Chapter One

 

The seventh Duke of Montclaire was dying magnificently.

It was, Alexander thought with the sort of detached appreciation one might reserve for a particularly dramatic opera, exactly the sort of death scene his grandfather would orchestrate. The massive bedchamber had been transformed into a theater of finality—heavy curtains drawn against the cheerful spring sunshine, fire burning low in the grate, the air thick with that peculiar stillness that preceded momentous occasions.

The duke himself lay propped against a fortress of pillows, his face bearing the waxy sheen of a man whose business with this world was drawing to its inevitable close. Yet his eyes, those infamous grey eyes that had made lesser men quake in parliamentary sessions, still glittered with their characteristic command.

Alexander stood at a precise distance from the bed, neither too close to suggest unseemly emotion nor too far to imply disrespect. At two and thirty, he had mastered the art of appearing precisely as engaged as any situation required and not one degree more. His morning coat was impeccable black, his cravat a study in architectural precision, his expression carefully neutral.

Around him, the family had assembled like a flock of well-dressed carrion birds. Cousin Margret clutched her handkerchief with anticipatory grief. Uncle Bartholomew consulted his pocket watch with the dedication of a man who believed punctuality might somehow postpone the inevitable. Great-Aunt Wilhelmina sat straight in the corner, her disapproval of death’s timing evident in every line of her ancient face.

Mr. Hedgley, the family solicitor, hovered near the writing desk, his implements of legal documentation arranged with military precision. He had the look of a man who had witnessed many deathbed proclamations and found them all equally uncomfortable.

The duke’s breathing rattled like dice in a cup; appropriate, Alexander supposed, given how much of the family fortune Uncle Charles had once gambled away.

“Come closer, all of you,” the duke commanded, his voice thin as parchment but still capable of commanding obedience. “What I have to say concerns every Montclaire living and those yet unborn.”

The assembled relatives shuffled forward with the reluctance of students approaching a particularly stern headmaster.

The duke’s gaze swept over them all before settling on Alexander with uncomfortable intensity. “Too long,” he began, each word requiring visible effort, “have Montclaire and Coleridge lived at daggers drawn.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Alexander’s expression didn’t change, but something in his stillness became more pronounced. The very name Coleridge was enough to resurrect every slight, every insult, every carefully documented grievance that had been passed down through the generations like a particularly bitter heirloom.

“Let them be united,” the duke continued, his words falling like stones into still water, “that quarrels may at last give way to peace.”

Mr. Hedgley bent low over his parchment, quill poised to capture every syllable for posterity. The scratching sound it made seemed unnaturally loud in the hushed chamber.

Alexander’s composure finally cracked. A sound escaped him; not quite a laugh, but certainly nothing approaching appropriate deathbed behavior. “Coleridge?” The word emerged like something particularly vile. “Why would you squander your last words upon that wretched brood?”

Those damned Coleridge brothers. The thought burned through his mind like acid. He could picture them perfectly—all four of them, strutting about town like peacocks, their new money practically reeking from their gaudy watch chains. The eldest, always trying to buy his way into White’s. The second, who’d had the audacity to outbid him at Tattersall’s. The twins, with their vulgar laughter and their counting-house manners, contaminating every respectable gathering they managed to infiltrate.

Cousin Margret gasped. Uncle Bartholomew dropped his watch. Great-Aunt Wilhelmina’s expression suggested she was reconsidering the distribution of her own eventual estate.

“Your Grace!” Uncle Bartholomew sputtered. “Your grandfather is…”

“Dying, yes.” Alexander’s tone was desert-dry. “Which makes his sudden interest in our trade-soaked neighbours all the more bewildering.”

The Duke’s eyes flashed with something that might have been amusement or might have been fury—with him, one could never quite tell. “Mr. Hedgley,” he commanded, ignoring his heir’s irreverence with magnificent disdain, “record this exactly as I speak it.”

The solicitor dipped his quill with the gravity of a man signing a treaty.

“My heir, and that is Alexander, since his father has died,” the duke pronounced with devastating clarity, “shall take to wife Miss Coleridge within one year of my decease, or the Montclaire estate shall pass into trusteeship until such time as the condition is met.”

The quill scratched across parchment like fate itself being written.

