Page 5 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The itching had faded, the haze lifted, but a dull headache throbbed behind her eyes. She’d much rather have stayed in bed with the curtains drawn, but her father’s summons could not be ignored. The study door stood open, so she stepped inside.

“Have a seat, Cecilia,” he said, gesturing to a lone chair.

She hesitated. It wasn’t in its usual spot but positioned awkwardly between her mother and his desk.

The air in the room felt unnaturally still as she crossed it, sat and smoothed her skirts, and then folded her hands in her lap. When she looked up, eager to learn what this was about, the sight that greeted her filled her with dread.

Both her parents wore equally grim expressions.

Her mother dabbed delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief while liberally employing her fan.

In the chair opposite her father’s sat her friend Maggie’s brother, his posture rigid, expression unreadable.

They had never been formally introduced, though they’d crossed paths at numerous balls and soirees.

That a duke would come calling at her home and request an audience with her was absurd enough to feel surreal.

“Papa?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What is this about?”

“In due time,” her father replied. “First, allow me to present, His Grace, the Duke of Sommerville.”

Cici rose to curtsy, but the duke waved her down.

“No need for ceremony,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “I have heard much about you from my sister, Lady Cecilia. Why is it we have never met?”

“I haven’t yet visited Sommerville House, Your Grace. Lady Maggie and I usually meet in town—to shop, promenade, or take ices at Gunter’s.” She offered a tentative smile. “She speaks of you often. Though she usually refers to you as… Ducky.”

The quip was a risk. She’d hoped it might dispel the tension—but her parents audibly gasped at her breach of decorum. The duke, mercifully, did not appear offended, though he didn’t smile either.

“Maggie bestowed that name upon me when she was two,” he said evenly. “Unfortunately, she’s yet to outgrow it.”

Cici studied him as subtly as she could. He was older than Maggie by a decade or more, with prematurely silvering blond hair and a reserved, patrician air. Though they shared the same striking blue eyes, his held a steely intensity that seemed to take her measure—and find her lacking.

Her cheeks flushed. She was no stranger to titled company, having been presented to the queen when she’d made her debut months earlier. But to be so plainly dismissed by the duke in her own home stung.

The duke turned his head slightly. “Stop skulking by the fireplace, Brother. I have other appointments this afternoon and would see this matter settled.”

A man stepped from the shadows, and Cici’s heart stuttered.

It was Andrew Ashwick. Not the charming gentleman from the night before, but a different version entirely. Cold and coiled with fury. He addressed the duke, his voice laced with biting sarcasm.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I thought it more expedient to remain standing, considering I’ll have to drop my trousers to be rogered up the—”

“Andrew!” the duke barked.

“Must we proceed with someone so vulgar?” her mother cried, flapping her fan with renewed vigor.

“There are ladies present, Arendale!” her father thundered.

Andrew’s gaze flicked to Cici then back to his brother. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

She and her mother gasped, the insult lingering in the air like smoke.

The duke rose and issued a stilted warning. “You are not helping. One more ungentlemanly remark, and you’ll find yourself outside, leaving me to represent your interests. Is that clear?”

The viscount didn’t flinch. His eyes locked with Cici’s as he replied, “Crystal.”

His Grace turned his focus to her. “My apologies. My brother speaks out of turn, but I cannot fault his temper—not entirely.” His tone cooled. “Given the circumstances.”

Still reeling, she found her voice. “May I ask what I’m being accused of?”

“You appear remarkably hale for someone who collapsed so dramatically last night,” the duke said, his skepticism cutting. “One might say you’ve had a miraculous recovery.”

Cici turned to her parents, her voice rising. “Mama? Papa? What is going on?”

Her mother leapt to her defense. “She has a sensitivity, Your Grace. She’s suffered such episodes before—though not in years. It must have been something in the food. An herb, perhaps.”

“Our physician examined her and agreed it was a reoccurrence of the malady,” her father explained. “This wasn’t theatrics, if that is what you are suggesting. I’ll have him summoned to corroborate at once,” he said, striding toward the door.

“No need,” Andrew cut in. “The means do not matter so much as the end in this case.” His fury seemed to have ebbed, replaced by grim resignation. “Let us be done with it.”

