Page 29 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Cici braced for fury, but Mary rushed in with the cloths and a basin of cool water, sparing her.

He wrapped her ankle in soaked strips with meticulous care.

“That is helpful, Andrew. Thank you,” she said.

“Any other injuries aside from your shoulder and ankle?”

She glanced nervously at Jenkins, who stood by the door if he should be needed further.

Leaning forward, she spoke softly for only him to hear.“When I fell, a few books gouged me in, uh… tender areas.”

“The physician should be here soon.” He stood and lifted her in his arms again. “Let’s get you settled upstairs.”

“Mary,” he called over his shoulder, “I will speak with you and Henry together.”

A nervous girl by nature, Mary wrung her hands as she answered, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Andrew, they were following my instructions.”

“Your disregard for your safety is staggering.” His voice dropped to a growl. “If you cannot be trusted to act sensibly, I must intervene. Once the physician has done his part. I will take care of the rest—personally.”

That sounded ominous. She swallowed hard, unsure if the ache in her ankle would rival what he planned next.

He climbed the staircase effortlessly, a full flight, not once jostling her or getting winded.

“What was so blasted important you’d risk your neck in that part of London?”

“I cannot say,” she replied softly.

“Rather, you will not.”

The door opened in the foyer below, and Jenkins admitted the physician.

“Up here, Dr. Wadsworth,” Andrew called from the upper landing. Then, for Cici’s ears alone, he uttered, low and implacable, “You are spared my wrath momentarily, Cecilia. Do not think you have escaped it.”

She swallowed hard. He only used her full name when his disappointment ran deep.

***

The physician diagnosed a sprained ankle and deep bruising to her shoulder, hip, and backside. He prescribed three days of bed rest, a week off her foot, warm baths for the aches, and twice-daily soaks in bitter salts to ease the swelling.

Andrew stood at the foot of the bed the entire time, arms folded, jaw tight. Once Dr. Wadsworth left, and Mary went to draw her a warm bath, they were finally alone.

He didn’t sit. He paced, silent and simmering, for several long minutes before he came to her.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and took her hand, turning it over in his.

Her skin was soft, her fingers delicate.

The thought of her bruised and battered in some filthy bookshop reignited the fury he’d fought to contain.

“You dislike my rules,” he began, struggling to keep his tone level, “but you’ve made them necessary. Every single one.”

“It could’ve happened to anyone,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He drew back slightly, incredulous. “That’s just it.

You aren’t anyone.” His voice sharpened.

“A duchess—my duchess—has no business in that part of the city. Not with criminals on every corner and buildings on the verge of collapse. And she certainly shouldn’t place herself in a position where another man has to carry her into her own home. ”

That last sentence came out louder than he intended. She flinched. He didn’t shout often—never at her—but today? Today, she’d earned it.

Rubbing his forehead, he let out a rough breath. “You need a keeper,” he muttered.

“Andrew!”

He stood again, pacing the room, his boots thudding on the carpet. “Tell me why you had to go there. Why not Hatchard’s? Or any number of reputable booksellers?”

“I’d rather not say,” she hedged.

He turned on her, eyes blazing. “I don’t care what you’d rather not say. Even if you’re keeping secrets for the queen herself. I am your husband, and you will answer me. Now.”

Her fingers twisted in the coverlet. “I went to purchase a Christmas gift—for you.”

Silence fell, heavy and strained.

He exhaled raggedly, dragging both hands through his hair. “Cici…”

“I wanted it to be special,” she said quietly. “Not something you could buy yourself.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d trade every gift under heaven for your safety.

” Her rubbed his face, pacing a slow circle near the foot of the bed.

“You must swear to me you’ll never do anything so reckless again.

That area of London—God, you could have been robbed.

Or kidnapped. Or—” His voice cracked. “Or worse.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she whispered.

Andrew let out a dry laugh, eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Frightened doesn’t begin to cover it.”

He sat and took her hand once more.

“Before your debut, you lived in a protective bubble—exactly as you should’ve as a well-bred young lady.

But the world outside that bubble is full of dangers.

To ensure this doesn’t happen again, I’ll be instructing your guards—and the drivers—on where you may go.

