Page 23 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

Her fingers hovered over the keys, coaxing each mournful note of Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor until the final chord faded into the hush of the music room.

Lightning cracked overhead, and Cici jumped, the flash casting fleeting shadows across the polished floors.

She slid the lid over the keys with a soft click and crossed to the window.

Raindrops spattered the glass in staccato bursts as thunder rolled through the gray August sky—another summer storm soaking the city.

It didn’t deter the stream of messengers at the door, bearing letters, calling cards, and no fewer than six bouquets—tributes to the second duchess now in residence.

Despite the bustle, Summerville House remained cloaked in quiet grief.

The dowager wasn’t receiving callers today.

She’d taken to her room after breakfast, still heartsick after her loss.

The house held so many memories of her late husband and of James.

She mentioned that moving to a dower residence might lessen the pain.

She and Maggie had exchanged worried glances, silently agreeing the ache might be the same no matter where she lived.

Maggie, too, remained melancholy since her brother’s death.

Her usual sparkle had dimmed. But Cici clung to her warmth, grateful for quiet afternoons spent strolling in the park or browsing dusty bookshops.

The musicale last week had felt almost routine.

She’d been asked to play and obliged, her fingers gliding over the keys of the long-practiced concerto, polite applause following the last note.

They were all trying to move forward with their lives.

For Cici, that was easier said than done.

She hadn’t experienced normal since becoming a wife and subsequently a duchess.

Making it more difficult, the inquisitive glances and whispered rumors, and that after ten days in Berkshire, her husband still hadn’t come home to prove them wrong.

There had been two brief notes. The first, written a week ago, mentioned delays. The second, three days later, explained arbitration might take time.

Cici turned from the window and picked up a letter resting on the music stand—the third from her sister in the span of seven days.

Elizabeth rarely wrote, which made the sudden influx all the more telling.

The first had been full of self-pity and a plea for forgiveness.

She hadn’t replied, which was rude, but she wasn’t ready to absolve her yet, if ever.

The second arrived a few days later, more thoughtful in tone, and surprisingly included a note from their mother:

Your Grace, Duchess of Sommerville,

It does the family no favors for you and Elizabeth to remain divided.

Whispers travel quickly, and I need not remind you how such talk might reflect upon the family, particularly your sister when her prospects are so narrow.

As Duchess of Sommerville, it is your obligation to set an example. Do not disappoint.

Her Ladyship, the Countess of Benton

Cici had rolled her eyes then, just as she did now.

Funny how duty applied when it benefitted others—not necessarily herself.

Still, she’d jotted a brief note, suggesting a fresh start, along with an invitation to spend the holidays at Sommerville.

It was bold on her part, without asking her husband, but he wasn’t here.

Besides, she knew they would decline. Her papa was a stickler about being home for Christmas.

The third letter had arrived an hour ago.

Cici had stared at it for nearly half that time, dread warring with curiosity.

She’d come close to tossing it into the fire, but curiosity—that traitorous thing—won out.

She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

Her breath hitched as the name, Widow Winslow , rendered in precise lettering, leapt off the page.

Dearest Cici,

You have every reason not to trust me, given what happened. But I beg you to set that aside for one moment—not for my sake, but for yours.

Lady Featherstone claims she saw Andrew at Bellamy’s last evening—not just dining, but seated in the corner booth, alone with the Widow Winslow. They were still there when she left at close to midnight.

Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps it’s everything. I don’t know what stories he’s told you, but London is unforgiving when it comes to rumors—and this one is gaining traction. I thought you should hear it from someone who cares about you.

My advice, though you may not want it: enjoy the power and luxury your marriage affords, but guard your heart. You’ve always been too trusting, and I fear you won’t survive loving someone who would humiliate you publicly and sees you as nothing more than a means to an heir.

Yours, with lingering regret , Elizabeth

The paper crumpled as she made a fist. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to throw something—but mostly, to weep. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Her sister’s motives were rarely pure, but that didn’t mean she was wrong, not when she’d heard the same rumors from other sources.

