Page 38 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The study windows cast pale gold streaks across the paneled walls as the day waned. Outside, the lamps were lit with a hiss of gas and flame, and carriage wheels clattered on cobblestone, the city indifferent to the reckoning about to unfold inside the Earl of Benton’s townhouse.

Cici sat beside Andrew on the settee, fingers interlocked with his while her father read through the documents. Every so often he would pass one to his wife who sat beside him, a steady stream of tears running down her cheeks.

The door opened, and Elizabeth stepped inside.

She was dressed impeccably as always—her hair arranged in deliberate curls, her gown a delicate yellow—but her eyes were wary. Defensive.

“You sent for me?” she asked her father, tone clipped.

He gestured toward the empty chair. “Sit.”

She remained standing. Her gaze flicked to Andrew then to Cici. “What’s this about?”

No one answered, but Duncan shut the door, revealing his and Maggie’s presence. Elizabeth’s gaze shifted from them to her mother dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief while refusing to look in her elder daughter’s direction.

“Are we staging a family drama?” Elizabeth asked, her voice quavering despite her flip question.

Andrew’s voice cut through the tension. “We’re not staging a drama. We’re staging a reckoning.”

Lord Benton stepped forward, papers in hand—the note from the Staffordshire Ball, the journal scrap from her desk, corroborated testimony from the coachman and the shopgirl.

“We know you were behind the attempts on Cecilia’s life, and, when those failed, tried to ruin her by spreading rumors about her legitimacy,” he said.

Elizabeth's jaw clenched. “That’s preposterous. Why would I do such a thing?”

“Jealousy, spite, pure evil,” Maggie suggested coldly.

“Jealous! Of Cici? Please,” Elizabeth scoffed, eyes sparkling with disdain.

“She’s got a talent for catastrophe. Remember the Barnsworth ball?

She tripped over her own feet and fell into the refreshment table, cherry-cordial punch bowl and all.

” Her voice softened—mockingly. “I’m surprised it took this long for her to blame it on someone else. ”

Cici’s face burned. That night still haunted her.

Elizabeth’s voice slithered on. “Honestly, she probably missed a step and stumbled. That staircase is steep—it wouldn’t take much.”

But Andrew had had enough. “You can stop the lies,” he said in a voice like a drawn blade. “We know exactly what happened.”

“You can’t know if you suspect it was me,” she argued. “I was in the box at the opera with Mama and others when she fell, and nowhere near the bookshop and her modiste’s for the other incidents.”

“You didn’t have to be,” Andrew said, eyes locked on hers with contempt. “You paid Finian Lowell twenty pounds to do the deed for you."

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Thin, twitchy, carries a pearl-handled cane.” Duncan’s voice cut through. “Does that jog your memory?”

For the first time since entering the study, Elizabeth’s expression faltered. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter. He knows you.” Andrew supplied. “We have his signed confession, which makes you an accessory to his crime of attempted murder.”

Silence filled the room like smoke, until Cici whispered, “Why?”

Suddenly, Elizabeth laughed—a brittle, broken sound.

“Why?” she repeated. “Because all I ever heard growing up was ‘Cici is more talented. Cici is sweeter. Cici is cleverer.’ Never was it ‘Cici is the most beautiful, a diamond of the first water.’ It was all a lie. No one has chosen me. Beauty didn’t lay the world at my feet, as I was promised.

My ugly-duckling sister gets a dukedom—and a parade of praise—while I’m left to beg for scraps.

” Her eyes snapped to Andrew. “I would have given you so much more: grace, admiration, envy from the ton of the match you made.”

“I never wanted that,” he said quietly. “I wanted someone who was loyal, loving, who had wit and charm as well as beauty. That was never you.”

Elizabeth flinched then her spite surged. “I could have given you heirs, at least.”

Outraged and furious, Cici stepped toward her, ready to claw her eyes out. “I would have given him an heir if you hadn’t had me pushed down a flight of stairs!”

Andrew caught her at the waist, halting her steps—but not the accusation that flew from her lips. “You killed our son,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’re a murderer.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Lord Benton said, dropping the damning proof as if it burned.

The papers fluttered down, settling in silence. He stared at his elder daughter, face grim.

“You tried to harm your sister,” he said, each word deliberate.

“And in your thirst for vengeance, you’ve ruined your mother and me.

Did you think it would help your cause—that gentlemen would scramble to wed the daughter of a cuckold and a strumpet?

