Page 40 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The morning sun slanted through the east dining room with all the subtlety of a battle cry.

Maggie sat at the far end of the gleaming mahogany table, ignoring the spread of eggs, scones, and delicate jams—cranberry today, not blackberry, which felt like an insult.

Her hair hung loose, unpinned and stubborn, because the sheer effort of fussing with it was beyond her.

Across from her, Duncan, freshly returned from some early errand, buttering his toast like a man without mortal concerns.

“Good morning,” Cici said brightly as she swept into the room.

Andrew stood as any proper gentleman should, waving off the footman in favor of attending to his wife himself.

“I trust you slept well, Your Grace?” the earl asked brightly, with a cheerfulness that set Maggie’s teeth on edge.

She interrupted, her tone sweet and savage. “I did, thank you for asking. I dreamt of your execution. It was lovely—there were flowers and confetti.”

Duncan didn’t miss a beat. “Were they lilies?”

“Pansies,” she replied cheerily. “Far more celebratory.”

Andrew coughed into his copy of The Times , while Cici nudged her shin discreetly beneath the table.

“Kick me if you like,” Maggie hissed her anger boiling over, “but I won’t sit here like a good little miss, silent and compliant, while my life is managed for me.” She glared at her brother and demanded, “Is it true, Andrew? You arranged for a special license?”

“I did,” he said, folding his newspaper with deliberate calm. “Mother wants the marriage expedited. Your behavior has been atrocious, and I don’t mean only your secret sleuthing. You’ve been short with the household staff, demanding in public, and you ran up an outrageous bill at the shops.”

“If I’m to travel to the wilds of Scotland, I can’t do it in silk and satin slippers. I needed an entire new wardrobe, so I don’t freeze to death.”

“I’m certain Duncan won’t let that happen.”

“Correct. I’d prefer not having an icicle in my bed,” he muttered between bites of breakfast.

Maggie glared at him while her brother continued listing her misdeeds. Someone had noticed her efforts at least.

“This is unlike you, sister. You’ve never been spoiled and selfish, Or hurtful. You insulted the duke of Cantwell’s cousin. He’s Her Majesty’s cousin, mind you. She and the entire family were deeply offended.”

“I only said his daughter was light on her feet. What’s wrong with that?”

Andrew fought to keep his composure. “You likened her to a poodle.”

“She was rather perky,” Maggie mused. Duncan was more interested in his sausages than the conversation, so she reached down deep for another appalling jab. “When the girl danced, all those corkscrew curls bounced, and she had no fewer than three bows.”

Cici choked on her tea.

“I didn’t say it to her face,” Maggie added, as if this diminished the offense.

“Others overheard you,” Andrew said, his voice tight. “Which I’m sure was intentional.”

“Why would I do that?”

Andrew’s gaze flicked toward Lord Rothbury. “You tell me.”

“Speaking of dogs with bows,” Duncan said, interrupting smoothly as he spread jam on his toast, “I find your bark delightful. Your bite... well, I’m eager to experience it more fully after the wedding vows.”

Maggie flushed scarlet. “You are insufferable.”

“ Mayhap, but not so often. Be happy you’re living, lass. You’re a long time dead .”

“What does that Scot’s gibberish mean?”

“It’s an old saying. You have to learn to find joy in life rather than being upset all the time.”

She threw up her hands. “Where is the joy in this? You took liberties with my person and then threatened me with scandal.”

“You consented,” he said with infuriating calm then winked. “Soon, on our wedding night, you’ll be grateful you did.”

Andrew stood, casting a weary glance skyward.

“On that note, I’m off to soothe Cantwell’s bruised ego.

I’ll apologize profusely for Lady Margaret’s undisciplined tongue and assure him she will be under strict control once her new husband takes charge.

The bishop will be here at four o’clock.

Let’s aim for civility until the vows are said at least.”

“Today?” Maggie exclaimed, surging from her chair.

“Yes. With the license in hand, there is no reason to delay.”