He withdrew a folded document from his coat and handed it to her father.

“The contract,” he said flatly. “Drawn up to your specifications, with His Grace’s oversight. All it requires now are signatures.”

“What contract?” Cici asked, her anxiety rising along with the pitch of her voice. “Will someone please explain what is happening?”

Neither parent answered. Her father was too absorbed in the papers.

“Mama?” she whispered, desperation tightening her throat. “This concerns me. Why am I the last to know?”

Her mother tsked. “My dear, you must realize the implications of last night. You were found with the viscount in a state of undress, disheveled and unchaperoned in a private garden. Whether you became ill or not hardly matters now.”

“I loosened her cape so she could breathe,” Andrew interjected, his tone flat. “It was far from indecent. Ladies in the ballroom wore far less.”

“It’s no longer about intentions,” her father said heavily. “It’s about perception. She was an innocent, Arendale, and your actions have left her disgraced. This betrothal”—he gestured to the document—“is the only way to save her from social ruin.”

“You expect me to marry him?” she asked, stunned. “But… he’s courting Elizabeth!”

“It never got that far,” Andrew corrected. “Speaking of your sister—what did she say about last night?” He turned to the earl. “According to the ever-reliable Mayfair gossip mill, she wasn’t happy about lowering herself to my station.”

“I’ve wondered that myself, but in all the chaos that has ensued, there has been no time to question her.” Well acquainted with his eldest daughter’s talent for manipulation, the earl marched to the door and flung it open. “Reynolds! Fetch Lady Elizabeth. Immediately.”

“Charles,” her mother protested, “surely Elizabeth is innocent in all of this.”

It came as no surprise that she immediately leaped to her favorite daughter’s defense. His eyes flashed with anger aimed at his wife. “If she’s blameless, she’ll have nothing to fear discussing her role.”

Elizabeth arrived moments later, bonnet in hand, perfectly dressed for a drive in the park.

Her curtsy to the duke was low and graceful.

“Your Grace,” she said sweetly, betraying no surprise at their exalted guest. To the viscount, her greeting was clipped, her tone honeyed but perfunctory— “My lord.”

“Your ride will have to wait. Sit down,” her father instructed.

She glided across the room in a cloud of delicate perfume, settling into a chair with the ease of a woman accustomed to admiration. As she arranged her skirts with precision, Cici stole a glance at the gentlemen.

The duke’s fingers gripped his knees. He blinked slowly, as though woken from a dream. The viscount also reacted, sitting straighter, his gaze fixed with admiration.

Cici resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Men tripped over their tongues for her sister. A single smile from Elizabeth and either one of them would dissolve like sugar in tea.

Her father, immune to such charms, began his inquiry. “What do you know about your sister’s collapse last night?”

“Only what I told you, Papa,” she replied sweetly, in that sugar-wouldn’t-melt voice. “Cici fell ill. I ran to find Mama. When I couldn’t, I returned and saw her being carried through the ballroom by Viscount Arendale.”

“Did you, in fact, search for your mother?” her father pressed. “Because we passed you in the ballroom, and you did not appear to be doing so.”

Elizabeth picked at an imaginary speck on her skirt, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “It was crowded. I did what I could.”

After eighteen years living in the same household, Cici could read the signs. Elizabeth was hiding something.

Arendale addressed her next. “You claimed your mother would chaperone our walk—but that wasn’t true, was it?”

Her papa demanded of her mother. “Eugenia?”

“I… well… I don’t recall. With all this upset, I’ve a dreadful headache.”

As the pieces fell into place—Elizabeth scheming and their mother shielding her, as always—Cici’s temper boiled over. “What did you do, Elizabeth?”

“I’d like to know that, too.” A dangerous tone crept into her father’s voice when he demanded, “Tell the truth. Did you plan this?”

Accustomed to admiration, not reproach, Elizabeth squirmed under the weight of their stares.

She fiddled with the ribbons on her hat.

“This is the thanks I get for my efforts? I ran to find help with your”—she made a vague gesture as though plucking a word from the air—“affliction. I should be praised, not condemned!”

