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."
"Well," she said with forced lightness, "at least I'll be miserable in style."
But later, alone in the darkness of her room, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of what was coming. The Duke of Montclaire didn't want a wife but he wanted to keep his estate. She didn't want a husband but she wanted to be left alone with her flowers and books and quiet life.
They would be perfect for each other in their mutual disappointment.
The thought was cold comfort as she stared at the ceiling, imagining tomorrow's humiliation. The duke would come, proud and resentful. Her brothers would bristle and posture. She would sit quietly, the forgotten Coleridge daughter suddenly remembered, suddenly valuable, suddenly trapped.
Just once, she thought as sleep finally claimed her, just once I'd like to be wanted for myself. Not because I'm useful. Not because I'm the only option. But because someone actually chose me.
But that was found in novels, not real life.
And tomorrow, real life would arrive at their door wearing an expensive coat and an expression of barely concealed disgust.
She could hardly wait.
Chapter Three
The eighth Duke of Montclaire was having a perfectly dreadful morning, and it hadn't even reached ten o'clock.
"Your Grace," his valet, Sinclair, ventured carefully, "perhaps the burgundy waistcoat would be more..."
"The black." Alexander stood before his mirror like a man preparing for his own execution, which, in a sense, he was. "Everything black."
