Page 35 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

Cici stood in her chemise and stockings, gazing into the tall mirror flanking her wardrobe.

Candlelight flickered in the dressing room.

Her emerald gown, gleaming, pressed, and perfect, lay spread across the chaise, its intricate beadwork shimmering on the bodice.

A pile of rejected jewels lay atop a silver tray: opal drop earrings, a sapphire brooch, a string of diamonds—all too cold, too impersonal. Tonight demanded strength, not ice.

Andrew entered without knocking, already dressed for the Staffordshire Ball.

He wore a sharply tailored black coat and a silk cravat that matched her gown.

His hair, dark blond and neatly combed, accentuated the chiseled lines of his face.

More handsome than ever in his evening attire, he made her heart flutter.

Without a word, he held out a black velvet box.

She took it tentatively. He’d given her the Sommerville heirloom jewelry, and they’d exchanged gifts at Christmas, but this was different. A gift without occasion. When she opened the box, her breath caught.

Inside, nestled on black satin, were emerald and diamond combs, delicate and dazzling.

“Andrew,” she whispered. “They’re beautiful.”

“I saw them and knew they belonged on you in that dress.”

She rose on tiptoe to kiss him, but he didn’t meet her halfway. Her lips caught his jaw—fleeting, unsatisfying, and far from what she’d hoped.

“You’re worried,” she murmured.

“How can I not be when we’re acting as though nothing happened?” Andrew strode to the fire, staring into it, his expression closed.

“You’re having second thoughts?”

He gave a humorless smile. “More like third and fourth.”

She approached slowly. “You promised to take me. No matter what crisis arose.”

He turned, his arms folded. “I meant a property crisis, Cici. Not life and death. A crowded ballroom is perfect cover for someone with intent to harm.”

“I want to quiet the whispers—about us, about the scandal, about everything,” she insisted. “This is the season’s first ball. What better way to show unity than attending one of the most anticipated events—together?’

“Quashing whispers from people who don’t matter isn’t a reason to go.”

“As much as you hate to admit it, standing in society matters,” she pressed. “It’s about more than just us. It’s the Sommerville name; your mother and sister are affected too. Besides, you’ll be there to protect me.”

His jaw tightened. “Like I protected you at the modiste’s?”

“That wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly. “He came out of nowhere.” Cici moved closer to better argue her case. “Maggie and Rothbury are planning to attend. That’s three pairs of eyes watching over me.”

Unconvinced, his frown deepened.

“Please, Andrew. I won’t let whoever’s behind this shove me back into the shadows.”

“This isn’t a point of pride. It’s a matter of safety.”

She placed her hands on his chest, beseeching, “Stay beside me. Dance every dance with me. Talk so loudly about how much you love me, they’ll choke on it. If we withdraw now, they win.”

He took her hands. She could see the war of indecision behind his eyes, the rage against the threat, and even his pride in her defiance. The last one must have won him over because he vowed, “They’ll strangle on it, because I do love you, sweet pea.”

He didn’t give her a chance to reply. He pulled her into his arms, squeezing her so tight she found it hard to breathe. But she didn’t protest, drinking in his warmth and love.

In a voice gruff with emotion, he admitted, “I can’t lose you too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

“You can’t know that,” he returned.

“We’ll stay close to Maggie and Duncan. With your and Lord Rothbury’s height and the sheer breadth of your shoulders, no one would dare attack in the full light of hundreds of guests.”

“You have more faith in what your assailant wouldn’t dare than I do,” he murmured.

“Don’t make me stay home,” she pleaded. “I’m sick of the dark cloud we’ve been living under.

It’s time for a little light to shine through.

Nothing has inspired me to participation since…

the opera.” She pushed out of his arms enough to look up at him.

“Besides, how will every man in the room imagine undressing your wife, in the gown you specifically chose, if she’s not there? ”

A beat of silence. Then he drew her close again and exhaled, the last of his resistance crumbling. “You’re maddeningly persuasive.”

