He opened the box and removed the ring, taking her outstretched hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly. The ring slid on easily—too easily, actually. It would need to be resized.
“It’s loose,” she observed.
“It can be adjusted.”
“Of course. Everything can be adjusted, can’t it? Even expectations.”
They stood there for a moment, her hand in his, the ring catching the morning sunlight. It looked wrong on her finger. Too big, too formal, too much history for someone who’d barely been allowed to have a present.
“We should tell the others,” she said, pulling her hand away.
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“Your Grace? Miss?” Mary’s voice carried from her discreet distance. “Perhaps you should return to the house?”
“Yes,” Ophelia said, already moving. “We should. Before my brothers send a search party.”
Chapter Six
The walk back to the house felt like a funeral march. Alexander could see faces at the windows and surely those were the brothers watching, waiting. The moment they entered the drawing room, the interrogation began.
“Well?” Robert demanded.
“It’s done,” Ophelia said simply, holding up her hand with the ring.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“That’s it?” Charles asked. “You’re betrothed? Just like that?”
“How else would it happen?” Ophelia moved to her chair, sitting with careful precision. “Did you expect sonnets?”
“I expected…” Robert paused, clearly unsure what he’d expected. “Something.”
“You got something. A betrothal. Which is what everyone wanted, isn’t it?”
“Phee,” Edward said quietly, using what must have been a childhood nickname. “Are you all right?”
“I’m betrothed to the Duke of Montclaire,” she replied with false brightness. “How could I be anything but delighted?”
The sarcasm was so sharp it could have cut glass.
“Your Grace,” Henry said, his tone dangerous. “Perhaps you’d like to explain how you proposed to our sister?”
“I proposed. She accepted. I’m not sure what explanation is required.”
“Did you at least try to be kind?” Mrs. Coleridge asked softly.
The question hung in the air, and Alexander found he couldn’t answer it. Had he been kind? He’d been honest. He’d been practical. But kind?
“His Grace was perfectly correct,” Ophelia said, saving him from responding. “He stated the situation clearly, made his offer, and I accepted. Everything was very proper.”
“Proper,” Robert repeated. “Our sister’s betrothal was ‘proper.’”
“Would you prefer improper?” Alexander asked coolly.
“I’d prefer you acted like you cared,” Charles snapped.