Alexander stood perfectly still, but inside, his mind reeled with horrified disbelief. Miss Coleridge. He searched his memory and came up startlingly empty. In all his years of carefully catalogued grievances against that family, he couldn’t conjure a single image of their sister. The brothers dominated every social gathering like a plague of locusts in expensive tailcoats, but a sister?

She must exist; the old man wouldn’t stake the estate on a phantom. But the fact that she’d never registered in his consciousness spoke volumes. Probably kept hidden away, he reasoned, too plain or too simple to parade about. Or worse—exactly like her brothers, all sharp elbows and sharper tongues, calculating the value of every introduction, every dance, every social connection like entries in a ledger.

“You cannot be serious,” he said at last, his voice carefully modulated while his thoughts raged. A Coleridge bride. In my home. At my table. In my bed. The very idea made his skin crawl.

“When have I ever been otherwise?” The Duke’s breath was coming harder now, each word a victory against his failing body. “The feud dies with me, Alexander. You will see to it.”

“By binding myself to some insipid girl, bred in trade and stinking of ledgers and ambition?” The words came out sharper than intended. “No doubt she’s been trained from the cradle to calculate dowries and settlements. Probably keeps accounts of eligible bachelors ranked by annual income.”

“By doing your duty to this family.” The Duke’s voice gained strength through sheer force of will. “Miss Coleridge is of age, unwed, and of good reputation. That is all that need concern you.”

Good reputation. Alexander nearly snorted. What constituted good reputation in the Coleridge household? The ability to tally accounts without using one’s fingers? Not being caught sampling the merchandise? He pictured some creature raised in trade, with grasping hands and calculating eyes, probably dressed in whatever gaudy fashion her brothers deemed expensive enough to broadcast their ill-gotten wealth.

“Swear it, Your Grace. Here, before witnesses. Swear it now.”

The formal address from his grandfather’s lips carried weight because it was a reminder that with or without the oath, Alexander would soon hold the title and all its responsibilities.

The two men regarded each other across the expanse of decades of carefully cultivated enmity.

Alexander’s jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his teeth grind. Every fiber of his being revolted against the idea. The Coleridge men were everything he despised—coin-heavy merchants playing at being gentlemen, their very existence an insult to centuries of proper breeding. And now he was to take their sister…this Miss Coleridge, to wife? This unknown girl who was doubtless cut from the same coarse cloth?

He thought of their last encounter at the Jennings ball—the eldest Coleridge brother practically inventorying the silver, the younger ones laughing with the subtlety of street vendors. Miss Coleridge, wherever she’d been secreted away, was certainly no different. Probably worse, trained to be cunning where they were merely crude.

“Very well.” He inclined his head with the minimum degree required for family respect. “It shall be done.”

The words tasted of ashes and betrayal.

The Duke studied him with those penetrating eyes, as if he could read the rebellion already forming in his heir’s mind. “You will treat her with the respect due to your duchess.”

Respect. The thought was laughable. Respect for a Coleridge? 

“Naturally, Grandfather. I shall treat Miss Coleridge exactly as she deserves.”

Something that might have been concern flickered across the Duke’s face. “Alexander!”

“I have given my word,” Alexander cut him off, his voice like winter ice. “Miss Coleridge shall be my bride within the year. Though I confess I cannot even recall laying eyes upon the girl. Has she ever been presented? Or do they keep her locked away with their ledger books?”

The Duke’s breathing grew more labored. “You… you have much to learn about… about seeing clearly…”

His eyes began to close, but he forced them open once more, fixing Alexander with a final, penetrating stare. “Remember… your oath…”

The seventh Duke of Montclaire drew one last, shuddering breath, and then breathed no more.

For a moment, the room held perfect stillness. Then Cousin Margret released a wail that suggested she’d been practicing. Uncle Bartholomew fumbled for his watch as if time might somehow reverse itself. Great-Aunt Wilhelmina sniffed decisively and muttered something about the inconvenience of deaths in spring.

Mr. Hedgley began the solemn business of sealing the will with the efficiency of a man who had more pressing appointments.

Alexander, now the eighth Duke of Montclaire in all but formal recognition, stood motionless, staring at the document that would either unite two families or destroy them both in the attempt.

Miss Coleridge.

His mind churned with bitter speculation. What would she be like, this sister who’d been kept so carefully from view? Probably ugly and loud, with her brothers’ merchant manners and their grasping ambition. Or perhaps sly and scheming, trained to entrap a titled husband with whatever feminine wiles her mother had managed to purchase from some displaced governess.

