"With a man who hates our family," Robert reminded her.
"Indeed, but at least he'll hate me for being a Coleridge rather than ignoring me for being forgettable. It's almost refreshing."
"You can't mean that," Charles said.
She turned from the window, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "When he comes, and we all know he will come, I shall meet with him. I'll hear what he has to say. And then I shall decide."
"You'll decide?" Robert's tone suggested she'd declared intention to something unbelievable.
"It is my life, isn't it? My future marriage? My choice to make?"
"Not when it affects the entire family!"
"Everything affects the entire family," she shot back with uncharacteristic heat. "Henry's gambling debts affect the family. Charles's mistresses affect the family. Edward's ridiculous wagers affect the family. The only difference is that this time, my decision might actually help instead of harm."
"By sacrificing yourself?"
"By ending this ridiculous feud that has consumed two families for four decades!" The words burst out before she could stop them. "By doing something useful for once in my forgotten little life!"
She pressed her hand to her mouth, shocked by her own vehemence. The room was utterly still.
"I'm going to my chambers," she said quietly. "Please let me know when the duke arrives. I'll need time to prepare myself for the business transaction."
She left before any of them could respond, closing the door with careful precision behind her.
The walk to her room felt longer than usual, each step heavy with the weight of what was coming. Tomorrow, or the next day, the Duke of Montclaire would arrive. He would look at her with those cold grey eyes she'd glimpsed across ballrooms, seeing not a woman but a bitter necessity. He would propose because he had to, she would accept because... because what else was there?
Her room was exactly as she'd left it; neat, organized, unremarkable. She sat at her dressing table, studying her reflection. Brown hair, neither particularly glossy nor particularly dull. Brown eyes, neither particularly large nor particularly bright. A face that was pleasant enough but would never launch ships or inspire poetry.
The perfect bride for a man who needed a wife he could ignore.
She thought of the Duke of Montclaire—tall, imposing, devastatingly handsome in that cold, untouchable way of his. She'd seen him at gatherings, always at a careful distance, always surrounded by people who seemed slightly afraid of him. He never danced with wallflowers. Never noticed the girls in the corners.
Well, he'd notice her now because he had no choice.
The thought brought no satisfaction, only a hollow kind of dread.
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in."
It was her mother, looking older and more worried than she had just an hour ago.
"My dear," she said softly, sitting beside her daughter on the small settee by the window. "You don't have to do this. Whatever your brothers say, whatever anyone says...you don't have to do this."
"Don't I?" She leaned against her mother's shoulder, a gesture from childhood. "Who else is there, Mama? It has to be me."
"That doesn't mean you have to accept him."
"And let the feud continue? Let another generation grow up with this poison?" She sighed. "I'm tired, Mama. So very tired of it all."
"You're too young to be so tired."
"Perhaps. But here we are." She managed a small smile. "Who knows? Perhaps the duke will be so horrible that refusing him will feel like victory rather than sacrifice."
Mrs. Coleridge squeezed her hand. "And if he's not horrible?"
"Then I suppose I'll be a duchess." The words felt strange in her mouth, foreign and ill-fitting. "The Duchess of Montclaire. Can you imagine?"
"No," her mother said honestly. "I can't. I can only imagine my daughter, married to a man who doesn't love her, doesn't want her, and will likely make her miserable."
