Page 33 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The snow crunched under their boots as they strolled along Bond Street.

Though the air held a lingering chill, the street bustled with energy.

Shoppers flocked to the boutiques, perused vendor carts, and paused to exchange pleasantries with their neighbors, enjoying the bright day after weeks of gloom.

Cici tightened her hold on Andrew’s arm as they approached Madame Celeste’s shop. “You’re really coming inside?” she asked, tilting her head with a faint, amused smile.

“Until I find a replacement for Henry, I’m your shadow.”

“I still think he deserved another chance.”

He arched a brow. “Are we shopping for a gown or airing grievances?”

She sniffed, her chin tipping in defiance. “The former, of course. But I’m not finished with the latter.”

“I didn’t think you were,” he replied, maddeningly calm.

Inside the boutique, chaos reigned. Assistants darted between fitting rooms, juggling bolts of fabric, while shopgirls raced to take orders and appease impatient customers.

Cici immediately noticed two older ladies, eyes sharp with judgment, like hawks in lace, trained on Andrew as they whispered behind gloved hands.

“You’re scandalizing every matron in here with your presence,” she murmured.

“It must be a slow day for gossip if I’m their sole entertainment,” he drawled.

“Seen toting parcels for your wife, they’ll claim you’re under my slipper.”

He dipped his head, lips near her ear. “I’d rather be under you in our bed.” Standing, he continued, “But you need a dress, so here we are.”

She laughed—too loud—and promptly buried it beneath the weight of their stares. “You know what you are, husband?”

“Besotted? Hopelessly so?” he asked, deep affection glinting in his eyes.

Warm, tingling inside, and completely besotted herself, she proclaimed, “Incorrigible.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve mentioned that before—often,” he teased, smiling.

They moved deeper into the showroom, past fabric samples, sketchbooks, and finished gowns on display. She paused before a blush silk.

“This is lovely.”

Andrew peered over her shoulder. “It’s… fine.”

She turned, arching a brow. “Why does fine sound dangerously close to ‘adequate.’”

“Because it is.” He stepped around her, plucked a sketch off an easel, and lowered his voice. “But this—in green—would require a warning label.”

She examined the sketch: a daring neckline, a clinging silhouette, and a skirt that flared into elegance. It was bold, and regal.

“I couldn’t pull that off,” she murmured.

He slid an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “Sweeting, in that gown, you’d be criminal.”

Flushed and flustered, she tried for composure. “Now who’s being scandalous?”

“I’m imagining us at the ball, making small talk and dancing while every man in the room imagines undressing my wife.”

“Andrew, stop,” she warned, trying not to laugh.

He didn’t, of course, adding in a hushed tone, “But only I will know the truth beneath the silk.”

Madame Celeste approached, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her experienced gaze appraised Cici before flitting to Andrew with a sparkle. “Your Graces. An honor.”

“She’ll take this one in green,” he said, handing over the sketch. “The color of her eyes. Do you have it?”

The modiste’s head tilted as she once again appraised Cici. “I do indeed. Monsieur has impeccable taste.”

“Excellent. We’ll need three others ready for fittings by Wednesday.”

“That’s only two days,” Cici objected. “I’m certain Madame Celeste—”

“Will oblige,” he interjected. “For the rush fee she will charge me.”

“But, of course, Your Grace. It will be our privilege.”

As Celeste barked orders in French, Cici murmured, “Perhaps I should bring you every time.”

Andrew leaned close, his warm breath grazing her ear. “You know what would look even better than that gown?”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Andrew!” she exclaimed, once again scandalized.

He merely grinned, utterly unapologetic.

***

An hour later, bundled in her heavy winter cloak, she stepped onto the cold pavement beside Andrew.

Dress shopping was usually a chore, but with her husband there, offering his opinion laced with teasing and flirtation, she’d enjoyed herself more than she’d ever expected to.

And she had four new gowns for the upcoming season to show for it.

For the first time in months, her spirits were buoyant.

Then the carriage failed to appear.

“It should be just down the row,” Andrew said, scanning the busy street. “I’ll fetch the driver, but you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you.”

She nodded—just as a sudden jostling from behind pitched her forward. Her foot slid on the wet cobbles, and she stumbled into the road right into the path of a speeding hackney.

