Page 22 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

She paused to hand her wrap to a maid. At a waft of rose-petal attar and lemon biscuits—her mother’s favorites—Cici suppressed a groan. So much for venting her feelings on the pianoforte.

Despite her urge to run away, she steadied herself with a deep breath and entered the drawing room.

Lady Benton rose from her chair by the fire and offered the deepest curtsy her aging knees could manage. “Your Grace, we settled in to wait,” she said with brittle cheer. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’re family, Mother. Of course, I don’t mind,” Cici replied, though her voice came out sharper than intended. Her nerves were already frayed. “And stop with the curtsies and Your Graces every five minutes. It’s awkward.”

“I’m still adjusting to your new title and station. I thought repetition might help.” Her mother straightened with a rustle of silk and the faint crackle of protesting joints.

“When do you suppose it might stick?” another voice said acidly from across the room.

Cici blinked. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed Elizabeth by the window, the bold claret of her gown jarring against the soft decor. Too bright for afternoon wear, too loud for a house in mourning.

Lady Benton ignored her eldest daughter—something that rarely happened—and instead, commented excitedly, “I’ve never had this many invitations before! Your rise in stature has opened many doors socially for your father and me.”

Elizabeth let out an undignified snort. “I’d wager it’s because you’ve worked your connection with the Sommervilles into every conversation you’ve had of late. You’d think her nibs had hung the moon for all the folderols.”

Without so much as a word to her hostess, least of all the politeness of a greeting, her sister proceeded with her diatribe in a flawless imitation of their mother.

“‘Have you heard, Lady So-and-So? My daughter is now the esteemed duchess of Sommerville.’ And you’ve tirelessly corrected those who might have missed the earth-shattering news while residing in the country.

‘Good heavens, she’s no longer Lady Cecilia, but Her Grace, the duchess of Sommerville.

’” Elizabeth threw her hands up in exasperation.

“It has been ‘my daughter, the duchess’ this and ‘my daughter, Her Grace’ that for nigh on a month. Honestly, it’s getting exhausting. ”

Cici forced a smile. “Sister. I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

“Surprise.” Elizabeth flopped onto the settee with a graceless thud. “Since people keep asking me about the duchess, I couldn’t wait for a personal invitation. One must experience these things while the paint is still fresh.”

“Hmm,” Cici murmured, eyeing the walls. “Silk damask doesn’t require paint.”

The Sommervilles could easily afford silk, unlike the Edwards. It was a petty jab but, after the day she’d had, she indulged herself.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Elizabeth snapped, green eyes narrowing. “They say this is one of the oldest homes in Grosvenor Square. No wonder it smells like a musty old museum.”

Whoever they were, she’d heard quite enough of their opinion.

The same went for her sister, who proceeded to pick apart everything with merciless precision—from the furnishings: “Chintz? How brave,” to the servants: “The footman who greeted us had a limp. Is that the best you can do?” and, of course, Cici herself: “You call it auburn, but let’s be honest—it draws the eye in the worst way. And that gown…”

Her eyes raked Cici’s dove-gray ensemble. “You need my modiste. She’s marvelous at disguising”—she waved a hand vaguely in Cici’s direction before wrinkling her nose—“all the extras. What shoddy seamstress made that thing? Those sleeves do you no favors.”

Cici looked down at her dress, which had to be taken in. The stress of the past two months and a lot of lonely dinners had robbed her of her appetite. “I like this gown.”

Elizabeth stared at her pointedly. “That does rather explain things.”

Cici waited, but her mother didn’t rise to her defense. Not even a word. She simply sipped her tea in silence, as she had for years.

Fine. She’d go it alone, as always. Luckily, she was in the right mood.

“If you came only to gather gossip fodder, you may leave. This house is in mourning, and I won’t tolerate your jealousy upsetting anyone.”

