Page 6 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

West Sussex, Five days later…

The carriage stopped its persistent rocking and, a moment later, the steps fell with a clatter.

She took the footman’s hand and descended, her limbs stiff from the long ride.

Before her loomed Arendale Manor—grand, imposing, and more magnificent than she’d imagined.

She took it in with quiet awe, the scale and elegance of it stirring something uncertain in her chest.

A rider approached, hooves ringing sharp against the stone drive.

As he drew closer, she recognized him—Andrew.

Mounted atop a bay stallion, he cut a noble silhouette against the fading light.

His tousled hair and flushed cheeks made him look every inch the gentleman rogue.

Butterflies stirred in her stomach, a mix of nerves and reluctant admiration.

It had been days since their wedding, and she hadn’t seen him for more than a few fleeting moments.

She’d remained at her parents’ home while he attended to business—necessary tasks, given how hastily the ceremony had been arranged.

She didn’t blame him. The marriage had been thrust upon him, a solution to her ruin, not a choice made freely.

But knowing that didn’t dull the sting of rejection.

She felt confused, hurt, and quietly adrift.

Now, in the country, they were two strangers bound by duty. And she wasn’t sure what came next.

Andrew pulled up behind the carriage, dismounted in one smooth motion, and tossed the reins to a waiting stable hand before striding toward her with easy confidence. Reaching her, he inclined his head. “I trust your ride wasn’t too tedious.”

She managed a polite smile, though her thoughts were anything but calm. “It was short and tolerable, my lord. But lonely,” she added, her voice laced with pointedness. She didn’t even have a made to accompany her, and her new husband, evidently, couldn’t be bothered to keep her company.

His eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to suggest he’d heard the mild rebuke.

“Let’s get you inside. You’ll want to rest before supper.”

“I’d rather explore your country estate. The manor is most intriguing,” she replied, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “The stonework is beautifully preserved. And is that a battlement I see?”

His smile tilted with quiet amusement, almost fondness, as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Indeed. The views from above are spectacular.”

“How long has the estate been in your family?”

“Since 1067. William the Conqueror gifted it to my grandfather, the first duke of Sommerville, for loyalty to the crown. It was a Saxon stronghold, guarding the river valley from raiders, before that. The original timber palisades were all replaced by stone.”

“And stood the test of time,” she breathed.

“Indeed.”

Andrew took her arm and led her up the steps, through parallel rows of assembled staff. At the top stood the butler, dressed in pristine formality—black tailcoat, crisp white waistcoat, and gloves so spotless he must keep a laundry brush in his pocket.

“Higgins. It’s my pleasure to present Lady Arendale, your new mistress.”

The man bowed deeply. “Welcome, my lady. The staff await your command.”

Her gaze swept over the dozen men and women gathered—footmen in blue-and-gray livery with silver buttons gleaming in the dusk, maids in modest dresses with starched aprons and lace caps—each standing ramrod straight.

She felt the weight of every eye, not as judgment, but in expectation. She’d attended balls, teas, and country weekends—but never had she stood at the center of such orchestrated attention. It was like stepping onto a stage where she was no longer a player in the chorus but the principal herself.

“We were unsure of your arrival time,” Higgins continued, “so the others will assemble shortly.”

“There are more?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Forty serve the household,” he replied proudly.

Andrew nodded. “Gather everyone in one hour, Higgins. I’ll see the viscountess to her rooms.”

Inside, he placed a steady hand at her back. Attentive, but distant still.

At the second floor, his stride was purposeful, sweeping her past each door. Portraits lined the hallway—somber viscounts and viscountesses in oils and gilt—and Cici longed to pause, to understand the heritage she’d become part of.

But Andrew’s clipped “later” repeated like a refrain.

Stopping before an intricately carved wooden door, he nodded toward identical double doors on either side. “The viscountess’ rooms are to the left. Mine are at the end of the hall.” He reached past her, turned the knob, and the door swung inward. “This is our adjoining sitting room.”

She crossed the threshold slowly, half expecting the room to feel cold or imposing. Instead, she found a spacious, high- ceilinged room done in pale yellow and hunter green—sun-washed and tranquil.

“It’s lovely, my lord.”

He arched a brow. “I’ve asked you to call me by name when we’re alone.”

“I’ll try to remember… Andrew.”

His lips curved, faintly amused. “Better.”

He gestured to the settee before the fireplace. “Sit. We’ll speak a moment.”

