Page 11 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

After a rocky start, the day turned out better than she could have hoped.

They rode side by side through hedgerows and sunlit meadows then climbed a hill that overlooked a shimmering lake.

Near an apple orchard, they stopped beneath an ancient oak for a picnic.

He dismounted and lifted her down. When her feet touched the ground, instead of letting her go, he tipped up her chin and kissed her.

Over a cold collation—thick sliced ham and sharp cheese on crusty bread, sweet berries, and Cook’s blackberry jam puffs—conversation flowed easily.

She learned he had been a fencing champion in school and secretly read Byron.

With a shy smile, she confessed her love of flowers (roses, lily of the valley, and her favorites, lilacs), her dislike for embroidery, and her skill on the pianoforte.

The estate tour stretched into afternoon. Their smiles were wide, their laughter light. When they paused to explore, they kissed—slow, lingering kisses—and held hands, fingers interlaced. It felt like they had married for love, not obligation.

It was late, the dinner hour approaching, when he reined in beside a thicket of towering trees. “I want to show you the ruins. We’ll need to proceed on foot.”

“Ruins? How exciting.” She eyed the deeply shadowed path. “Are they far?”

“About a quarter mile. Are you up to it? It has been a long day.”

“I am if you are,” she replied, accepting the challenge.

“You’ll need to hold tight to my hand,” he said, lifting her down once more. “The path stays damp and may be slippery.”

She beamed, thrilled by the idea of ruins—and by simply holding his hand. “I’ll muddle through somehow,” she teased.

“Scamp,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to her lips. “Don’t distract me. We need to hurry before we lose the light.”

The woods thickened with every step, the canopy filtering what little light remained. Cici picked her way over slick roots, her skirts catching damp underbrush. She stumbled once—boots sliding on wet earth—and instantly, Andrew’s hand steadied her, pulling her closer. Less a catch than a claim.

A glance behind showed the horses lost to the trees.

“Are you sure this is the way? It looks like nobody has been through here in ages.”

He didn’t hesitate, guiding her forward with a steady hand that didn’t allay her growing unease.

“Would I lead my viscountess astray?” he asked simply.

She opened her mouth to reply, but he squeezed her hand. “It’s just ahead.”

At last, they reached a clearing. In the center, half-buried and silent, lay the ruins. Its crumbling walls were blackened with age and covered in moss. Ivy climbing up the stones like veins. One crooked archway stood like a gravestone sinking into the earth.

“What is it?”

“Don’t you mean, what was it?” Andrew asked.

“This was once the village chapel. It fell into ruin after a fire in the mid-1600s. Legend says the blaze began on a stormy night, when a young couple from feuding families came here to be secretly wed. The vicar escaped, but the bride and groom were never seen again.”

“How tragic. Maybe they escaped and started fresh elsewhere,” she offered hopefully.

“Perhaps,” he replied, noncommittally.

She glanced his way, trying to read his expression. “Why didn’t they rebuild?”

“The villagers refused to come near here. They still won’t.”

Her gaze drifted to the chapel, dread and curiosity mingling. “Why not?”

“For almost two centuries, many have claimed to hear their cries on stormy nights.”

A sudden gust of wind sighed through the broken walls. Something fluttered above—perhaps a bird, perhaps a scrap of old cloth. She couldn’t tell.

Cici moved closer, pressing against his side. His arms came around her, warm and solid in the sudden chill.

“I never used to believe in ghosts,” she whispered, eyeing the eerie old church.

“And now?”

“I’m not so sure.” She glanced up at him. “Why bring me here?”

He looked past her to the ruin then back. “Because, like the manor, this place has a long history. You’re bound to hear the stories. I didn’t want you to come exploring without me.”

“That shouldn’t have been cause for concern,” she assured him. “I wouldn’t have ventured past the woods.” She looked up at him. “Do you believe any of it?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I’ve been here many times, day and night, in clear weather and foul.”

“You were testing the legend,” she charged.

“As a boy, yes. Even with a vivid imagination, I never experienced anything ethereal. Still, I believe grief lingers.”

A rush of wind swept through the broken arch, blowing a lock of hair across her cheek. She reached to brush it aside just as he did. Andrew tucked the strands behind her ear, and his hand lingered at her cheek.

She leaned into him—heart uncertain though her body was sure. His presence stilled something restless inside her.

He leaned down, poised to kiss her, then hesitated. “We should go,” he murmured. “You’re trembling.”