” He stepped closer. “You’re selfish, vindictive, and cruel.

That such venom could spring from my loins is a torment I’ll carry to my grave. You are no longer welcome in my house.”

“But, Papa—"

“Silence,” he demanded, his tone turned to iron. “You will leave London tomorrow and reside with your Uncle Alfred and Aunt Beatrice in Alston—permanently.”

Elizabeth stiffened, color draining from her face as the enormity of her exile took root. “But… he raises cows. In Cumbria.”

“Exactly,” Lord Benton said. “Far from here, where you can’t hurt your sister or this family.”

“You can’t—”

“I can,” he said, his voice like iron. “And I will. Your behavior is beyond forgiveness.”

Cici watched, her heart thudding. Alston. The name landed like a stone in water—heavy and final.

She’d been there once as a child. A scattered market town buried deep in the North Pennines, famed for cutting winds and bitter winters, where snowfall swallowed rooftops and daylight felt scarce.

It was the antithesis of Mayfair’s glitter. And for Elizabeth—someone who worshiped attention and status—it was the perfect punishment.

Cici pictured her now, trudging through mud, flanked by cows and bleating sheep.

No balls. No parties. No suitors. Just wind, wool, and regret.

The kind of place where society forgot you existed.

Her breath trembled in her chest. Despite all Elizabeth had done, and the comeuppance long past due her, Cici didn’t feel triumphant.

Andrew did not share her feelings. He stood tall, fury still simmering. “I should have you charged. But a trial would only torment your sister further. This sounds like a fitting punishment. If you ever return without permission, I swear I’ll follow through.”

Elizabeth’s gaze darted around the room—but found no allies. Not even Mama, her staunchest defender, offered a shred of sympathy.

Then, chin lifted, she turned and walked out.

One brittle footstep at a time. The sound was smaller than the silence she left behind.

***

Mary had come and gone, quick and efficient as always, leaving Cici ready for bed.

She stood in her night rail, auburn waves tumbling loose around her shoulders, staring into the fire.

Her arms wrapped loosely around her waist, but her fingers trembled—betraying the storm inside her.

Elizabeth’s confession echoed in her mind—unrepentant, cruel, final.

Cici hadn’t wept. She hadn’t screamed. She only felt hollow.

The door creaked open behind her, and the air shifted.

In need of distraction from the storm of her thoughts, Cici turned toward her husband—never more grateful to see him.

He leaned against the doorway, coat gone, shirt open at the collar, his gaze unreadable.

Her relief dimmed when she spotted the thick length of leather in his hand.

“What is that?”

He pushed off the frame and stepped into the room. “A Scottish tawse. Laird MacPherson thought it might help me manage my duchess’ more rebellious inclinations.”

Her brow arched. “You’re not seriously going to spank me with that.”

His tone was calm. Affectionate. But firm. “You disobeyed me, Cici. I told you I was handling it.”

She lifted her chin. “But we put an end to it.”

“The end doesn’t excuse the means.”

“In this case, I think it does.”

“Cecilia…”

She nervously licked her lips. “Did you know you only use my full name when you’re vexed.”

“I’m more than vexed. I’m disappointed. And worried. Your recklessness could’ve cost us everything.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But… can’t we make an exception this once? It’s been a harrowing day.”

“I think not. You’ll rest better with a clear conscience.” He sank into the armchair and patted his lap. “Come here.”

She hesitated. “There are plenty of ways to clear my conscience that don’t involve leather straps.”

“You’re stalling.”

“You noticed?” she said sweetly.

A flicker of a smirk tugged at his mouth. “We could’ve been finished by now—and well into the rubbing, kissing, and more that always follows.”

“That part’s always lovely. Can we skip to it?”

“No.”

“Well... if I’m already condemned, might I at least choose my punishment?”

“That’s not how this works.”

“There are rules for spanking?” she quipped, turning toward the armoire with a mutter. “Of course there are. Look who I’m talking to.”

“Cici…”

She smiled. That at least was progress.

After rummaging through the bottom drawer, she rose and walked back to him.

Andrew’s gaze dropped to what she held—and he blinked. “Where did you get that?”

“Your study. Right where you told Duncan it would be.” She held up the bundle of birch rod bound in twine—lightweight, flexible, and considerably less terrifying than the tawse. At least, she had to hope that proved true.

“And why is it here?”

“I was protecting Maggie. She and Duncan have been at odds all week.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly. “But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about you.”