She beamed up at him. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

“I disagree. There’s so much more to you.” He smiled faintly. “So be it. We’ll let them see the duchess they tried to unmake—but couldn’t.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Mary entered, hesitating at the sight of Andrew—his arms still wrapped around her. “Should I return, Your Grace?”

“No,” he answered for her. “We’ll be late if we delay.”

Mary helped Cici into her gown. Andrew stayed, seated in a chair by the fire, watching every moment—as the bodice was secured and the skirts arranged—with as much concern as desire.

“Which jewels?” her maid asked, picking of the tray of already rebuffed pieces, he gave his only directive. “Just the combs.”

Cici tilted her head. “You think I need less sparkle tonight?”

“You are the sparkle.”

Her cheeks warmed at the quiet reverence in his tone.

Mary pinned her hair up, leaving soft tendrils to frame her face. When she was done, she left them alone.

Cici turned from side to side, taking in her final appearance, then she met his gaze in the mirror. “How did you talk me into this color? It’s bolder than anything I’ve worn before.”

Andrew crossed the room and stopped behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

“Because you knew I was right,” he murmured, brushing her neck with his thumbs. “You’re breathtaking.”

“I’m nervous.”

His arms slid around her waist, drawing her back against him. “The gossips and backbiters will be watching. But you’ll walk in there like you own the room.”

“You have more faith in me than I do.”

Andrew turned her to face him and kissed her lips lightly. “You forget. Tonight, I’ll be at your side to remind them who you are.”

He offered his arm. “Shall we show Mayfair what it means to be united and invincible?”

She smiled. “Let’s.”

Together, they descended the wide main staircase dressed as royalty.

***

Like the Lansdowne, Devonshire, and Sommerville residences, Staffordshire House was one of the few palatial homes in Mayfair large enough to host a ball on such a grand scale.

It was ablaze with candlelight, chandeliers glittering over rich brocade and polished marble.

The musicians, tucked beneath the grand staircase, filled the space with the swelling romance of Verdi’s La Forza del Destino .

London’s elite, fresh from winter’s lull, swirled in pastels of silk and velvet, eager to see and be seen

Their entrance caused an immediate hush.

Her gloved hand rested lightly on Andrew’s arm—at first. Then her fingers tightened, digging into the muscle as they descended the stairs. All eyes were on them.

As if on cue, the music faltered. Conversation died.

Cici felt the shift in the air. The subtle recoil. Tight-lipped smiles that didn’t reach the eyes.

“Something has happened,” she whispered.

“I feel it too,” Andrew murmured. “I don’t see Maggie and Duncan, but I know who will know what’s being said.” He leaned closer. “Chin up and smile, Duchess.”

He led her across the floor with unshakable poise until they reached Lady Tavistock, one of the grand dames of the ton and a close friend of both the dowager duchess and her own mama.

“Your Graces,” she greeted, with a slight bow rather than a curtsy in deference to her age. “I assume you’re here for answers.”

Andrew offered her his free arm and guided both ladies to a quiet corner.

“There’s talk the Duchess of Sommerville isn’t…” the lady began in a whisper. Then she stopped, fanning herself vigorously. “How do I put this delicately?”

“That I’m not what?” Cici asked. “Please, we need to know.”

“An old letter has surfaced and is circulating. It alleges you aren’t Lord Benton’s”—her voice lowered to a whisper—“legitimate daughter.

Cici blanched.

“Her red hair, her figure,” the woman went on. “So unlike her blonde, willowy mother and sister. And Lord Benton’s coloring is dark. It’s been whispered before—but now, with a document, it’s quite scandalous.”

Cici’s throat had dried. She croaked when she exclaimed, “That would mean my mother had strayed.”

“Utter nonsense,” the lady concluded. “But such rumors can be devastating with inheritance and titles at stake.” Her gaze shifted to Andrew. “I do hope you have competent legal counsel for the distant relations who will be coming out of the woodwork, Your Grace.”