The thought of those Coleridge brothers gloating, slapping each other’s backs in their vulgar way, celebrating their sister’s elevation—his forced elevation of her—made his stomach turn. They’d probably smoke their cheap cigars in every gentleman’s club that would still admit them, boasting about their newfound connection to the Montclaire name.

If peace must come, it shall be on my terms, he vowed silently. And Heaven help Miss Coleridge when she discovers what it means to be my duchess. She’ll learn her place quickly enough; silent, obedient, and as invisible as she’s apparently been all these years.

He turned on his heel with military precision and strode toward the door.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Hedgley called after him, using the address that was not yet formally his but soon would be. “Shall I send word to the Coleridge family of the late duke’s requirements?”

Alexander paused at the threshold. “No need, Mr. Hedgley. News of this particular catastrophe will travel faster than gossip at Almack’s.” His smile was sharp as winter frost. “I suspect we shall hear their response from here. The Coleridge brothers have never been accused of either subtlety or silence. They’ll probably celebrate with champagne they can’t properly pronounce.”

As he swept from the room, leaving death and duty in his wake, one final thought occupied his mind: Miss Coleridge is a complete cipher. But blood tells, as Grandfather always said. And Coleridge blood runs thick with everything I despise—the stench of trade, the grasping for status, the vulgar display of new money.

He had a year to claim his bride…though what choice was there, really? One Miss Coleridge, undoubtedly as common as her brothers, soon to bear the Montclaire name.

The very thought made him want to break something expensive, preferably something the Coleridgees had touched.

Chapter Two

 

“Mama, do you think the roses mind being pruned? They seem to protest so vigorously.”

Miss Coleridge carefully trimmed another stem, wincing slightly as a thorn caught her glove. The afternoon light filtered through the drawing room windows, casting everything in shades of honey and gold, including her mother’s drowsy expression.

“I’m sure they recover admirably, Ophelia.” Mrs. Coleridge’s voice carried the soft quality of someone emerging from what was definitely not an afternoon nap. “Though perhaps they’d protest less if you hummed to them. You have such a lovely voice.”

“I doubt my humming would improve their disposition.” She placed the rose in her arrangement, then frowned. “It certainly couldn’t make them any thornier.”

Her mother’s gentle laugh filled the comfortable silence that followed. This was her favorite time of day. The house quiet, her brothers elsewhere, just the soft tick of the clock and the whisper of stems against glass.

“You’re very thoughtful today,” Mrs. Coleridge observed. “More than usual, I mean.”

“Am I?” She adjusted another bloom, though it needed no adjusting. “I suppose I was wondering what we’re having for dinner. Cook mentioned something about lamb.”

“That was yesterday, dear.”

“Was it? How foolish of me.” She knew perfectly well it was Thursday and Cook always made fish on Thursdays, but maintaining conversations about nothing in particular had become something of an art form. It was safer than discussing anything of substance, which invariably led to topics she’d rather avoid; her age, her prospects, her future.

The peace was shattered by the distinctive sound of the front door meeting the wall with unnecessary force, followed by boots, multiple pairs, thundering across the entry. Her shoulders tensed automatically.

“The cavalry has returned,” she murmured, setting down her scissors.

Mrs. Coleridge sighed. “And in such fine voice.”

Indeed, Robert’s booming tones were already echoing through the hall, punctuated by Henry’s drawl and what sounded like the twins arguing about horses? Hazard? It was difficult to tell and ultimately unimportant. Whatever had them annoyed would spill into the drawing room momentarily.

She was proven right within seconds. The door burst open and Robert strode through, still in his riding coat, mud on his boots, and a letter clutched in his fist like a weapon. His face was the particular shade of red that suggested either apoplexy or news from the Montclaires. Given the paper in his hand, she suspected the latter.

“Those, insufferable…” He caught sight of his mother and modified his language with visible effort. “Those blackguards.”

“Robert!” Mrs. Coleridge protested weakly.

Henry followed, already heading for the brandy with the purposeful stride of a man who knew he’d need fortification. “I take it we’re discussing our dear neighbours?”

“The Montclaires,” Robert spat the name like something rotten. “The old Duke is dead.”