If there’s another incident, you’ll need my express permission to leave the house. ”

She blinked. “That sounds suspiciously like house arrest.”

“Call it what you will. For the next week, you’re homebound. Physician’s orders. My orders.” His fingers tightened on hers, his gaze unrelenting. “If you need a reminder of what disobedience earns you... defy me again, and you’ll have it.”

“This was a one-time occurrence, I promise you.”

“See that it is.”

“Am I allowed visitors, at least? My mother will wonder if I vanish out of the blue.”

“Of course. This is about protection, not punishment.”

“What about Mary and Henry. Please don’t fault them.”

He hesitated. “Henry allowed you to go into such a place. He knew better.”

“He tried to stop me. I insisted.”

“He’s being paid to keep you safe,” Andrew said without inflection. “Not to be easily swayed.”

“I gave him no choice,” she said. “He was just doing as bidden. He’s loyal.”

“And that loyalty very nearly got you killed.”

“I’m fine,” she reminded him. “Just bruised.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “I’m doubling your guard. No outings without my approval. None. And you will rest exactly as the physician directed.”

“May I recover in the salon or your study?” she asked.

He studied her at length, something unspoken flickering in his gaze. “We’ll see how well you follow instructions these first few days.”

“You’re very strict,” she murmured.

“When the situation warrants, yes. I’m determined to protect you.” He brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Until you take your safety seriously, I’ll be both husband and sentinel.”

***

The air in London had turned bitterly cold, snow falling in steady flakes that softened the city’s grime and silenced its usual bustle.

Inside Sommerville House, the family gathered in the drawing room before a roaring fire.

The Christmas trimmings were understated.

A modest tree stood in the corner, decorated with gold-ribboned ornaments and sprigs of holly, while greenery laced the banisters and mantels with red velvet bows.

Restraint over lavishness felt right this year.

They hadn’t traveled to Arendale for the holiday. His mother had quietly insisted on staying in London, and Maggie had backed her. The loss of James still hung heavy in their hearts this first Christmas season without him, especially tonight, on Christmas Eve.

Andrew crossed to Cici and handed her a cup of hot cocoa—dark, rich, and topped with a dusting of nutmeg.

“With extra chocolate,” he murmured. “Just the way you like it.”

She smiled, accepting it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Gifts were exchanged, nothing lavish but something thoughtful: a rosewood tea caddy for the dowager, new gloves and sketching pencils for Maggie, a pair of drop pearl earrings for Cici from Andrew.

There was one neatly wrapped parcel remaining under the tree.

“That’s for you,” she offered, words tight with hesitation.

He set aside his brandy, retrieve it, and returned to her side.

“It’s not much, but… I wanted it to be meaningful.”

Andrew arched a brow. “You risked life and limb for ‘not much’?”

She flushed, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Open it.”

He undid the wrapping carefully, revealing the leather-bound volume beneath. His expression changed the instant he saw the title: A Compendium of Arendale: Folklore, Ruins, and Founding Families .

“Cici,” he murmured, running his hand reverently over the cover. “I’ve only ever seen references to this book… I didn’t know it still existed.”

“The man at Hatchard’s told me about it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I thought… with your love of history, and the way you talk about the ruins, and the willow trees by the lake—”

With one arm around her waist, he pulled close and kissed her temple. “It’s perfect.”

“I hoped it might feel like home.”

“It does,” he acknowledged, his thumb brushing the aged cover. “We spent summers there when I was a boy. My father adored it. I think he loved the place even more than Sommerville.”

Maggie leaned forward and inquired, “What do you have there, Brother?”

“Cici found the first printing of the Arendale history.” Andrew flipped to the table of contents. “It includes gifting of the land to the first duke of Sommerville from Williams the Conqueror himself and the story of the swans by the willows where we used to picnic every summer.”

“I remember you and James trying to joust with willow branches,” his mother said fondly. “You almost lost an eye.”

“I was nine,” he said, a bit defensively.

Cici smiled. “Is that story in there, too?”

“No,” he said, flipping pages. “But the one about the ruined chapel is. Now in print. Easier to pass down to our—” He stopped himself, the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air.

Cici reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t walk on eggshells, please. I’m confident we’ll have that heir one day.”

