"I could wait in the carriage. Provide a swift escape route if needed."
"Frederick."
"What if they harm you? Who will inherit? I don't think I'm ready for the responsibility..."
"Goodbye, Frederick."
Alexander left his cousin mid-protest, descending the stairs with the measured tread of a man approaching his doom. The journey to Coleridge House was mercifully short—only three miles, though they were quite possibly the longest three miles in England.
The neighborhood, when they reached it, was exactly what he'd expected. New money trying desperately to look like old money and failing rather spectacularly. The houses were big but somehow wrong. Too much gilt, too many columns, as if someone had looked at a picture of a proper estate and decided to add everything at once.
Coleridge House itself sat like a wedding cake that had gotten ambitious—all white stone and unnecessary ornamentation. The gardens were… well, they were certainly enthusiastic. Roses climbed where they shouldn't, herbs mixed with flowers in cheerful chaos, and was that… indeed, that was definitely a vegetable patch visible from the front drive. How wonderfully middle-class.
His carriage drew to a stop before the front steps, and Alexander took a moment to steel himself. Somewhere inside that architectural embarrassment was Miss Coleridge, his future bride, the woman who would bear his children and share his name. The thought was not appealing at all.
The door was answered by a butler who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else; a sentiment Alexander could appreciate.
"The Duke of Montclaire to see Mr. Coleridge," he announced himself with all the enthusiasm of a man declaring his own ruin.
The butler's eyes widened slightly, though whether from awe or alarm was unclear. "Your Grace. We've been… expecting you."
I'll wager you have,Alexander thought grimly as he was led through an entrance hall.
The drawing room door opened, and Alexander stepped into what could only be described as an ambush disguised as a social call.
***
Meanwhile, in that very drawing room five minutes earlier, chaos reigned supreme.
"He's here!" Charles announced, peering through the curtains with all the subtlety of a cannon blast. "Heavens, look at that carriage. Could it be any more pompous?"
"It's the Montclaire crest," Edward added, pressing his nose to the glass. "That is too much for a morning call, is it not?"
"Get away from the window!" Robert barked, pacing the carpet with the energy of a caged bear. "We're not peasants gawking at passing nobility."
"Aren't we?" Henry drawled from his position by the mantel, brandy already in hand despite the hour. "I rather thought thatwas precisely what we were. Peasants being honoured by His Grace's condescension."
Ophelia sat in her usual corner, hands folded in her lap, wearing her second-best morning dress—a pale lavender that made her look like she was gently fading into the wallpaper, which was rather the effect she'd been hoping for. Her mother sat beside her, radiating maternal concern and occasionally patting her hand in a way that suggested she thought her daughter might bolt for the door at any moment.
"Remember," Robert said, pointing at each brother in turn, "we're civil. Coldly civil. Politely civil. But civil."
"You've said civil so many times it's lost all meaning," Charles complained.
"And no challenging him to anything," Robert continued, ignoring the interruption. "No duels, no races, no wagers, no..."
"No fun whatsoever," Edward finished glumly.
"This isn't meant to be fun. It's meant to be..."
The butler appeared in the doorway like the herald of doom. "Your Graces, the Duke of Montclaire."
And then he was there, filling the doorway with his presence in a way that had nothing to do with his actual size and everything to do with sheer aristocratic audacity.
Alexander entered the room with the kind of studied indifference that suggested he'd rather be walking into a den ofactual lions. His gaze swept the assembled company with the warmth of an arctic wind, pausing on each face just long enough to categorize and dismiss.
The eldest brother...bigger than expected, looks ready to throw something. The second... the one with pretensions to wit. The twins...they're actually wearing matching waistcoats. How delightfully provincial. The mother...nervous but trying to hide it. And…
His gaze reached the corner and found her. Miss Coleridge.