“I can think of one big Scottish one!” Also, she hadn’t had enough time to convince the arrogant laird that wedding a spoiled debutante was a horrendous idea. She stomped her foot in protest and panic. “I will not be strong-armed into a hushed ceremony like I’m some shameful mistress!”

“You’d make the most scandalous mistress,” Rothbury murmured, sipping his coffee.

Her blush intensified as she turned to quit the room. “I’m going riding.”

“I’ll join you,” Cici declared, popping up from her chair like a spark. “Anything to escape the flying barbs.”

“Only in a carriage,” Andrew called after her. “You’re not galloping anywhere—not in your condition.”

That was the high-handedness Maggie feared—warranted for Cici, perhaps, in her condition—but not for her. Not with Duncan.

As she reached the door, his rumbling burr followed her, lazy and impossible to ignore.

“Don’t forget your bridal fitting at noon,” he called. “We wouldn’t want your gown too tight. It might spark gossip about our haste. Though I do rather enjoy a corset.”

Maggie’s fists clenched. She didn’t care who heard her muttered threat. “If he reaches the wedding night with all appendages intact, it’ll be nothing short of divine intervention.”

***

In the hallway outside the drawing room, where in minutes she would walk out as a bride, Maggie wrung her hands as she paced. Her pounding heart louder than the hushed voices of the few guests and the r ustle of the heavy brocade of her hastily stitched wedding gown.

How had it come to this?

A betrothal born of scandal, propelled by duty, and the promise of a fortune, and the rigid opinions of her mother and too many stubborn men with titles.

Chief among them, the Earl of Rothbury, laird of the MacPherson clan in some distant, mist-drenched corner of the Highlands who insisted on honoring a contract she’d practically dared him to break.

Cici appeared in the doorway. “They’re ready to begin.”

“I’m not,” she snorted derisively. “Not that my opinion or feelings matter in any of this.”

Her friend approached, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry I’ve been preoccupied with my own problems. What happened to ending the betrothal?”

Maggie looked up, beyond frustrated. “I tried everything, Cici. Things so haughty, so arrogant, so insufferably annoying they would have had me sprinting back to the Highlands if I were him.”

She resumed pacing, skirts swishing. “I scoffed at his clan tartan, called his castle mildewy, and compared the sound of bagpipes to a wounded goat. I even took inspiration from you and joined him for whiskey and a cigar at the Wallingford dinner last week.”

“Oh, Maggie, you didn’t. That didn’t end well for me.”

“I did—even though cigars are revolting and I almost became ill on the library rug.”

“That’s scandalous,” Cici exclaimed. “Why is no one talking of it.”

“Because news of the Duchess of Sommerville being born on the wrong side of the blanket rather eclipsed my bold moment.”

“Right. Incredibly bad timing. Sorry.”

She waved her hand. “Duncan escorted me out so hastily, I doubt anyone noticed. I expected him to call it off that very night—but do you know what he did?”

Clueless, Cici shook her head.

“He laughed.” Maggie threw up her hands. “As if I were some charming eccentric instead of a desperate woman doing her utmost to chase him off. Nothing— nothing —shook his resolve to go through with this.”

Moving closer, Cici laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. Andrew and I started in much the same way—with distance and mistrust, and a thousand things unspoken. But love grew despite everything. I pray it will for you, too.”

Her gaze dropped to the stunning ring on her finger, which she was twisting nervously. She shoved her hands in her skirt and whispered, “He loves his clan, his castle, his bloody inheritance. That is his life, and his legacy. And I… I don’t see where I fit into it. Except dead last.”

Cici gave her arm a squeeze. “Then change the order. Show him that his legacy, and his life, won’t matter without you beside him.”

Maggie gave a watery smile. “You always did believe in the impossible.”

“It took time, but I learned to trust my husband and believe in us. Now I believe in you.”

“Is there a problem?” Andrew asked from the doorway.

“Nothing new,” she grumbled.