“How… unfortunate,” their mother managed, though her tone suggested she found it anything but.

The twins tumbled through the door next, Charles already reaching for the decanter while Edward collapsed dramatically into a chair. “No longer among the living,” Edward confirmed cheerfully. “I heard it at the club. Apparently, the funeral was a frightfully big event. All black horses, black plumes, the full theatrical production.”

“Good riddance,” Charles muttered, pouring generous measures all around.

Ophelia remained in her corner, keeping her hands busy with the flowers. Deaths and funerals were matters for the men to discuss. Her opinion was neither needed nor wanted, which suited her perfectly.

“But that’s not the best part,” Robert said, waving the letter with unnecessary vigor. “Oh no, the old rogue had one last insult to deliver.”

Henry took the letter, scanning it with the practiced eye of someone who’d read too many legal documents. His expression shifted from mild interest to genuine surprise to something that might have been unholy amusement.

“My goodness,” he murmured. “He’s actually done it.”

“Done what?” Charles demanded.

Henry cleared his throat and read aloud: “‘Let it be known that too long have Montclaire and Coleridge lived at daggers drawn…”

“Pretty words for forty years of spite,” Edward interrupted.

“…and therefore,'” Henry continued, “my heir shall take to wife Miss Coleridge within one year of my decease, or the Montclaire estate shall pass into trusteeship.”

The silence that followed was complete. Even she stopped arranging flowers, her hands frozen mid-gesture.

Then chaos erupted.

“Marriage?” Charles knocked over his glass.

“To a Coleridge?” Edward shot to his feet.

“To our sister?” Robert’s voice could have shattered crystal.

Ophelia very carefully did not look up, though she felt their eyes turn toward her one by one, as if they’d just remembered she existed. The forgotten Coleridge daughter, suddenly remembered at the worst possible moment.

“This is about Aunt Cordelia,” Henry said quietly, and the room stilled. “This is their twisted idea of… what? Atonement?”

“It’s revenge,” Robert corrected harshly. “Pure and simple. They want to humiliate us again. Take another Coleridge woman and…”

“And what?” Mrs. Coleridge’s voice was surprisingly steady. “Marry her? Make her a duchess? How terribly insulting.”

“You can’t be serious,” Robert turned to stare at his mother.

“I’m merely pointing out that as revenge goes, it seems rather poorly thought out.”

“The new Duke has to marry her,” Edward said slowly, as if working through a puzzle. “Has to. Or he loses everything.”

“Exactly.” Henry’s smile was sharp as glass. “The mighty Duke of Montclaire, forced to come begging for a common Coleridge bride. Oh, this is delicious.”

Ophelia found her voice, though she kept it carefully neutral. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to ask if I have an opinion on the matter?”

They all turned to look at her for perhaps the first time in months.

“Opinion?” Robert said blankly, as if the concept of her having opinions was entirely foreign.

“Yes. An opinion. About being married off to settle a forty-year-old feud that started before I was born.”

“Well, obviously you can’t marry him,” Charles said, as if this were the most natural conclusion in the world.

“Obviously,” she repeated dryly. “How foolish of me not to realise.”

“He’s a beast,” Edward added helpfully. “Cold, arrogant, probably sleeps on a bed of money just to remind himself how rich he is.”

“You’ve met him?” she asked mildly.

“Don’t need to. You can tell just by looking at him. He walks like he owns the world.”

“He owns half of Kent,” Henry pointed out. “So he’s not entirely wrong.”

“We shall refuse,” Robert declared with the authority of someone used to having his declarations treated as law. “I’ll write back immediately and tell them…”

“Tell them what?” She set down her flowers entirely, folding her hands in her lap. “That Miss Coleridge declines? On what grounds? That her brothers object?”

“On the grounds that it’s insulting!”

“To whom?” She met his gaze steadily. “To me? Or to you?”

Robert’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

“Because,” she continued in the same mild tone, “it seems to me that I’m the one being offered a duchy, while you’re the ones being offered the chance to watch a Montclaire grovel. I’m not entirely certain who should be more insulted.”

“You can’t actually be considering this,” Henry said, studying her with newfound interest.

“I’m considering very little at the moment, as no one has actually asked me anything.” She returned to her flowers, though her hands weren’t quite as steady as before. “The Duke hasn’t called. No proposal has been made. You’re all getting rather ahead of yourselves.”