Cici had replayed the disastrous night over and over—what little she remembered between the fog and hallucinations. And suddenly, one of the missing pieces fell into place.

“Before we went outside, I was parched from the dancing. You offered me your lemonade. I thought nothing of it at the time, but you hate lemonade!” Her voice sharpened as she accused. “You put something in it, didn’t you?”

Elizabeth raised her chin and responded coolly. “That is preposterous. I’m your loving sister. Would I do such a thing?”

Cici stood. “You’d sell your soul for a title. Why not your sister?”

“Cecilia Anne. What a terrible thing to say. Take it back this instant,” her mother cried.

“Eugenia, be silent,” Lord Benton ordered, his face as red as a beet. “Coddling the girl has contributed to her uncontrollable behavior. Elizabeth Louise, tell the truth this instant or I will fetch the cane for the both of you.”

Both her sister and her mother gasped at the threat.

For the first time, the viscount looked mildly amused. “Don’t let us stop you, my lord. If it were up to me, your daughter would be over your desk getting what she deserves. It’s plain you’ve one very spoiled young lady in your household.”

Benton ignored the cutting but accurate remark. Determined to end the debacle, he slammed his palm onto the desk with a crack that made the inkwell jump. “Own up to your role in this fiasco—or I send for it now!”

For once looking genuinely rattled, her eyes darted toward the duke then the viscount. “You can’t punish me in front of guests! What will His Grace think?”

“He’ll think Arendale is right,” her father said coldly. “That I spared the rod and spoiled the child.”

Her chin lifted, but she owned up to nothing.

“Very well.” The earl turned toward the door, voice booming. “Reynolds! Fetch my cane.”

She bolted upright. “Fine! I did it! I used Cook’s tincture, but just a few drops.”

Face ruddy with fury, her father looked as though he might explode. “You risked your sister’s life over a suitor? What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

Elizabeth went rigid, nose in the air as if the mere suggestion of wrongdoing were a slur upon her perfection. “Dr. Arnaud was just across the square,” she said dismissively, her tone implying her calculated risk merited praise, not reprimand.

“If he hadn’t arrived when he did,” her father said, with barely leashed rage, “she could have died.”

“But she didn’t,” she snapped. “And frankly, this is your fault, Father. A viscount was beneath me. You forced my hand!”

Her father’s face darkened with a mix of fury and humiliation.

“I apologize, Your Grace. And to you, Lord Arendale. I am astounded that any daughter of mine could behave in so shameful a fashion. Her punishment will be immediate and severe. Regrettably, the damage to Cici’s reputation cannot be undone.

” He appealed to the viscount as a gentleman.

“I trust you are still prepared to do the honorable thing—despite Elizabeth’s disgrace. ”

Andrew gave a tight nod. “I’ll marry her. Not only to shield her from scandal, but to remove her from such a… contaminating presence.”

“Are you referring to me?” Elizabeth shrieked in outrage. “Mama! He said I was contaminating—like a disease!”

“Enough, girl,” her exasperated father snapped.

“We’ll leave you to tend to your family matters,” the duke said coolly, casting a disdainful glance at Elizabeth, who was now sniffling into her mother’s lace handkerchief.

As he passed his brother, he murmured something too low for Cici to catch, though it sounded suspiciously like, “You’ve sidestepped disaster here, Brother. ”

The gentlemen gathered at the desk to sign the betrothal contract binding Lady Cecilia Edwards to Viscount Arendale.

Before leaving, the duke offered her a formal bow. “My apologies for misjudging you, my lady. I hope, in time, you might forgive my error.”

Cici believed she returned his bow with a curtsy, though she couldn’t quite recall. Elizabeth’s betrayal—so cold and premeditated—had left her numb.

Andrew stepped in front of her and took her hand. “Lady Cecilia, I too judged you in error. For that, I am genuinely sorry. We’ll speak further when I return for the ceremony—at three o’clock.”

He bowed, brushing his lips over her knuckles in a gesture so whisper light, she questioned if it had actually happened.

But then, nothing about this felt real. It was as if she were watching her life unfold from the audience, her role scripted by others, the ending sealed before she ever stepped onto the stage.