Andrew glanced at Cici. “Give us five minutes, sweeting. Then play us in.”

She nodded, giving Maggie’s shoulder a final squeeze before disappearing inside.

“Duncan is a good man,” Andrew said once they were alone. “He cares for you and would move mountains to keep you safe. I wouldn’t give you into his keeping otherwise.”

“Care and keeping,” she repeated. “Just what every bride wants to hear on her wedding day.”

“Maggie…”

“Answer this for me, Andrew,” she said with less sarcasm. “If Father or James were here, do you think they’d give me to him?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Especially if they knew Duncan like I do.”

“Do you think... he might grow to love me? Like you did with Cici?”

“I don’t think,” he said. “I know. He’s loved you since you were five, freckled and in pinafores, following us wherever we went. I’d complain and try to send you home, but Duncan insisted you tag along. He taught you to fish, catch frogs, swim…”

A soft smile touched her lips. That was the Duncan she’d fallen in love with.

“I might not have learned if I’d waited for you,” she teased.

“True,” he said wryly. “But Duncan stepped in.”

As a friend and a brother. Then, and now. Even when she grew up and left the school room, there was nothing more between them. No romance or passion or a whisper of marriage between them, until he stood to inherit riches.

He must have sensed her continued unease because Andrew touched her cheek, his voice solemn. “I trust him with my life. More importantly, I trust him with yours. But I’ll tell you what I told him—if he ever hurts you, he’s a dead man.”

The familiar arpeggios of Ave Maria floated in from the drawing room. Andrew offered her his arm.

When she stepped into the room, all she saw was Duncan. Not in full Highland regalia, thank goodness, but still impeccably turned out. No tartan, no sporran, no sword. Just Duncan—handsome as sin and infuriatingly composed. His dark gaze locked on her as Andrew escorted her forward.

At the makeshift altar, the fireplace festooned with white ribbons, greenery, and hothouse blooms, Andrew kissed her cheek and placed her hand in Duncan’s.

As he moved to the groom’s right, and Cici rose from the piano to take her place at Maggie’s side, Duncan murmured for her ears alone, “You’re late.”

“I needed a moment.”

He leaned in closer. “Do you need another?”

“I’m not sure a moment would help,” she whispered. “I tried everything to drive you away. Some of the most appalling behavior I’ve ever displayed—and you still showed up today.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly. “You insulted my country, my castle, my family, my music—even my whiskey. And somehow, I still want to marry you.”

Her throat tightened. She knew it had less to do with affection and more to do with hundreds of thousands of pounds.

But then he said, quietly, “Underneath all the defiance and the shields you throw up, I see fire. I rather like a woman with fire, and I’ve got enough Highland grit to withstand the heat.”

The bishop of London, tall and stately in his purple vestments, cleared his throat. “Are the bride and groom ready?”

The intimate moment fractured, Duncan nodded. “We’re ready to proceed, Your Lordship.”

“Very well,” the bishop said as he flipped to a page marked with a ribbon. “Dearly beloved,” he began as was tradition. “We are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

He paused, his gaze settling on the couple before him.

“Though this union is forged under a special license and within a private home, its sanctity is no less binding, nor its vows any less sacred. Surrounded by family and trusted friends, let us witness the beginning of what I pray will be a true and lasting bond.”

As the timeless blessing wove around her, Maggie clutched Duncan’s hand in a death grip, her nails digging into his skin. He didn’t flinch. His voice remained steady. Hers, less so as she spoke vows she’d never imagined saying. Not like this.

Yet, here she stood, her hand in his, her words echoing his, facing a future she neither trusted nor dared hope for.

When the bishop pronounced them man and wife, Duncan didn’t kiss her. Not at first. He simply looked at her, gaze steady and storm-dark, and whispered, “Nothing is guaranteed, Maggie. It’s up to us to write our story. Starting now.”

His lips brushed hers then.

Not with heat. Not with hunger. But with certainty.

And that—somehow—was worse.

Because heaven help her, it felt real.