In the span of a few seconds, Cici went from stunned to speechless to furious and then despondent. First it was her appearance and personality, then her husband losing interest and turning to another, and now her questionable parentage. She simply couldn’t win.

Andrew must have sensed the emotional carousel she was riding. His arm tightened around her, and he proceeded to remove Cici from the conversation.

“Thank you, Lady Tavistock. Your insight has been invaluable,” she heard him say.

“Always happy to help out a dear friend. Please send my regards to the dowager duchess. I do so miss seeing her. She would have nipped this ridiculous tale in the bud if she were out of her mourning.”

“I’ll do that,” he said with a slight bow. “Enjoy your evening.”

He found a small alcove with a bench. Cici sat, numb. “I went from an overlooked, inconsequential nobody to a social pariah. What did I do?”

He sank down beside her and took her hands in his. “You married me, I’m afraid. The higher you rise, the more others want to see you fall.”

“You were right. I shouldn’t have come. And you were right about Arendale too,” she breathed, the fight seeping out of her with every word. “It would be better if it was my primary residence.”

“Where’s the invincible duchess of an hour ago?”

“Beaten down,” she said. “Again.”

He rose. “Dance with me.”

“Now?” she blinked.

“If not now, when? We came tonight to prove something. Let’s show everyone that we don’t care a whit about malicious rumors and innuendo.”

“That would be a lie because I do care. Can’t we just go home.”

“What’s one more lie added to the others swirling around us?”

“But, Andrew, what if it’s true?”

“It changes nothing. You are my wife, my duchess, my love. You are not retreating to Arendale to live apart from me.”

“Andrew…”

He held out his hand. “Dance with me. Let them see.”

When she laid her fingers across his palm, he gripped them firmly. With prefect timing, the ensemble played the overture to a waltz as he led her out onto the floor.

“Eyes on me and relax,” he murmured as he guided her expertly into motion.

She met his gaze—and in his arms, the weight of the whispers and condemning stares began to lift.

“They’re watching me,” he said, a gentle smile on the handsomest face she’d ever seen.

“You?” she asked, doubting that was true.

“They’re wondering if I’ll cast you aside.”

“But you won’t,” she said, sure of it.

“Never. I’d sooner cast all of Mayfair into the Thames, which would solve a lot of problems.”

“We’re part of Mayfair. Wouldn’t we have to go into the drink too?”

“I suppose so, but we’re Sommervilles. Like cream, we would rise to the top.”

Her laughter sparkled, and her steps lightened.

They danced not once but three times—a scandal in itself—then escaped to the veranda for some air.

They nodded at acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk as if they were too enamored with one another to be interrupted.

Andrew stayed at her side, constant and calm, as she’d teasingly told him to do before the awful rumors emerged.

And when it was time for the supper dance, he claimed yet another waltz, and afterward escorted her into the dining room.

When everyone was seated, and their glasses filled, Andrew rose and lifted his.

“If anyone here values truth more than titles, raise your glass to my wife. Legitimate in birth, peerless in character, and the only woman worthy to stand beside me.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

Lord Benton rose next, her mother at his side, as slandered as Cici.

In his hand, her papa clutched what could only be the defaming letter.

“For those who chase idle rumors, let it be settled. My daughter’s name, bloodline, and position are beyond question.

And anyone who implies otherwise tarnishes their own honor, not hers. ”

Silence gave way to soft applause.

Cici lifted her chin, proud of the men in her life, and of herself because she hadn’t turned tail and run like she’d wanted to.

Later, in a stolen moment with Maggie, Cici leaned close and whispered, “This must end.”

“Agreed. The widow and your sister seemed far too pleased with themselves,” she said dryly. “At least, until the toast—then they vanished.”

“Both of them?”

Maggie nodded. “Rather telling, isn’t it? We may not yet know which treacherous shrew orchestrated it—but it’s only a matter of time.”