Page 18 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

At last, the immediate family gathered in the salon for a quiet hour. Catherine sat on the settee beside Maggie, who hadn’t strayed far from her all day. Andrew sank into a nearby chair, exhaustion pressing hard.

“Please, my darlings,” his mother said, voice ragged from fatigue. “Be mindful of your safety. I don’t know that I could bear burying another child.” Her gaze shifted to Cici. “Cecilia, dear—would you send for Lady Conaway? I should like to go up now.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Cici replied, rising with enviable energy.

“We must remedy that,” Catherine sighed. “There’s enough ‘Your Grace’-ing in society. At home, I prefer simpler things.”

“I’m working on it, Mama,” Andrew replied. “But she’s either remarkably forgetful or adorably stubborn.”

Cici reappeared in the doorway and froze—clearly having caught his last remark. “I promise it’s forgetfulness. That, and I don’t know what I’m allowed to call you. Your Gra—my la—oh, fiddlesticks!”

A weary smile softened her features. “Just call me Catherine.”

“I couldn’t possibly!” Cici gasped.

“Then call me Mama, like Andrew and Maggie do. Now sit, relax.” She gestured toward a chair. “How are you not dead on your feet like the rest of us?”

Silence fell over the room at her unfortunate phrasing. With a sigh, she rose. “On that charming note, I bid you good night.”

Andrew watched his mother’s slow, hesitant steps—her pallor and the weight loss from the past fortnight fueling his concern. Lady Conaway, herself recently widowed, appeared in the doorway to offer a steadying arm.

Mama, once the beating heart of every gathering, had retreated inward after Papa’s passing—until James convinced her to accept a companion.

Lady Conaway had coaxed her back into society, even into travel.

Now Andrew feared James’ death might cast her into solitude once more.

He could only hope, given time, her friend might work the same quiet magic.

When the older women left, Andrew’s gaze turned to Maggie. Having just emerged from mourning their father, she now faced another six months cloaked in black. He longed for her to find love, something healing—something joyful.

Then his eyes found Cici.

She had slipped into Catherine’s vacated seat and gently wrapped an arm around Maggie. His sister leaned into her, eyes closed, her distress easing under the balm of Cici’s quiet compassion.

With each passing day, his appreciation for her quiet strength grew. Her kindness revealed itself in the smallest acts, never in grand gestures. A concerned glance, a gentle word, the brush of her hand was enough.

He studied them, best friends yet so different. Maggie, dark and dramatic; Cici, fair and reserved. One thrived in society, the other cherished calm. Yet, here they were—folded together like sisters.

He caught Cici watching him, and something shifted in his chest. Though selfish in denying Maggie her company, he longed to be the one his wife held.

“Ladies,” he said gently, “I think it’s time for us to retire as well. It has been a trying twelve days.”

Together, they walked Maggie to her bedchamber then withdrew to their own rooms to prepare for bed. Not in the duke and duchess’ wing—Andrew wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Tonight, he needed comfort.

Her maid was just leaving as he arrived.

He didn’t knock when he stepped inside and opened his arms. Cici came to him without hesitation, folding into his embrace.

They stood in silence, holding on until, with a quiet murmur, she led him toward the bed.

The mattress dipped as they lay down together, no words exchanged.

Her warmth surrounded him—steady, soothing, grounding.

He buried his face in her fragrant hair and exhaled, the tension of twelve long days leaking from his tired bones.

In the shelter of her arms, it seemed as soon as he closed his eyes, sleep claimed him.

***

The next morning, just as the sun crested on the horizon, Cici bid her family farewell. Her father, never one to linger once business was settled, insisted on an early departure. She kissed both parents goodbye.

Once they settled in the carriage, Elizabeth hissed through clenched teeth, her venom slicing through the still morning air. “You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? My awkward, pudgy little sister—now a duchess. It would be laughable, if it weren’t so deeply unfair.”

Cici gasped. “You started this! Or have you conveniently forgotten the drugged lemonade?”

“I forget nothing,” Elizabeth snapped. “This all would have been mine if you hadn’t stolen Andrew.”

Cici gaped at her, stunned by the audacity of such a blatant lie. Elizabeth’s jealousy had twisted her memory—or her conscience—into forgetting she had orchestrated the entire plan. But the front steps of Sommerville, so soon after the funeral, was neither the time nor place for an argument.

With effort, Cici kept her voice neutral. “Safe travels,” she murmured, and turned toward the manor.

“I suppose it’s for the best,” Elizabeth added with feigned resignation. “I could never abide a husband who keeps a mistress.”

Cici knew she was being baited but couldn’t help glancing back. “Andrew ended that relationship weeks ago. He told me so.”

Elizabeth gave a condescending tsk, shaking her head. “He lied, you simple goose. The duke and the widow were seen together days after your wedding. The gossip is everywhere.”

Her eyes swept over Cici from head to toe, as if assessing and dismissing her in one glance. “Do you really think a man like him would give up his rakish ways… for you?”

“That’s a malicious rumor. The ton feeds on such things.”

Elizabeth’s laugh rang out, cruel and mocking in the crisp morning air. “Have you seen Lady Winslow? She’s older, but still very beautiful. As well as poised, and accomplished, which you are not. Andrew must regret marrying an eighteen-year-old frump like you.”

Cici blinked back tears. She was used to Elizabeth’s cruelty, but this was her most vicious. Well—excluding the incident with the poisoned lemonade. That memory she tried to keep buried, mostly in vain.

“Why do you hate me so much? Or do you just enjoy being cruel?”

“I’m simply being honest,” Elizabeth retorted, unapologetic. “As your elder sister, it’s my duty to warn you—your husband is a scoundrel. Now that he’s proven me right, I feel no guilt about my little deception. Even to become a duchess, I would never have married someone so utterly unsuitable.”

With a false look of sympathy that fell short of masking her glee, she added, “I pity you, Cici,” and climbed into the carriage.

Cici stood rooted to the steps, her heart heavy as the carriage disappeared in a swirl of dust. Andrew had promised fidelity, but she hadn’t been his choice. Had his vow been meant only to appease her?

He’d been the one who suggested she remain at Arendale—was that merely to keep her out of the way to resume his affair? Like so many titled men, did he believe he could have both wife and mistress without consequence?

She turned back toward the manor, her steps slow and burdened. Elizabeth’s venom had done its work—sowing doubts and discord—which was her aim all along.

The thought of breakfast—or facing Andrew—turned her stomach. In need of solitude, she wandered to the back garden and sank onto a quiet bench where anyone passing by would blame her sadness on the household’s collective mourning. She brooded long and hard on what to do.

Elizabeth had proven she couldn’t be trusted. Out of respect for Andrew’s grief, she chose—for now—not to raise the accusation. If the rumors were false, Elizabeth had only deepened her sins. If true… Cici didn’t yet know how she’d endure it.

Two hours passed beneath the lilacs; once a source of calm and comfort, they had lost their magic.