’s been in the family for generations. Reset several times, but the pearl is original. From the East Indies, I believe.”
She made no move to take it or even look at it properly. “And you’re giving it to me?”
“That’s generally what one does with betrothal rings.”
“One generally proposes first.”
Alexander felt heat rise in his face again. This was not going according to plan.
“Miss Coleridge,” he began again, more formally. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
The words came out stiff, uncomfortable, like clothes that didn’t fit properly. They hung in the air between them, inadequate and somehow insulting despite being exactly what was required.
“That’s it?” she asked after a moment. “That’s your proposal?”
“What more would you like?”
“Nothing. It’s perfect. Exactly as romantic as expected.” She held out her hand, not for the ring but palm up, businesslike. “Yes, Your Grace. I shall marry you.”
