"How nice."
"Indeed."
It was possibly the inanest exchange in the history of human discourse, and everyone knew it.
"Perhaps," Charles said with the subtlety of a brick through glass, "His Grace would like to explain why he's here? Though we all know, of course. It is hard to forget that particular clause."
"Charles," Mrs. Coleridge murmured warning him.
"What? We're all thinking it. He's here because he has to be, we're receiving him because we have to, and she..." he gestured toward his sister, "...is sitting there because she has to. It's all very civilized and completely ridiculous."
"Charles!" Robert's voice was quite loud.
"He's not wrong," Alexander said coolly. "This is hardly a conventional courtship."
"Courtship?" Edward laughed unpleasantly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you prefer? Negotiation? Transaction? Surrender?"
"How about extortion?" Henry suggested pleasantly.
The tea arrived at that moment, which was fortunate as Robert looked ready to make a rather insulting comment.
Mrs. Coleridge poured with hands that only shook slightly, the delicate clink of china providing a peculiarly civilized soundtrack to what was essentially a barely contained war.
"Sugar, Your Grace?"
"No. Thank you."
Of course not. The Duke of Montclaire probably took his tea as black and bitter as his disposition.
Miss Coleridge accepted her cup with steady hands, though Alexander noticed she didn't actually drink from it. She held it like a prop, something to do with her hands while the men circled each other like hostile dogs.
"I suppose," Robert said after everyone had been served and no one was actually drinking, "we should discuss terms."
"Terms?" Alexander's eyebrow rose with aristocratic precision. "This isn't a business contract, Mr. Coleridge."
"Isn't it?" Henry set down his cup with deliberate force. "You need a Coleridge bride. We have one. Seems like business to me."
"How refreshingly mercantile of you."
The insult landed exactly as intended. Robert's face flushed an alarming shade of red. The twins actually stood up, as if preparing for physical combat. Henry's smile became positively dangerous.
And then, unexpectedly, a soft voice cut through the tension.
"Your Grace."
Everyone turned to look at Ophelia, who had set down her teacup and risen from her chair.
"Perhaps you and I might speak more privately? With suitable chaperonage, of course." She glanced at her mother. "After all, if we're to be married, we should at least attempt conversation."
The room went silent. Alexander stared at her, genuinely surprised for the first time since entering. He'd expected tears, fury or possibly mercenary calculation. He hadn't expected calm practicality.
"I... yes. Of course."
"The morning room is just through here," she said, moving toward a connecting door. "Mama, perhaps you'd join us?"
Mrs. Coleridge looked uncertain, glancing between her sons and her daughter.
