Page 21 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

A hot August breeze tugged at Cici’s skirt as she stepped down from the carriage. Ashworth House loomed behind a pair of ancient plane trees, its imposing facade as daunting as the day ahead. The door slammed behind her with a jarring clang, and she flinched. She was already on edge.

Mary followed closely, a silent anchor of comfort, but it did little to ease the feeling that eyes were already on her—speculative, assessing, and perhaps even pitying—as she entered the house alone, without her husband.

Andrew had returned to Berkshire now that the cooling-off period had passed.

During the week he’d spent at home, he was busy as ever—but he’d made a point of coming home for supper, and they’d retired early most nights, slipping back into something that resembled intimacy.

He’d even taken her to a celebratory dinner with colleagues on Parliament’s final day before recess.

Though the ladies had smiled and nodded, the evening had been as dull as dry toast, and the men had spoken only of politics.

Most evenings were accounted for, but her days stretched long and empty.

Maggie and her mother-in-law were still away but expected any day.

Desperate for something—anything—to do, Cici had accepted an invitation to a literary salon hosted by Lady Ashworth.

Anne, her daughter, had made her debut this season too.

More acquaintance than friend, but familiar, nonetheless.

Andrew had encouraged her to find something to occupy her time, though she wasn’t sure what he’d think of this particular diversion. Men often scoffed at women’s intellectual pursuits, but the invitation had arrived at the perfect moment. It was this or climb the walls.

The footman’s voice boomed: “Her Grace, the Duchess of Sommerville.”

Heads turned, and conversation lulled. A subtle, collective pause as the room took in Cici standing alone.

Anne appeared from a nearby cluster, her smile wide. “Your Grace, I’m so pleased you came. Mama will be beside herself to have you at her little salon.”

“You have quite a crowd,” she said. “The invitation suggested an intimate gathering.”

“That was our plan, but word spread that Joseph Woods would be here to discuss his new book. So many replied, we had to move it to the music room.” She practically glowed. “It’s quite a triumph.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of Mr. Woods.”

“Not surprising. He was first published last month. It’s his mentor, Mr. Dickens, everyone is here to see.”

“Charles Dickens?” she echoed, her gaze sweeping the crowd for the renowned author.

“Yes! He’s agreed to read an excerpt. We’ll be the talk of the town.”

The room buzzed, but not oppressively. Afternoon light skewed through the tall windows, gilding the harpist in one corner. Ladies drifted like petals around clusters of gentlemen and the refreshment table.

Anne guided her toward a group of young women. “Allow me to introduce you to a few people before the reading, Your Grace.”

Most faces were familiar from her debut, though none had spoken to her much then.

Now they greeted her with polite nods, yet she felt the subtle shift in the air—the judgment reserved for women who arrived alone.

Her title granted protection from open scorn, but not the whispers that drifted to her ears when Anne moved away in her role as co-hostess.

“To come alone… How sad.”

“They say he’s taken up with the widow again.”

“It’s to be expected, though. How often does a leopard change its spots?”

“Never. Not when he gains a dukedom with more wealth and power.”

“Poor girl. She’ll have a lonely life.”

“Yes, she can cry into her sovereigns and five-pound notes,” another sneered with heavy sarcasm. “God knows she’s got enough to keep her company to a ripe old age.”

Cici moved away, keeping her spine straight and chin high, hiding the hurt and shame that curled hot inside her.

Was it merely gossip? Perhaps if it were only from Elizabeth.

But whispers about Andrew from others were hard to dismiss.

She wanted to flee and nurse her wounded feelings as she tried to figure it out, but a hush fell over the room as a man in his thirties stepped forward, tall, earnest, and impossibly handsome.

Eager to get something out of the afternoon, she took a seat.

“Joseph Woods,” a man beside her murmured. “They say he’s the next big voice in fiction.”

Woods spoke—deep, poised, and intelligent—sharing his start in publishing and his fortunate meeting with Mr. Dickens. Questions followed. His replies were thoughtful, laced with dry humor that drew easy laughter.