A scream tore from her throat. Andrew’s shout came a split second later. But her ears registered mostly the pounding hooves bearing down on her. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact and agony—

Powerful arms seized her around the waist, hauling her back onto the pavement. By some miracle, the hackney missed her by mere inches.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his hands skimming over her, checking for blood and broken bones. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” she gasped, breathless. “I-I tripped…”

“No, ma’am. You were pushed,” said a wide-eyed shopgirl from the doorway. “A man in a dark cape came up behind you.”

“I saw him, too,” added another. “Tall. Slender. Carried a pearl-handled cane—expensive-looking. He ran off that way.” She pointed down a narrow alley.

The words “pearl-handled cane” wrung the breath from Cici’s lungs.

“I don’t dare leave you,” Andrew murmured.

Just then, their footman and driver appeared at a sprint.

“Stay with the duchess,” Andrew ordered, releasing her into the footman’s care. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Then he was gone, his coat flying behind him as he vanished down the alley.

“I’m fine,” she told the men. “Go help the duke. I’ll wait in the shop.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Your Grace,” the driver said, “but not on my life. I like my teeth where they are.”

The young footman, big and burly, which the new ones all seemed to be since her troubles started, nodded in agreement.

***

As Andrew turned the corner, a swirl of dark cloak flashed in and out of shadow and sunlight. The figure paused at the far end of the alley, face obscured beneath a hood, and glanced back. Then he bolted.

Andrew sprinted after him, boots scraping on wet stone. Cold sliced against his cheeks, his heart thumping as he dodged stacks of crates and patches of ice. At the mouth of the alley, he skidded to a halt, barely keeping his balance.

The market square sprawled ahead, filled with a throng of shoppers and street vendors—hundreds of faces. The cloaked man was nowhere in sight.

“Damn it,” Andrew bit out, raking a hand through his hair.

He stood there, chest heaving, not from exertion but from fury.

Cici could have died right in front of him.

Jaw clenched, he turned back toward the alley. Enough chasing shadows. He needed a professional. Someone who could blend in, ask the right questions, and dig deeper.

He strode back with renewed purpose. As he reached the street where Cici waited, the footman alert at her side, he noticed her pallor, how her eyes darted around, looking frightened and vulnerable. He quickened his pace.

“Andrew. Thank goodness,” she breathed, scanning him from head to toe then past his shoulder. “What happened?”

“He slipped into the crowd and got away,” he said, ushering her toward the carriage. “He knew we’d be here.”

“But how?” she asked. “This outing was unplanned.”

“He followed us and picked his moment.”

She wavered slightly. “He’s been watching us?”

More likely just watching her. He didn’t say so, however. She was frightened enough.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, lifting her into the carriage and signaling the driver. As he climbed in beside her, the coach lurched forward.

Cici reached for his hand. He clasped it firmly, slipped his arm around her, and pulled her close.

“I thought maybe I imagined it,” she whispered. “But he’s been there. Every time. Why would he want to hurt me, Andrew? I don’t even know him.”

Andrew’s grip tightened. “Someone paid him to, Cici.”

Their eyes locked, the carriage swaying around them.

“Lady Winslow,” she uttered at the same time he said, “Your sister.”

“You think Elizabeth would hire a killer?”

“Why not? She had no qualms about poisoning you.”

“What about the widow? She seemed mighty possessive of you in the park and despised me on sight.”

He frowned. “They both have motive—”

“Yes, that I took something that belonged to them,” she concluded.

“Which is deluded,” he scoffed angrily.

“What am I to do? Become a prisoner in my home? Afraid to step outside?”

“I won’t let that happen.” He swept her into his arms. “This is the last time anyone gets close to you, sweeting. I swear it.”

She rested her head on his chest as they rode on in silence, wrapped in shared dread.

Andrew’s gaze drifted to the frost-flecked window. His thoughts already turning toward his next move. By nightfall, someone would answer his questions.

***

Jenkins appeared in the doorway. “Cook’s special blend, Your Grace.”

Cici nodded as he placed the porcelain tray and tea service beside her.

“Shall I pour?”

“I can manage, Jenkins. Please shut the door on your way out. I’m seeking twenty minutes of peace.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The door clicked shut, and she exhaled. After the day she’d endured, she needed a few moments alone to reclaim herself.

She poured the steaming brew, blended to her taste by the Sommerville House kitchen, into the delicate china cup. The scent of white peony and linden, sweetened with orange zest and a whisper of vanilla, curled through the air.

Cradling the cup in both hands, she leaned back. Outside, the world pressed on with its duties, demands, and expectations. But here, in the hush of the sitting room, the quiet wrapped around her like a shawl.