"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 sniffeddecisively 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 document that 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 quicklyenough; 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
"Mama, do you think the roses mind being pruned? They seem to protest so vigorously."
Miss Coleridge carefully trimmed another stem, wincing slightly as a thorn caught her glove. The afternoon light filtered through the drawing room windows, casting everything in shades of honey and gold, including her mother's drowsy expression.
"I'm sure they recover admirably, Ophelia." Mrs. Coleridge's voice carried the soft quality of someone emerging from what was definitely not an afternoon nap. "Though perhaps they'd protest less if you hummed to them. You have such a lovely voice."
"I doubt my humming would improve their disposition." She placed the rose in her arrangement, then frowned. "It certainly couldn't make them any thornier."
Her mother's gentle laugh filled the comfortable silence that followed. This was her favorite time of day. The house quiet, her brothers elsewhere, just the soft tick of the clock and the whisper of stems against glass.
"You're very thoughtful today," Mrs. Coleridge observed. "More than usual, I mean."
"Am I?" She adjusted another bloom, though it needed no adjusting. "I suppose I was wondering what we're having for dinner. Cook mentioned something about lamb."
"That was yesterday, dear."
"Was it? How foolish of me." She knew perfectly well it was Thursday and Cook always made fish on Thursdays, but maintaining conversations about nothing in particular had become something of an art form. It was safer than discussing anything of substance, which invariably led to topics she'd rather avoid; her age, her prospects, her future.
The peace was shattered by the distinctive sound of the front door meeting the wall with unnecessary force, followed by boots, multiple pairs, thundering across the entry. Her shoulders tensed automatically.
"The cavalry has returned," she murmured, setting down her scissors.
Mrs. Coleridge sighed. "And in such fine voice."