“He’ll come,” Robert said grimly. “Tomorrow, most likely. Or the day after. He certainly needs this settled quickly.”

“Then I suppose we shall deal with it when he does.” She kept her voice deliberately light, though her stomach churned at the thought. The Duke of Montclaire, here, in their drawing room. The man her brothers had spent her entire life teaching her to despise.

“You won’t be alone with him,” Charles said suddenly, as if this were a great concession. “We shall all be here.”

“How comforting,” she murmured. “Nothing says successful courtship quite like four hostile brothers glowering from the corners.”

“This isn’t a courtship,” Robert snapped. “It’s a business transaction.”

“Ah. How romantic. I’ve always dreamed of being a business transaction.”

Mrs. Coleridge stirred. “Perhaps we might discuss this more calmly…”

“Calmly?” Robert’s voice climbed. “They want to take our sister!”

“I wasn’t aware I was going anywhere,” she said. “Though I suppose a duchess would have her own carriage. That might be nice. I could actually arrive at assemblies on time instead of waiting for Charles to finish his fourth adjustment of his cravat.”

“This isn’t amusing,” Robert said severely.

“No,” Ophelia agreed. “It’s not. But shouting won’t change it, will it? The will is signed. The requirement is set. Either I marry the Duke, or he loses his estate. Those are the facts.”

“You could refuse him,” Henry suggested, and there was something calculating in his tone. “Publicly. Imagine…the Duke of Montclaire, rejected by a Coleridge.”

“And then what?” She kept her attention on the roses, though she could feel their eyes on her. “We go back to glaring at each other across ballrooms? Teaching our children to hate people they’ve never met? Another forty years of this exhausting feud?”

“You sound as if you want to marry him,” Robert accused.

“I sound as if I’m tired.” She set down her scissors with a definitive click. “Tired of being invisible except when I’m useful. Tired of watching you all waste energy on ancient grudges. Tired of being the Coleridge everyone forgets exists until moments like this when suddenly I’m terribly important.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable in the way only truth could make it.

“We don’t forget you,” Charles said, though he had the grace to look ashamed.

“What did I wear to church last Sunday?”

No one answered.

“What’s my middle name?”

More silence.

“When is my birthday?”

Robert opened his mouth, then closed it.

“October fifteenth,” she supplied helpfully. “I’ll be four-and-twenty. Well past the age where anyone might expect a brilliant match, even without our family’s… complications.”

“That’s not…” Edward started.

“True? Of course it is.” She rose, smoothing her skirts; a plain morning dress of pale blue that none of them would remember an hour from now. “I am the invisible Coleridge daughter. The one who plays pianoforte adequately, dances without causing comment, and arranges flowers that no one notices. And now, suddenly, I’m visible. Because the Duke of Montclaire needs a Coleridge bride, and I’m the only one available.”

“We’re trying to protect you, sister” Robert said stiffly.

“From what? A life of wealth and title?” She laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Or from the terrible fate of marrying without love? Because I hate to disappoint you, but that was always my most likely future. At least this way, the lack of affection comes with a coronet.”

“You’re worth more than that,” Mrs. Coleridge said softly.

“Am I?” She moved to the window, looking out at the garden where everything grew in cheerful disorder. “I’m three-and-twenty, with a minimal dowry and a family reputation that ensures I’ll never marry well. My choices are spinsterhood, a marriage of convenience to someone of our own class who needs my dowry, or this. A duchy.”

“With a man who hates our family,” Robert reminded her.

“Indeed, but at least he’ll hate me for being a Coleridge rather than ignoring me for being forgettable. It’s almost refreshing.”

“You can’t mean that,” Charles said.

She turned from the window, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “When he comes, and we all know he will come, I shall meet with him. I’ll hear what he has to say. And then I shall decide.”

“You’ll decide?” Robert’s tone suggested she’d declared intention to something unbelievable.

“It is my life, isn’t it? My future marriage? My choice to make?”

“Not when it affects the entire family!”

“Everything affects the entire family,” she shot back with uncharacteristic heat. “Henry’s gambling debts affect the family. Charles’s mistresses affect the family. Edward’s ridiculous wagers affect the family. The only difference is that this time, my decision might actually help instead of harm.”

“By sacrificing yourself?”

