"Go," Robert said grimly. "We shall... wait here."
"Try not to challenge each other to anything while we're gone," Ophelia said with surprising dryness. "It would be awkward to return to bloodshed."
She led the way into the morning room, her mother trailing behind like an anxious duckling. Alexander followed, feeling oddly wrong-footed. This wasn't going according to plan. Not that he'd had much of a plan beyond 'endure this horror with dignity,' but still.
The morning room was smaller, more intimate, with windows overlooking the chaotic garden. Miss Coleridge movedto stand by those windows, her hands clasped in front of her, her posture perfect.
"Your Grace," she said once her mother had settled into a chair with her embroidery, "perhaps we might speak plainly?"
"By all means."
She turned to face him fully, and he was struck again by how utterly ordinary she was. No beauty to distract, no charm to bewitch, nothing but quiet composure and those watchful brown eyes.
"You don't want to marry me," she said simply. "I don't particularly want to marry you. But here we are, trapped by a dead man's whim."
Alexander blinked. "That's... remarkably direct."
"Would you prefer if I pretended otherwise? Simpered and flattered and told you what an honour it would be?" Something that might have been humor flickered in her eyes. "I could, if you'd like. I've been thoroughly instructed in the art of feminine deception."
Despite himself, Alexander felt his mouth twitch. "Have you indeed?"
"Oh yes. I can be quite accomplished when necessary. Would you like to hear me play the pianoforte? I promise not to cause any maritime disasters."
"Maritime disasters?"
"Our cousin Margaret once played Mozart so badly, ships reportedly changed course thinking it was a foghorn."
This time he did smile, just slightly. "That seems unlikely."
"You haven't heard Cousin Margaret play."
They stood there for a moment, not quite comfortable but not exactly hostile either. It was... odd.
"May I be frank, Your Grace?" she asked.
"You haven't been so far?"
"I've been moderately frank. This would be extremely frank."
He gestured for her to continue, curious despite himself.
"I know what you think of my family," she said quietly. "New money, no breeding, social climbers trying to buy their way into respectability. And you're not entirely wrong. My brothers are loud, combative, and occasionally embarrassing. My father made his fortune in trade and isn't ashamed of it. We're everything you've been taught to despise."
Alexander said nothing, because what was there to say? She wasn't wrong.
"But," she continued, "I also know what my family thinks of yours. Cold, arrogant, so obsessed with bloodlines you've forgotten how to be human. And they're not entirely wrong either."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You walked into our home prepared to hate us. You've been looking down your nose since you arrived, finding fault with everything from our tea service to our window treatments. You've already decided I'm either a fortune hunter or too foolish to know better. Am I wrong?"
Alexander felt heat rise in his face. "You're very outspoken for someone in your position."
"My position?" She laughed, though there was no joy in it. "You mean as the sacrificial lamb? The peace offering? The convenient solution to everyone's problems?"
"I didn't say..."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face. You look at me and see a burden you have to bear. A Coleridge contamination of your precious bloodline."