Then came the highlight of the event: Charles Dickens himself. He seemed her papa’s age, around mid-fifties, wavy brown hair and a beard streaked with silver that contrasted with his high-collared dark coat. He bowed with a flourish, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“My protégé’s youth reminds me of my advancing age,” he said, producing his spectacles. “Exhibit A!”

Laughter rippled. Then, with a practiced cadence, he began to read from “The Tallow Maker’s Daughter.”

“She did not speak the language of ladies,” he read, “nor was she fluent in the currency of flattery, gossip, or lineage…”

Cici’s breath caught. The heroine’s yearning echoed her own—the familiar ache of not belonging, of being present yet never fully accepted.

“Still, she learned where to stand,” Dickens continued. “What to say, how to disappear while in full view. And she learned that power often disguised itself as kindness, and cruelty often wore silk.”

Applause followed through which Cici sat. Soon conversation and the clink of silver on china filled the room. The poignancy of the reading faded as reality returned. She regarded Mr. Woods in a glance; for a man to have such insight.

Cici rose and looked toward the door. She should get Mary and go.

“You looked transported, Your Grace,” came a voice at her elbow.

Turning, she came face to face with the author himself, a glass of claret in hand.

“Is it so obvious?” she asked.

He smiled. “To someone who watches for such things.”

She inclined her head. “Your prose was evocative—melancholy, sharp. It’s difficult not to be moved by such talent.”

“Thank you. Forgive my forwardness, but you speak as though from familiarity.”

“Growing up books were my closest companions. I shouldn’t admit that, but I found them far kinder than most I’ve encountered in society.”

“I expect that would have changed once you became a duchess.”

With the callous judgmental whispers still fresh in her mind, Cici murmured, “it’s early days, but after today, I’m doubtful.”

He hesitated, lips slightly part, as though considering a reply, but excused himself when Anne reappeared at Cici’s side, all flushed and fluttering.

“Your Grace, my mother wonders if you might stay for supper. Mr. Dickens and Mr. Woods promised more stories. Oh, do say yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement.” Cici would much rather stay than rush home for tea with her mother, but she’d promised her. “Please thank Lady Ashworth for the invitation.”

Anne nodded. “Another time?”

“That would be lovely,” she replied. As long as it was intimate, not the crush of today’s salon.

As Anne turned to greet someone else, Cici moved to the refreshment table laid with miniature jellies and wafer-thin sandwiches layered with cucumber and watercress. She stepped aside with a glass of sparkling, wine hoping to collect herself after the moving reading.

Mid-sip she heard more whispers from two young women behind her.

“It’s tragic, really, to be abandoned so soon after the wedding…”

“Tragic—or convenient. Old habits die hard. Especially for London’s most notorious rake.”

She’d had enough of being the subject of speculation and would have moved in a beeline for the door, except the first girl said with some urgency, “Don’t look now, but Lady Armitage is behind you. She swears he called on the widow just days after the wedding.”

“At her house?” the second gasped. “Scandalous. But some women—so plain—must settle for being fourth or fifth.”

Their words struck like a lash. Cici’s cheeks burned.

The harpist resumed her play, accompanied by a pianist, and drowned out what else they said. A moment later, the two gossips swept past her, offering her a cursory curtsy as they unsuccessfully swallowed their giggles.

She drained her glass and smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers. She would not run or cry, as much as she wanted to. Instead, with all the calm she could muster, she went in search of her hostess.

“Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Lady Ashworth,” she said, offering a practiced smile.”

The countess curtsied, which still seemed strange to Cici since the lady was her own mother’s contemporary. “We were honored by your presence, Your Grace. Perhaps you and His Grace might join us for dinner when he returns from his travels?”

Did everyone know about her vagabond duke?

“Perhaps,” Cici said, vaguely, unwilling to speak for her vagabond husband. As she quit the room, her smile forced but undimmed, the ache in her chest twisted deeper.