Page 26 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The carriage tore through Mayfair, wheels groaning, lanterns swinging in the moonless dark. He couldn’t stay still—his legs jittered anxiously, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Andrew slammed his fist against the roof. “Faster!” he barked, voice ragged.

The coachman gave a curt reply he couldn’t make out, but the jolt beneath him said enough. They were flying. Risking the devil’s own slip. He couldn’t sit still. His knee bounced, jaw tight. Every turn in the road was a needle.

Twelve days. That’s all the grace they’d had since the last storm. And now it felt like everything was unraveling again.

After months of grief and distance, they’d begun to stitch themselves together again. She laughed at his jokes, lingered in his study while he worked, even endured two insufferable dinners with his peers—men as dry as toast and twice as boring. But she’d come, making an effort.

He’d reciprocated by escorting her to the Palace of Art and Industry at the International Exhibition. They enjoyed it so much they return the next day for an evening concert in one of the open-air courtyards.

W hen they were alone—bundled up for a walk in Hyde Park as the weather turned from summer to fall, tangled in each other’s arms on the drawing room sofa, on the rug in front of the fire, sharing his bed, or he hers, every night—she blossomed.

Tonight had felt like progress too. She’d accepted her mother’s invitation to the opera.

He’d almost refused on her behalf because of her sister.

Elizabeth had made an effort to be civil.

More letters arrived without insults or vicious gossip.

But neither he nor Cici were ready to give her another chance. Not yet. Maybe never.

With the reassurance her sister would not attend, he insisted Cici accompany her mother to Covent Garden’s production of Lily of Killarney, a production that had charmed the ton.

Things were looking up for them. And now, this.

He was at White’s enjoying a rare night off from politics when the note had come. It was brief. An accident. No details. Just, You are needed at the Earl of Benton’s townhouse with all haste .

His mind raced, conjuring worst-case scenarios. Had there been a carriage crash? A fire? The message had given him no clues, but the knot in his gut told him it had to do with Cici. Why else would he be summoned to his in-law’s home rather than his own?

He gripped the leather strap, knuckles white. “Hold on, sweet pea,” he whispered, as if words could cross the wind and find her. The carriage lurched through another turn, lanterns flickering.

Please, let me not be too late.

***

Andrew burst through the front doors, his coat billowing behind him. He shoved his hat and cane into the butler's arms as he stormed past, the man barely able to jump out of the way.

“Where's the duchess?” he barked.

“In her old rooms, Your Grace. Dr. Wadsworth is with her...”

He didn’t wait to hear the rest, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding.

Andrew hadn’t spent much time in his in-laws’ home and halted at the landing, uncertain. Then he heard a woman’s sobs, low and keening. He followed it, turning right then left, and stopped cold at the sight of the earl seated on a velvet bench, cradling his weeping wife.

“Dear God, don’t tell me—” Andrew couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

“No. It’s not that. The doctor expects Cecilia to make a full recovery, Your Grace,” his father-in-law explained hastily.

Relief burst through Andrew’s chest. He took the first real breath in half an hour. “What happened?”

“She fell down the stairs at the opera.”

When Elizabeth spoke, Andrew turned his head, noticing her for the first time. She stood against the wall, arms folded, her expression unreadable.

“Were you with her?” he asked, his voice cold. Wherever Cici’s sister went, trouble followed.

She pushed away from the wall at the veiled accusation. “I wasn’t with her when it happened, Your Grace. Cici went for air in the middle of the second act. I offered to accompany her, but she insisted we remain in the box and enjoy the performance.”

The earl rose to explain. “She was found unconscious at the base of the staircase outside the ladies’ retiring room.

No one saw the fall itself, only the aftermath.

She struck her head hard and has drifted in and out of consciousness.

Dr. Wadsworth suspects a concussion, possibly swelling. He’s been watching her closely.”

Andrew gripped the banister, his knuckles white.

“And…” Lord Benton’s voice faltered. “She lost the child.”

Andrew froze. His throat tightened. “What child?”

“You didn’t know?” Lady Benton asked, her voice raw with weeping.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Cici never mentioned it.”

“She may not have known,” Lord Benton said quietly. “Dr. Wadsworth believes she was only a few weeks along.”

Andrew’s legs turned to water. He braced a hand against the wall, eyes burning. A child. Their child. Even though he hadn’t known, the loss was gut wrenching.

He straightened, pushing past the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to see her. Now.

Inside the room, the fire crackled in the hearth. The air smelled faintly of lavender. Cici lay small and still in the center of the bed, her vivid auburn hair like flames against the bleached white linens. A faint sheen of sweat clung to her brow.

She looked pale and fragile. Too still.

At the sound of the door, her lashes fluttered. Dazed green eyes blinked open and searched the room until she found him.

“Andrew?” Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

He crossed to the bed in two strides. “I’m here,” he murmured, dropping to his knees beside her.

Dr. Wadsworth stepped back, giving him space. “She’s groggy. Likely concussed. She hasn’t pieced it all together yet.”

“I remember only fragments,” she murmured. “I was at the opera, felt a headache coming on, and went to get some air. Either my shoe slipped, or I tripped on the stairs. It’s all such a blur.” She raised her hand as if to rub her forehead but grabbed her shoulder, wincing in pain.

“Try to lie still, Your Grace. I had to pop your shoulder back into place,” the physician advised. “It will be tender for a while.”

“My head hurts too,” she whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “And… there’s a tightness in my belly. Cramping.” She gripped the edge of the coverlet, her voice trembling. “Andrew—I’m frightened. What’s wrong with me?”

He took her hands in both of his, his throat burning. “Sweet pea…” His voice broke. “You were found unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. And… we lost the baby.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Baby?” she repeated.

He nodded once. “I’m so sorry.”

She stared at him—first with disbelief then devastation. Her face crumpled, and a sob tore free from her throat. “No…”

Andrew wanted to hold her, needed to comfort her, but was afraid to touch her and hurt her more.

Carefully, he eased onto the bed on her good side and stretched his arm along her pillow above her head.

She leaned into him, burying her face in his chest as sobbed.

They were jagged, deep, the kind that wracked her whole body.

“There will be chances for other babies, Your Grace,” the physician offered as he packed up his bag.

Andrew bit back a scathing reply. The words felt hollow. Insensitive. As if one child could simply be replaced by another.

“Can she be moved?” he asked tersely. “I’d like her to recover at home.”

“I see no issue with that, once the bleeding stops,” the doctor replied. “She needs nourishment, rest, and no stairs for at least a week. And no marital relations until she’s cleared,” he warned. “If the bleeding continues beyond three days, send for me.”

Andrew nodded.

The doctor hesitated at the door. “She may regain her memory in fragments. That’s common with a blow to the head. Don’t push her. Let it come naturally.”

When he left, Andrew held her, stroking her hair until her sobs slowed to hiccups.

“I had no idea,” she whispered. “I didn’t even know to be careful.”

“You’re not to blame, Cici,” he said firmly. “There’s nothing you did wrong.”

He tilted her face toward him, thumbs chasing her tears away. “Sleep,” he murmured. “You’ve been through so much.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Her eyes met his, vulnerable and pleading. “Will you stay with me?”

“Nothing could tear me away.”

He helped her settle back against the pillows then pulled the coverlet to her chin. She reached for his hand again, delicate, trembling fingers curling around his. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, closed, and she drifted into an exhausted sleep.

Andrew stared into the fire, listening to it crackle as her breathing deepened. Tonight, grief kept silent vigil. Tomorrow, they’d have to pick up the pieces and carry on—again. And he was running out of ways to do that.