“By ending this ridiculous feud that has consumed two families for four decades!” The words burst out before she could stop them. “By doing something useful for once in my forgotten little life!”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, shocked by her own vehemence. The room was utterly still.

“I’m going to my chambers,” she said quietly. “Please let me know when the duke arrives. I’ll need time to prepare myself for the business transaction.”

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.”

“Rather funereal, Your Grace.”

“How appropriate, as I’m about to bury my dignity.” He adjusted his cravat with the precision of a man who believed that perfect neckwear might somehow salvage an impossible situation. “Tell me, Sinclair, have you ever been forced to prostrate yourself before your enemies?”

“Not recently, Your Grace.”

“Well, I don’t recommend it. It’s remarkably bad for one’s posture.”

Sinclair wisely said nothing, merely holding out the rejected burgundy waistcoat with the persistence of a man who’d been dressing dukes for twenty years and wasn’t about to stop now.

“The black,” Alexander repeated firmly. “If I must go begging to the Coleridges, I’ll at least look like I’m mourning my self-respect.”

The valet sighed but produced the requested black waistcoat, though his expression suggested he was mourning something too; possibly his employer’s good sense.

Alexander surveyed the final result in the glass. Perfect. He looked exactly like what he was: a man of impeccable breeding being forced to do something unspeakable. The effect was rather spoiled, however, by his cousin Frederick’s sudden arrival.

“My goodness,” Frederick announced, breezing into the bedchamber without so much as a knock. “You look like you’re attending your own funeral.”

“How prescient of you. I am.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.” Frederick threw himself into a chair with the carelessness of someone who’d never met a piece of furniture he couldn’t make friends with. “It’s just marriage.”

“To a Coleridge.”

“Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. Mine is an inability to win at cards. Yours is apparently matrimony to a merchant’s daughter. Though I must say, yours comes with a better income.”

Alexander turned from the mirror to fix his cousin with a glare that had been known to send parliamentary opponents into retreat. “Did you come here for a reason, or are you simply practicing being irritating?”

“Can’t it be both?” Frederick grinned, unperturbed. “Actually, I came to offer my services. Moral support and all that. Someone needs to keep you from actually doing anything foolish.”

“I don’t need moral support. I need a miracle. Or perhaps a convenient bout of plague.”

“The Coleridges aren’t that bad,” Frederick said, though his tone suggested otherwise.

“The Coleridges,” Alexander said with the kind of precise enunciation typically reserved for pronouncing death sentences, “are exactly that bad. Have you forgotten the Jennings’ ball? The eldest one practically counted the silver. And those twins; laughing at their own jests, which weren’t even amusing.”

“And the daughter?”

Alexander paused in the act of selecting gloves. “What daughter?”

“The one you’re supposed to marry. Miss Coleridge. I assume she exists?”

“One assumes.” He pulled on his gloves with unnecessary force. “Though I’ve never noticed her, which tells you everything you need to know. She’s either too plain to be seen or too scheming to be obvious about it.”

“Those are your only options? Plain or scheming?”

“She’s a Coleridge. What else could she be?”

Frederick appeared to consider this. “Happy? Sad? Fond of butterflies? Allergic to strawberries? You know, an actual person.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alexander collected his hat with the gravity of a man selecting weapons for a duel. “Coleridges aren’t people. They’re a collective irritation that happens to walk upright.”

“You’re going to be a delightful husband.”

“I’m going to be a dutiful husband. There’s a difference.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “And no, you cannot come with me.”

“But…”

“No.”

“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 that was 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 of actual 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.

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.”

“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.

“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 moved to 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.”

“And what do you see when you look at me?” The question emerged before he could stop it.

She tilted her head, studying him with those disconcerting eyes. “I see a man who’s as trapped as I am. Who’s doing his duty because he has no choice. Who probably lies awake at night wondering how his life came to this.”

The accuracy of it was like a physical blow.

“But,” she added more gently, “I also see someone who could make this easier for both of us, if he chose to.”

“How?”

“By stopping this pretense that either of us wants this. By accepting that we’re both victims of the same ridiculous feud. By perhaps, and I know this is revolutionary, treating me like a person rather than a problem to be solved.”

Alexander stared at her, genuinely lost for words. In all his preparation for this meeting, he’d never imagined having an actual conversation. Certainly not one where the Coleridge daughter showed more sense than anyone else in both families combined.

