Page 1 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

A bang shattered the quiet of the drawing room, rattling the windowpanes. Lady Cecilia flinched, her embroidery needle pricking her thumb. She pressed it to her lips to ease the sting, the metallic tang of blood sharp on her tongue.

The sharp click of heels on marble announced Elizabeth’s approach, her agitated stride unmistakable. Moments later, she burst in mid-rant.

“He intends to marry me off to a viscount! Can you believe it?” She flung her gloves onto the settee without so much as a glance. When Cici failed to react with proper outrage, she whirled on her. “Did you hear me, Sister? A mere viscount!”

Not waiting for a reply, Elizabeth squawked and stamped her foot, as though a viscount were a chimney sweep.

“I’m an earl’s daughter, a diamond of the first water, coveted by every Mayfair hostess,” she declared. “Dozens of poems praise my beauty, and he dares suggest I become a viscountess! The humiliation! I refuse!”

Her sister slumped onto the settee, arms crossed, foot tapping furiously.

Cici resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her monumental vanity, but failed to hide her sarcasm when she asked, “Which insignificant lord is Papa parading in front of you now?”

Elizabeth shot her a scathing look before snapping huffily, “Arendale. A great big nobody.”

“He is the duke of Sommerville’s brother, and his heir. Hardly a nobody.”

“Oh, piffle,” she scoffed with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Arendale will never inherit. Sommerville is only thirty-four. He should be the one courting me.”

She sprang to her feet, heels clicking a sharp rhythm against the hardwood floor as she paced.

“I deserve to be a duchess. Or, at the very least, a countess like Mama. I won’t settle for less.”

“I hear the viscount is handsome and extremely wealthy. You would be set for life. You could travel—Rome, Greece, even the great pyramids in Egypt,” Cici said wistfully, wishing she had the chance. “Perhaps you might reconsider? You could do much worse.”

Elizabeth gave her another glare. “Travel? Bah! I want to entertain and be entertained. To see and be seen. Balls, concerts, the theater—those are what matter.”

“I’m sure the viscount can offer all that.”

“Can he make me a countess, a duchess, or even a princess? No,” she snapped without giving her a chance to reply. “He cannot, and I shall not consider him.”

Cici studied her sister. Tall, slender, with honey-blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes, Elizabeth was undeniably beautiful.

When she made her debut, everyone expected her to have her pick of the most eligible lords.

Yet, halfway through her third season, she had rejected so many lesser suitors that even the most eligible had stopped calling.

It wasn’t hard to guess why the dukes and earls kept their distance.

At twenty, Elizabeth was haughty, spoiled, and notoriously hard to manage.

Unless she changed, she’d be lucky to land a simple Sir—let alone a lesser lord, like a baron.

Cici loved her sister, but she was trying at the best of times.

What man with options aplenty would choose a shrew for a bride?

Their mother was to blame. Eugenia Edwards had cosseted her firstborn, giving her the finest of everything, commissioning paintings and sonnets to extol her beauty. Cici couldn’t recall a single time in her life their mama had told Elizabeth no.

A baron’s daughter with no season of her own, Eugenia had married well—far better than expected.

But her husband, the Earl of Benton, lacked the wealth and influence to elevate her as high as she wished.

When she presented Elizabeth to the ton, she saw her chance to live vicariously through her daughter—and grabbed it with both hands.

The earl usually ignored his wife’s scheming and Elizabeth’s tantrums, stepping in only when absolutely necessary.

He wasn’t openly affectionate, but he cared for his family—or rather, he cared about keeping the peace.

And peace meant indulging his wife and elder daughter.

Cici, with her needlepoint and books, was easy to overlook.

But this sudden matchmaking, paired with Elizabeth’s outrage, struck her as strange.

“You must help me.”

“Me?” Cici blinked. “What can I possibly do?”

“Now that Papa has given permission, the viscount can court me. But he can’t propose unless he finds the opportunity. That’s where you come in.”

“How, exactly?”

“And you’re supposed to be the witty one,” Elizabeth muttered. “He’s attending the Easterlys’ ball tonight. Your task is to stay glued to my side—and keep him distracted.”

“At the risk of being called a dullard, again, how?”

She waved a hand. “Ask him about himself—men love that. Or talk about literature, something tedious. No one can feel romantic when discussing Wordsworth and his odd obsession with daffodils. Or”—she added with a smirk—“you could chatter inanely, like you usually do.”

“With such glowing praise, how could I refuse?” Cici drawled, her sarcasm unmistakable.

Elizabeth turned mid-step. “You’re not suggesting you won’t help!”

As if concerned she might refuse her, Elizabeth dropped beside her on the settee.

“Forgive me, but I’m beside myself.” She clutched Cici’s hand. “You must help. My every happiness depends on it. You wouldn’t want your only sister miserable forever, would you?”

Elizabeth’s dramatics were nothing new. An apology, though—that was shocking.

“Do this, and I won’t ask for another favor all week. I swear.”

A week’s reprieve for saving her from eternal misery hardly seemed fair.

When Cici hesitated, Elizabeth shrieked, “We’re family! You must do this!”

To spare her ears and end the ordeal, Cici relented. “Fine. But if Papa’s angry I meddled in a match he arranged, you’d better defend me.”

“Certainly, I will,” she said, beaming, before stunning Cici further by embracing her.

Because this happened even less often than an apology, she demanded to know, “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

Elizabeth leaned back. “Why—I’m right here. Has something gone wrong with your eyes?”

Beyond doubt, all Elizabeth had to do was be herself—vain, scheming, and blissfully obtuse—to scare the viscount off.

A thought struck her. “Proposals have happened on the dance floor. What if he asks for a waltz? Am I to wedge myself between you and babble about Lord Byron?”

Elizabeth frowned, her eyes narrowing as she considered it. “That wouldn’t do. Embarrassing the viscount could cause a scene—and reflect poorly on me.”

“You can’t think I’d actually—” Cici spluttered. “I was joking. I’ve had the same instruction you have. I do know how to behave in public. I’d like to make a good match someday—and becoming a spectacle won’t help.”

Elizabeth gave her a once-over, eyes drifting critically from her red hair to her borrowed gown, as if sure her making a good match was a long shot.

Cici sighed again. This scheme had better work. She longed for her sister’s wedding day—whether to a baron or the crown prince—and for herself, the quiet promise of books, needlework, and peace.

“I have it,” Elizabeth declared. “I’ll fill my dance card straightaway. If he can’t dance with me, he can’t propose.”

“And if he insists on escorting you to supper—in front of Papa?”

She hesitated, clearly doubting her plan, then rallied. “I’ll feign illness and insist my devoted sister assist me to the retiring room.”

Cici felt trapped. She hadn’t planned to attend, but resisting was futile. Even with a valid excuse, Elizabeth would whine to Mama—and get her way.

Resigned to her fate, she set her needle aside and rang for her maid. She’d need to find something passable to wear.