And the warning to protect her heart came too late. She’d already given it to Andrew.

The windowpane rattled with another rumble of thunder. Even the storm raging outside felt calmer than the tempest in her chest.

Just then, the door creaked open, letting in a swirl of damp air.

Cici spun then froze as Andrew stepped inside, his wet hair plastered to his brow, his coat dripping on the floor. He looked spent, his cravat askew and his shoulders heavy with fatigue.

“Andrew,” she said, breath catching. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

He gave her a brief look as he shrugged out of his coat. “I sent word. The messenger must have been delayed with the storms.”

She wanted to demand answers, but in a neutral tone asked about his business. “Is everything resolved with the tenants?”

“Barely,” he muttered, dropping into an armchair with a sigh. “Berkshire was a mess. Mediation was all but useless with the tenants at each other’s throats. One man threatened to torch another’s fields over boundary lines.”

“But it’s resolved?”

Andrew nodded. “Enough to warrant coming home.”

She crossed her arms, steadying herself. “Which explains Bellamy’s.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“You dined there last night.”

His frown deepened. “I’m tired, Cici. What are you suggesting?”

“You were seen.” She stepped forward and held out the crumpled letter. “With Lady Winslow.”

He hesitated before taking it. Then he unfolded with jerking motions, his jaw locking tighter with every line he read.

“Elizabeth,” he muttered. Then his gaze snapped to hers—wounded, fuming. “And you believe her?”

“She’s my sister,” Cici said quietly. “She wouldn’t—”

“She absolutely would.” His voice cracked with restrained fury. “She thrives on manipulation. What possible motive would she have for telling you this—except cruelty?”

“I wasn’t defending her,” Cici replied, struggling to steady herself.

“I was saying she wouldn’t keep something like this to herself; cruelty would be her motive.

She takes pleasure in hurting me. I know that.

” Feeling the prickle of tears, she blinked fast, willing them away.

“I tried not to believe her. I fought it. But I’ve heard the same from others. ”

He stepped closer, the letter hanging limply at his side. “Tell me. What have I done to deserve your doubt?”

Cici looked away. “You have been gone so much. This last time for ten days.”

“And in my absence, the whispers and salacious tales resonated.” His voice sharpened. “I wrote to you of my plans.”

“Briefly.”

“Because I was dealing with land leases and feuding fools. Not dallying in supper clubs.”

With uncertainty still simmering, she lifted her chin, desperate to know. “Would you tell me if it were true?”

His reply came low and sure. “I would never dishonor you with a lie. I believe I told you that in the beginning.”

Cici pressed a hand to her forehead as pain and regret exploded. “I—shouldn’t have doubted.”

Andrew’s face didn’t soften. “Yet you did. And that changes things.”

Cici sank onto the settee. “I’m tired, Andrew. Tired of whispers, of having to smile through speculation. Tired of feeling like I’m married to a shadow who never stands beside me.”

He closed his eyes fleetingly then opened his hand. The letter floated to the floor damp from his grip, the ink smeared, the condemning words running together.

“I have responsibilities, entire counties relying on me. I don’t have the luxury of chasing gossip.”

“I didn’t want to chase it,” she whispered. “I hate that I did.”

“I hate it, too.” He hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t the homecoming I imagined. I need a hot bath and sleep.”

“Andrew—” she tried, but he had already turned.

“I can’t do this now,” he said over his shoulder, voice hollow. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He walked out, leaving the door open, the echo of his boots sharp in the corridor.

Cici stared after him, numb. At Arendale, just a few months ago, they’d been happy. Now, there was nothing but suspicions, distance, and anger.

With tears in her eyes, she walked out, pausing briefly to steady herself against the doorframe where he’d passed. He was home, but it felt like he was a million miles away.

And this time, she couldn’t blame it all on Elizabeth.