“I… apologise,” he said stiffly. “If I’ve been… discourteous.”

“You’ve been exactly what I expected.” She moved back to the window, gazing out at the gardens. “Cold, formal, and thoroughly disgusted by the entire situation. Which is fine. I don’t need you to like me, Your Grace. I don’t even need you to notice me most of the time. I’m quite good at being invisible.”

Something in the way she said it, matter-of-fact and without self-pity, made his chest tighten oddly.

“But,” she continued, “if we’re going to do this, and it seems we must, could we at least do it without the constant hostility? It’s exhausting, and we’ll have decades of marriage to be miserable in. No need to start early.”

“You’re very pragmatic.”

“Someone has to be. Have you met my brothers?”

Despite the situation, despite everything, Alexander found himself almost smiling again. “They are rather… intense.”

“That’s one word for it.” She turned back to him. “So, Your Grace, what happens now? Do you propose? Do we negotiate terms like my brother suggested? Do you storm out in disgust and we repeat this charming scene tomorrow?”

“I… hadn’t actually planned that far.”

“No? The great Duke of Montclaire without a plan? How remarkably human of you.”

The gentle irony should have offended him. Instead, he found it oddly refreshing. Everyone else either fawned over him or feared him. This quiet girl with her forgettable face and sharp tongue did neither.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “we should discuss… arrangements.”

“Arrangements.” She sighed. “How romantic. What sort of arrangements?”

“If we marry…”

“When. When we marry. Unless you’ve found another Miss Coleridge hidden somewhere?”

“When we marry,” he corrected, though the words felt strange in his mouth, “you’ll live at Montclaire House, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“You’ll have your own chambers.”

“How generous.”

“A generous allowance.”

“For what? Purchasing my silence?”

“For whatever duchesses purchase. Gowns, I suppose. Ribbons. Whatever it is ladies buy.”

“Ribbons.” Her tone was perfectly flat. “Yes, I’ll need lots of ribbons. It’s what I live for.”

“I’m trying to be…”

“Practical? Businesslike? Cold?”

“Fair.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Fair would be neither of us having to do this. But since that’s not an option, I suppose your arrangements will have to do.”

“You’ll have duties, of course. Social obligations. The Duchess of Montclaire has responsibilities.”

“I’m aware. I shall need to be decorative at balls, charming at dinner gatherings, and invisible the rest of the time. I excel at invisible.”

“That’s not…” He stopped, because actually, that was rather what he’d been thinking.

“Your Grace,” she said quietly, “I know what you need. A wife who won’t embarrass you, won’t make demands, won’t interfere with your life. Someone you can present when necessary and forget about otherwise. I can be that wife.”

“And what do you need?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “I… what?”

“What do you need from this arrangement? You must want something.”

She was quiet for a moment, considering. “Respect,” she said finally. “Not affection, I don’t expect that. But basic respect. Not to be treated like a servant or a fool. To have some small space that’s mine. And…”

“And?”

“And for you to at least try not to actively hate me. I know I’m a Coleridge, I know what that means to you. But I’m also a person. A rather boring person, granted, but still.”

“You’re not boring.” The words escaped before he could stop himself.

She looked startled. “I’m not?”

“Boring people don’t deliver speeches about maritime disasters and ribbons.”

“Perhaps I’m only interesting when I’m nervous.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Aren’t you?”

They stood there, two people who’d been thrown together by fate and dead dukes, trying to navigate something neither of them wanted but both were stuck with.

“Your brothers will want a formal proposal,” Alexander said finally.

“Probably. They enjoy drama.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “I suppose you should do something. Though perhaps without the brothers present? I’d rather not have my proposal accompanied by growling and possible violence.”

“Tomorrow then? I could call again. We could walk in the garden, properly chaperoned, of course.”

“Our garden?” She glanced out the window at the chaos of flowers and vegetables. “You’ll loathe it. The roses don’t know their place, and the vegetables are showing. It’s all very middle-class.”

“Perfect then. A middle-class garden for a middle-class proposal to a middle-class bride.”

She flinched slightly, and he immediately felt like a fool.

“I apologise. That was…”

“Honest.” She lifted her chin. “At least you’re honest about your disdain. It’s better than false flattery.”