A silence hung between them, thick with meaning. She stepped back, fingers trailing down his chest. “Yes. We wouldn’t want to keep dinner waiting.”

Andrew’s eyes widened, a playful twist to his lips as he drawled, “Did I mention our cook is half French? Heaven forbid.”

He took her hand, his fingers warm against hers, and led her from the clearing. Behind them, the ancient chapel stood silent and still once more.

***

They dined privately in their sitting room, candlelight dancing between them on a table set for two.

Andrew, in his shirtsleeves, looked heartbreakingly handsome—so much so Cici could scarcely breathe.

She wore pale-rose silk, her hair pinned at the crown to fall in soft waves around her shoulders.

Mary had worked magic again. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all evening.

“There’s dessert,” he offered. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Cook’s chocolate-raspberry torte.”

“I want to,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “But I can’t eat another bite.”

And she was too nervous. After clearing the air, the day had unfolded perfectly. But she dared not hope the night would follow suit.

He took only one bite from his torte before he set his fork aside. “The hour grows late, and we’ve had a full day.”

Cici startled. His words, eerily similar to the night before. Disappointment flared in her chest.

“Summon your maid,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll be back once you’re ready for bed.”

Her voice trembled. “Truthfully?”

“Yes, Cici,” he replied, voice low and husky, his blue eyes darkening with intensity. “You have fifteen minutes left as a virgin bride—not a second more.”

At his bluntness, she sucked in a breath.

Pulling her from her chair, he turned her toward her bedroom door and gave her a gentle nudge. “Go. The clock is ticking, and I’ve waited long enough to have you.”

Her legs barely held her as she crossed to her chamber, striving for calm she didn’t feel. Once alone, she leaned back against the closed door, releasing a shaky breath.

“This is it,” she whispered. She was about to become a wife. Aside from a few wonderful kisses that made her heart flutter, she faced the night with little more than vague metaphors and tongue-in-cheek gossip.

The mantel clock chimed. That infernal contraption really had to go. But the sound spurred her to yank the bellpull with urgency.

Mary readied her in twelve minutes. Instead of waiting on the chaise—which felt too like the night before—Cici paced in front of the cold fireplace, glancing at the time every few seconds. Surely, he wouldn’t retreat again, not after the closeness they’d shared.

A firm rap on the connecting door made her spin around. He didn’t wait for an invitation. The latch clicked softly, sealing them in together.

Andrew still wore his dinner clothes—barefoot now, tousled and less meticulous than usual. Cici nearly giggled, but the look he gave her chased the humor away.

“Gads!” he exclaimed without warning. “Where did you get that nightgown? It has swallowed you whole.”

She glanced down at the voluminous gown that pooled around her feet, sleeves trailing past her fingers, the neckband uncomfortably tight. It was more of a spinster’s shroud than an alluring bridal gown.

Hot tears blurred her vision.

“There was no time for a trousseau,” she whispered, the words a bitter reminder she was a replacement. A second-rate bride thrust upon him. “I’m so sorry,” she choked. “It’s terribly unfair you’re saddled with such an inferior wife.”

She blinked repeatedly, dismayed when her tears overflowed. Unlike her sister, she wasn’t a graceful crier. She wiped her cheeks with the oversized sleeves, embarrassed.

“Despite my obvious flaws, I’ll try to be a good wife, Andrew. I promise.”

He gathered her into his arms, holding her close. “That’s absolute nonsense,” he said gently. “I’m eternally grateful your sister found me unworthy.”

“You pursued her,” she reminded him, searching his face.

“I did—before I knew her true nature. Once I did, the thought of being bound to her chilled me to the bone.”

“She’s not so awful.”

He stared. “Not so awful? She tried to poison you!”

Her gaze dropped. “There’s that,” she whispered.

His chest, broad and warm beneath his open collar, distracted her from anything else. Especially the past.

“Look at me, Cici.” He waited, silent until her gaze lifted to his. “Your eyes are the color of a spring meadow. Lovely and expressive. In them, I see innocence and fire. Your charm is refreshing in a world full of pretense. You’re not inferior—not in any sense. Is that clear?”

She nodded, though doubt still lingered. Their marriage wasn’t born of love, but duty. His rage in her father’s study still echoed.

“Are you truly happy to be wed to me?” she asked softly.

“We don’t know each other well, but with time, trust will grow. For now, you’ll have to believe when I say, I do not lie.”