She was… unexpected.
Not in any dramatic way—she wasn't a hidden beauty or a secret diamond. She was simply not what he'd pictured. Quieter, smaller, more contained. She sat so still she might have been part of the furniture, except furniture rarely watched one with such carefully neutral eyes.
Brown hair, neither fashionably styled nor unbecomingly arranged. Brown eyes, neither particularly large nor particularly expressive. A face that was pleasant enough but would never stop traffic or inspire poetry. She was, in a word, forgettable.
Perfect.
A forgettable wife was exactly what he needed. Someone who would fade into the background, cause no scandals, make no demands. Someone he could safely ignore for the rest of their natural lives.
"Your Grace," Robert said with a bow so minimal it bordered on insulting. "How… good of you to call."
"Mr. Coleridge." Alexander returned the bow with precisely the same degree of negligible respect. "I trust I find your family in good health?"
"Tolerably well," Robert replied, managing to make it sound like a threat.
"How delightful." Alexander's tone suggested he found it anything but. "And your father? I had hoped to speak with him directly."
"Indisposed," Henry supplied smoothly. "A convenient headache."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as everyone absorbed the implication that Mr. Coleridge Senior couldn't even be bothered to meet his daughter's potential husband.
"How unfortunate," Alexander said with a smile that could have frozen fire. "Though perhaps understandable, given the circumstances."
"The circumstances," Robert repeated, his jaw tightening, "being your grandfather's bizarre attempt at posthumous matchmaking."
"Quite." Alexander moved further into the room with the confidence of a man who'd never met a space he couldn't dominate. "Though I prefer to think of it as... reconciliation."
Henry actually laughed at that, though it contained no humor whatsoever. "Reconciliation? How wonderfully optimistic of you, Your Grace."
"I do try to see the best in situations," Alexander replied with magnificent insincerity. "Even impossible ones."
The brothers bristled collectively.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Coleridge said with the kind of desperate brightness that suggested someone needed to intervene before bloodshed occurred, "Your Grace would care for some refreshment? Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"
"Tea would be... adequate."
Adequate.The word hung in the air like a particularly insulting banner. Even the tea wasn't good enough for the Duke of Montclaire.
A painful silence descended while tea was summoned. Alexander remained standing, apparently too superior to actually sit in their presence. The brothers glowered. Mrs. Coleridge fidgeted. And Miss Coleridge... watched.
She hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, hadn't done anything but observe him with those carefully blank eyes. It was oddly disconcerting. He was used to women who simpered or flirted or at least had the decency to be obviously impressed. This one just... sat there. Like she was waiting for something.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Coleridge ventured when the silence had stretched beyond endurance, "introductions are in order? Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Miss Coleridge?"
Alexander turned toward the corner where she sat, and she rose with a grace that suggested extensive training in the art of being overlooked. Her curtsey was perfect—not too deep, not too shallow, exactly what was required and nothing more.
"Miss Coleridge." He bowed with precise correctness. "A pleasure."
"Your Grace." Her voice was soft, cultured, and completely expressionless. "How kind of you to call."
Their eyes met for a moment, brown to grey, and something passed between them; not attraction, certainly not that, but perhaps a mutual recognition of the absurdity of their situation.
"I trust you're well?" he asked, because something had to be said.
"Perfectly well, thank you. And yourself?"
"Quite well."