Elizabeth rose and gave a grand curtsy, her tone dripping false sweetness. “Most Noble Duchess do forgive this humble caller who merely wished to see her sister. Even if said sister is a backstabbing thief who stole my suitor.”

“There was no theft. You set the whole damnable thing up yourself.” Cici sputtered in indignation. “You were the one who didn’t want a mere viscount . Now that I’m unexpectedly elevated, you’re jealous of the sister you called unfashionable and clumsy.”

“Don’t forget chubby,” Elizabeth added with a smirk.

Cici saw red. “Did you hear when I said you may go?”

Their mother at long last roused to insert herself. “Girls. This is unseemly.”

Too little, too late. A lifetime too late.

“Andrew isn’t good enough, nor is his ‘musty’ home, I certainly don’t live up to your standards.

You belittle my appearance, my choices, my marriage.

What is your problem?” she demanded of her sister.

“Have you missed your punching bag? There are places in London where you can do so that don’t involve me. ”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I’m not the one with the problem.

You’ve landed your duke, but where is he?

” She spread her hands, palms up, and looked around as if searching for Andrew.

“No one has seen him for weeks. One can infer from his absence that he’s not satisfied with the arrangement.

Maybe he’s tired of pale, pudgy, and weak.

Maybe he’s gone back to something familiar. And blonde.”

Except for the rattle of her mother’s teacup and saucer as she set them aside, silence hung thick like smoke.

Cici’s voice, when it came, was low but firm.

“You talk endlessly about others’ faults, but have you looked in the mirror?

You’re twenty-one, in your third season, and the dukes and earls aren’t exactly lined up at the door to have you.

Maybe if you spent more time being kind—and less being jealous, bitter, and cruel—you wouldn’t be on the shelf. ”

Elizabeth, who’d always claimed being a spinster was a fate worse than death, flinched as if Cici had slapped her. Rendered speechless for once in her life, she had no cutting reply.

Not so her mother. “Cecilia! That was incredibly unkind!”

Before she could point out her mother’s double standard, and her own cruelty—allowing her eldest daughter to pummel her youngest verbally for two decades without batting an eye—another voice cut through the tension.

“Indeed, Lady Elizabeth. If venom were a virtue, you’d be thrice married by now,” the dowager duchess said as she swept into the room.

Mortified that her mother-in-law had witnessed the unpleasant scene, Cici dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace, my sincerest regrets—”

She raised a hand, cutting her off. “Do not apologize, child. You said what needed saying.” Her icy blue gaze—so like Andrew’s—shifted to Elizabeth.

“You will not address my daughter-in-law with such insolence. In this house, guests are expected to behave with civility. If you can’t manage that, kindly remove yourself—and don’t return until you’ve learned some manners. ”

Her sister’s face drained of color, leaving her ghostly pale. “I was merely—”

“No excuses. Go now,” the dowager ordered without raising her voice. She didn’t need to.

Elizabeth fled, her skirts swirling around her in a blur of red, nearly knocking over Maggie who stood in the doorway, stunned at what she was witnessing.

Cici murmured once the sound of her sister’s staccato footsteps had receded. “I’m partly to blame. I shouldn’t have raised my voice—or said those things to her.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure she’s said worse to you over the years—and never suffered the consequences.” The dowager removed her gloves with calm precision before turning to Lady Benton. “Have you anything to say? Or does the cat still have your tongue?”

Flustered, her mother bobbed a quick curtsy and departed without a word, trailing after her elder daughter.

Catherine crossed to the tea cart, pouring herself a cup. “Have they always been this…”

Several words sprang to Cici’s mind—catty, cruel, indulgent, a clapperclaw in kid gloves! But she swallowed them. She’d had enough ugliness for one day. “Mama has done my sister a disservice by spoiling her all her life. Again, I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”

“You didn’t throw the tea service at her head, so I daresay it wasn’t your worst moment,” her mother-in-law said, a spark of humor lighting her eyes.

