Page 4 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

“How peculiar,” Elizabeth announced as she climbed the steps and sat on a bench, her concern for her injured mother suddenly evaporated.

In contrast, Cici was the one who seemed agitated, and, despite the coolness of the evening, excessively warm.

In fact, her face was no longer rosy but quite red and glistening with perspiration.

She snapped her fan open and fluttered it wildly. “I am not feeling well. I think I need to sit down.”

Before she could climb the stairs to the benches, her knees gave way.

Andrew, who was beyond reach, became alarmed when the little redhead collapsed on the grass.

Rushing to her aid, he swept her up in his arms and carried her up the steps, taking them two at a time.

When he laid her on the bench, she was as weak as a kitten and had difficulty catching her breath, wheezing a bit with each inhale.

Elizabeth sprang to her feet. “I’ll fetch Mama. She always keeps salts in her reticule.”

Before Andrew could utter a protest, she was down the steps and hurrying up the path toward the house. This left him to look on helplessly as a distressed Cici gasped for air.

Thinking it might help, he untied the bow at her throat and loosened the sheer lace cape that accessorized her gown.

This didn’t look like a typical female swoon from a too-tight corset.

In fact, it alarmed him she muttered incoherently, squirming restlessly and scratching her skin as if she suffered from a fever.

He laid a hand against her forehead to check, but drew back abruptly when she cried, “Bugs!” and slapped her arms.

Andrew saw no sign of insects—but, to her, they were unmistakably real. She swiped at her skin and pulled at her clothing, but, finding no relief, she shrieked again, “They’re everywhere. I can’t bear it. Get them off me!”

Her fingers clawed at her scalp, tearing out the jeweled pins. Her auburn curls tumbled around her shoulders, wild and uncontained. Despite her state, the thick, glossy mass left him speechless.

“What is going on here?” an affronted voice demanded.

Andrew turned to see Lord Benton enter the gazebo, flanked by his wife, Marquess Easterly, and his marchioness.

“Lady Cecilia fell ill, unexpectedly. I assisted her to the bench while Lady Elizabeth went for help.”

“It looks as though you did more than that,” the marchioness observed. “Her hair is down and her clothing is, well, askew.”

Lady Benton rushed to her daughter’s side. “I’ll tend her now. What you’ve done, alone out here with my daughter, is most unseemly.”

“She couldn’t breathe,” Andrew protested. “I was trying to make her more comfortable until you could arrive, my lady.”

“Arrive? Why would you expect me, when I knew nothing was amiss until a footman advised me to make haste to the gazebo?”

“But Lady Elizabeth assured me you were meeting us here for a stroll,” Andrew explained through gritted teeth. Interestingly, the lady who could corroborate his story was nowhere around to do so. As he felt their condemning stares, he began to suspect something was afoot.

“I made no such arrangements.” She looked at her husband. “Had you, Charles?”

In a piteous voice, Cici implored, “Please, get them off me.” What followed was a string of incoherent words as she continued to pull at her hair and gown.

“We must get her somewhere private and summon a physician, my lord husband,” Lady Benton exclaimed. “Clearly, she cannot walk in her condition. One of you gentlemen will need to carry her.”

The Marquess, who was past sixty, deferred to her father but Lord Benton shook his head regretfully, “Arendale, you will have to do it. A back injury prevents me—”

“Certainly,” he interrupted and once again scooped up a now pale and shivering Cecilia Edwards in his arms. Turning, he addressed his host. “If you will lead, I will follow, my lord.”

In minutes, they were at the back door.

“You can’t mean to take her through the ballroom,” the marchioness exclaimed. “Think of the scandal.”

“I think her inability to breathe takes precedence,” Andrew said cuttingly.

As their party of six passed through the crush of guests, dancing stopped, as did the music.

Whispers, murmurs of concern, and a few gasps of outrage surrounded them.

The sight of Lady Cecilia fidgeting restlessly and mumbling incoherently was startling enough.

Seeing her in a mussed gown with her long hair loose and falling in a riot of color over the viscount’s arm was salacious.

As whispers spread and speculation rippled like waves across the ballroom, Andrew did his best to maintain his hold on his wriggling charge, who continued to slap at the invisible creatures.

While he followed the Marquess, her parents close on his heels, he turned her face into his shoulder to minimize any further embarrassment for the young lady.

From the corner of his eye, Andrew caught a flash of lavender silk.

Elizabeth stood among the crowd, a smug smile playing on her lips as she watched the spectacle unfold.

She had gone to fetch her mama, but they’d arrived within seconds of her leaving.

With only one entrance to the garden, their paths would have crossed.

The timing, the conflicting stories, the way Elizabeth vanished just as chaos struck—none of it added up.

An ominous chill ran down his spine. This reeked of treachery.