He met her gaze. Something flickered in his eyes—gratitude, love, perhaps even longing.

“It’s been a wonderful evening,” Catherine said, rising. “Perhaps next year we’ll feel up to celebrating at the Hall with all of our traditions. I just wasn’t up to it this year.”

“We all understand,” Andrew assured her.

She nodded, still looking so sad Cici’s heart broke. “I’m for bed,” Catherine said, blinking back tears, “if I plan to be up for church in the morning.”

“I’ll walk up with you, Mama,” Maggie said, linking arms with her mother.

A round of Happy Christmases followed before she and Andrew were left alone.

Clutching the book, he leaned toward her, “I’ll treasure this,” he said hoarsely.

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

He leaned in and brushed a kiss over her mouth, a gentle press of lips that carried more tenderness than heat. She responded, breath catching, heart leaping with hope… but he pulled back too soon.

“Let me read to you,” he said, voice hoarse.

She blinked, surprised. “Read?”

He opened the book to a time-worn page and began in a low, resonant voice: “ The lands surrounding Arendale Hall were once thick with ash and yew, sacred groves where the old gods were worshipped, and offerings buried beneath the earth. ”

His low, lulling voice settled into her bones. She watched him as he read, his features soft in the firelight, the deep timbre of his voice soothing—and maddening. This intimacy was sweet, yes. Safe. Domestic. But it wasn’t what she’d hoped for.

He hadn’t touched her beyond necessity since losing the baby.

Not even to spank her after the bookshop escapade, when she’d all but begged for consequences.

He was always gentle, always thoughtful—but careful.

Too careful. And the way he tucked her in each night and left the bed cold gnawed at something vulnerable inside her.

Cici leaned against him, listening, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

The warmth of the fire, the cadence of his voice, wove together like a lullaby. Eventually, her lashes fluttered closed.

She woke when he lifted her.

“I’m not asleep,” she whispered, without opening her eyes.

“You’re snoring, sweeting.”

“Am not.”

He chuckled low, conceding the point. “Time for bed.”

Snuggling into the circle of his arms, she sighed. This was something, at least.

***

The room was quiet, lit only by the amber glow of embers in the hearth. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, soft and persistent. Cici stirred beneath the covers, fingers curling into the sheets.

In her dream, the world was warm.

The cold and sorrow of the last weeks had vanished. She was at Arendale—she knew it instinctively, though the details were hazy, softened by candlelight and the scent of lavender. A fire roared nearby, casting flickers across rough-hewn stone walls and tapestries that swayed in some unseen breeze.

Andrew was there.

Not distant, not gentle, not tucking her in like a patient or an invalid—but there , all heat and hunger and restrained power. He stood at the foot of the bed, jacket discarded, waistcoat half undone, his cravat hanging loose. His eyes were dark, almost molten.

“Tell me what you want, sweeting.”

The sound of his voice—deep and seductive—was enough to make her tremble.

“I want you,” she whispered, reaching for him.

He came to her. His hands gentle but determined as they cupped her face then her waist then trailed lower, setting her skin alight wherever they passed.

She arched beneath him, moaning as his mouth found hers, possessive and eager.

There was no fear or hesitation, only need and the exquisite agony of release just out of reach.

He undressed her, taking his time, exploring her body inch by inch as if reacquainting himself. She whispered his name as he kissed the hollow of her throat then her collarbone and lower still, each kiss a brand, each sigh a benediction.

Their bodies came together with a kind of fierce desperation, a reunion not just of lovers but of something more elemental—husband and wife, man and woman, broken and whole. She felt him everywhere, inside and surrounding her, filling a void she hadn’t realized she carried.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed, clutching his shoulders as her world tipped into molten bliss.

He whispered her name as they crested together, holding her through the tremors.

But when she opened her eyes, the bed was cold. The room was empty.

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. Her nightgown clung damply to her skin, and her pulse still thrummed wildly in her throat.

Cici lay back on the pillow, breath catching.

It was only a dream.

But it had felt real. Too real.

And for the first time in weeks, she wanted to cry, not from grief but aching with want. She turned to Andrew’s side of the bed and reached out, fingertips brushing the cold sheets.

She’d have to step up her efforts to lure him back—or be consumed by longing and loneliness.