“You may be new to the title, but you’re no child.

And jealous sisters or vapid debutantes who think a ring is the pinnacle of achievement have no business treating you as one. ”

Cici’s breath caught in her throat. The whispering from the salon—so fresh—still stung. “How did you know?”

“A guess,” the dowager replied smoothly, settling on the settee with her teacup and a small plate of biscuits.

“Andrew wrote that you might need a hand finding your footing. Lesson one: grow a backbone of tempered steel. You acquitted yourself well with your sister, but we’ll sharpen those instincts.

I’ve no patience for milquetoast duchesses—and I won’t accept one as a daughter-in-law. ”

Unsure how to respond, was that criticism or a compliment? Cici murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” unable to conceal her confusion.

Her mother-in-law chuckled, her expression softening. “You’re tougher than I thought, but you’ll need to be even tougher to survive this city and marriage to my son.”

“How so?” Cici asked. She didn’t clarify whether she meant the city or Andrew, but Catherine was shrewd enough to know.

“Andrew can be dictatorial, like his father, brother, and generations of Sommerville dukes before him. I suspect you’ve already figured that out. But he’s fiercely loyal, to family, those in his employ, and every last tenant, which makes his high-handedness easier to bear.”

An understanding began to form. “Was it difficult for you when you married?”

The older woman’s gaze drifted to the fire. “Harder than you can imagine. I was nineteen. He was thirty-seven and as unbending as a monarch. When I tried to go home to my mother, my father sent me straight back.”

“I heard yours was a love match—the romance of the century,” Cici remarked, gravely disappointed. Were none of the stories true? Was there no such thing as love in marriage?

“It was, eventually,” the dowager replied. “I cried every night for the first month. Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started learning.”

“Learning what?”

“I can answer that,” Maggie interjected, stepping in from the doorway. Her feet finally unfrozen after what she had witnessed. “Mama learned to be more frightening than Papa.”

“It seems I’ve told this story before,” she said, giving her daughter an affectionate pat on the arm as she sat next to her.

“Yes, but Cici needs to hear it,” Maggie urged.

A glimmer of amusement touched the Catherine’s lips. “She does indeed. I wouldn’t say I learned to be frightening—intimidating, maybe. Assertive, most definitely. I did then what you must do now, dear. Become duchess in truth, not just name.”

Cici recalled Andrew’s towering rage in the study the day of their marriage. “I’m not sure I can intimidate anyone, and I know I can’t out-frighten your son.”

“Both my boys have fiery tempers—” she stopped, closing her eyes at her slip.

Maggie gripped her mother’s hand, lending her support.

“It’s still very hard to believe James is gone.

” Catherine cleared her throat before continuing.

“I like to believe Andrew is how is because he is passionate in his beliefs. He respects those who stand up to him, particularly if he is in the wrong. Crow wasn’t Andrew’s father’s favorite dish, but he learned to choke it down once or twice before he came to respect me. ”

Cici let her words settle in. “Thank you,” she said at length.

“For what, dear?” the dowager asked, their eyes connecting over the rim of her cup.

“For the advice and for defending me. Most of all, for seeing me.”

“You’re the Duchess of Sommerville now, Cecilia.

It’s time the world saw you—and you’re going to make sure they do.

Lesson two: never falter, never explain.

And when they whisper behind your back…” Catherine’s voice dropped, her eyes gleaming like steel.

“Make them regret not saying it to your face.”

Convinced that every terrible adjective used to describe the dowager duchess was absolutely, gloriously true, Cici looked at Maggie wide eyed. When her friend made a ridiculous face of mock horror, it broke the tension, eased the knot in her chest.

“Now,” the dowager said, leaning forward to put down her cup and plate. “After that journey—and what I just witnessed—let’s have something stronger than tea, shall we? Heaven knows, surviving those two harpies for nearly two decades you, Ceceilia, more so than anyone you deserve a proper drink.”