“Miss Coleridge…”

“We should return to the others before my brothers decide you’ve harmed me and come seeking revenge.”

She moved toward the door, but he caught her arm gently. She froze, looking down at his hand on her sleeve.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “This isn’t what either of us wanted.”

“No.” She met his eyes. “But it’s what we have. We might as well make the best of it.”

She pulled away and returned to the drawing room, where the brothers were indeed looking ready to mount a rescue mission.

“Nobody’s injured,” she announced. “Disappointed?”

“Relieved,” Robert said, though his expression suggested otherwise.

“His Grace will call again tomorrow,” she said calmly. “We shall walk in the garden. I trust that’s acceptable to everyone?”

The brothers exchanged glances.

“Alone?” Henry asked suspiciously.

“With Mama. Or perhaps Mary. Someone suitably responsible who won’t challenge anyone to a duel.”

“I suppose that’s… acceptable,” Robert said grudgingly.

Alexander took this as his cue. “Until tomorrow then.” He bowed to the room at large, then specifically to Miss Coleridge. “Miss Coleridge.”

“Your Grace.”

He left with as much dignity as he could muster, which was considerable but somewhat dented by the entire experience.

The carriage ride home was quiet, giving him too much time to think about brown eyes and sharp tongues and the way she’d said ‘ribbons’ like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

 

***

 

Back at Coleridge House, the explosion was immediate.

“The arrogance!” Robert slammed his fist on the table.

“The condescension!” Henry added.

“The… the cravat!” Edward seemed to have run out of more substantive complaints.

“It was a very nice cravat,” their sister said mildly, sinking into her chair.

“You’re defending him?” Charles looked aghast.

“I’m observing that he has good taste in neckwear. Though terrible taste in wives, apparently.”

“Don’t say that,” Mrs. Coleridge said firmly. “You’re worth ten of him.”

“By what measure? Birth? No. Fortune? No. Beauty? Definitely no. Social standing? Let’s not even discuss it.” She picked up her abandoned teacup but found it cold and set it down again. “He’s right to disdain me. By his standards, I’m completely unsuitable.”

“His standards are idiotic,” Robert declared.

“His standards are what they are. And by tomorrow, I’ll be betrothed to them.”

“You don’t have to!”

“Yes, Robert, I do.” She stood, suddenly exhausted. “We all know I do. So let’s stop pretending otherwise.”

She left them to their continued ranting and climbed the stairs to her room. Tomorrow the Duke of Montclaire would propose to her in their chaotic garden. He’d probably phrase it like a business proposition, she’d accept because she had no choice, and that would be that. The trap would close.

But at least, she thought as she sat at her window, at least he’d been honest. No false promises, no pretended affection. Just two people making the best of an impossible situation.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

 

***

 

At Montclaire House, Alexander stood at his study window, staring out at nothing in particular.

“Well?” Frederick appeared in the doorway, having apparently been lying in wait. “How terrible was it?”

“It was…” Alexander paused, searching for words. “Not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Different.”

“That’s helpfully vague. What’s she like then? This Miss Coleridge?”

Alexander considered. “Quiet. Plain. Sharp-tongued when provoked.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“She told me I was trapped by the same circumstances she was. That I probably lie awake wondering how my life came to this.”

Frederick whistled low. “Perceptive little thing.”

“She said she could be invisible. That she excels at it.”

“Useful skill in a duchess.”

“She asked me not to actively hate her.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Can you? Not actively hate her?”

Alexander was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. She’s a Coleridge.”

“She’s also, by your own account, a person. A rather interesting one, from the sound of it.”

“Interesting is generous.”

“Fine. Not boring then.”

“No,” Alexander admitted. “Not boring.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“I haven’t proposed yet.”

“But you will.”

“Tomorrow. In their garden, which apparently contains vegetables. Visible ones.”

His cousin laughed. “How horrifying! Vegetables in plain sight. Whatever is the world coming to?”

“Pray, be silent, Frederick.”

“Make me, Your Almost-Married Grace.”

Alexander threw a cushion at his cousin’s head, missing by a mile. Some things, at least, never changed.

But tomorrow…

Tomorrow everything would change.

Tomorrow he’d propose to a young lady with brown eyes and a sharp tongue, who excelled at being invisible and thought he probably lay awake at night wondering how his life came to this.

She wasn’t wrong.

He did.