It wasn’t barked, but still very much a command.

Cici chose a high-backed velvet chair in the corner.

The positioning made her feel protected, if only by a small measure.

She was alone, without allies, her husband essentially a stranger.

Her fingers curled in her lap to hide the tremble she refused to let show.

Andrew remained standing, tall and composed, one arm resting on the carved mantelpiece—watching her with the steady calm of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

He looked perfectly at ease, as certain of his place in the manor as she was uncertain.

“In time,” he began, “you’ll understand all that I expect, not only of my wife but of my viscountess. For now, your safety is paramount. So, there are a few rules I expect you to follow.”

Her husband paused, gaze steady.

“The woods aren’t tame. Last summer, three villagers barely survived adder bites.

And while the village is safer than London, we do see travelers—some unsavory.

Highwaymen won’t hesitate to prey on a woman alone.

For that reason, you’re not to leave the manor without an escort.

On foot, horseback, or carriage. Is that clear? ”

“I understand, my lord. Though I’m unsure what alarms me most—highwaymen or venomous snakes.”

Her upbringing in Manchester, where forests had long been cleared for expansion, had prepared her for industry, not wildlife.

“I intend to caution, not frighten you,” he replied smoothly.

“I won’t venture out alone, my lo—uh, Andrew.”

His eyes crinkled slightly at her correction, and, for the first time since their wedding, he smiled—a rare expression that changed him from handsome to arresting.

“Life here is slower,” he continued, “but the social calendar remains active. Gossip spreads as quickly here as in Mayfair. Moving forward, I expect our names to remain absent from it. Your other duties will include managing the household and raising any children we are blessed with. If you excel, I believe we’ll find contentment. ”

“I understand decorum,” she said politely. “And I’ve been schooled in household management and the domestic arts.”

It was the answer she was supposed to give. But inside, her heart dipped.

Contentment. That was his vision for them. Duty, not affection. Companionship rather than devotion. It was little wonder. He’d wanted Elizabeth. Now he must endure the sister, a placeholder in a life that had veered off course.

“I trust,” he added, unaware of her quiet shift, “you haven’t acquired any of your sister’s more unsavory habits.”

“Mama spoiled her,” she said, defending Elizabeth by instinct more than thought. “It wasn’t entirely her fault.”

“Your mother didn’t indulge you as well?”

“No.” Her voice was steady. “Elizabeth has always been the center of attention. She was meant for a grand match. Papa encouraged my studies and interests, which I appreciated. Education and hobbies aren’t always afforded to girls.”

“And marriage. What kind of match did they hope for you to make?”

She hesitated, gaze dropping to the patterned rug beneath her slippers.

“Something respectable. Pleasant, maybe. Not noble—certainly not a lord. That was always Elizabeth’s fate.

” Lifting her chin, she met his gaze as she told him her mother’s expectations.

“I was the second daughter. Meant to be agreeable. To remain in the background. To never cast a shadow while Elizabeth was allowed to shine.”

“I see,” he said after a beat, his frown deepening. “Your father threatened your sister and mother with the cane. Was its use common in your household?”

Her cheeks flushed, hot and sudden. “That’s a rather unseemly topic, my lo—Andrew.”

“No topic is off-limits between husband and wife. I asked a question.”

She nodded, reluctantly. “Not common. But Papa had a limit. Only when Elizabeth pushed too far would he bring it out. He always knew she was behind the trouble and spared me.”

“You were never punished?”

“Well… no,” she said, everting her gaze, afraid she would ignite so embarrassing was the discussion. “I meant I was spared the cane.”

“Mm.” His hum gave little away. After a heartbeat, he shared his thoughts, however. “Your father was too lenient, which is why your sister is as she is. You’ll find I am not so cavalier.”

She stared at him, stunned. He meant to punish her—his wife, a grown woman—like a child?

“I won’t raise my voice or waste words,” Andrew continued. “My expectations are clear. So are the consequences.”

She felt heat crawler higher up her neck, and her voice quavered when she asked, “Consequences like the cane?”

His gaze held hers—not hard, but unwavering. Cici’s spine straightened instinctively. A thousand thoughts pressed forward —humiliation, disbelief, a brittle flicker of indignation. But above all, duty. She was his wife now. The rules had changed.

“Should you defy me outright,” Andrew said, his tone steady but not unkind, “I’ll not hesitate to apply correction—firm, private, but never cruel.”

She swallowed hard, fingers gripping the folds of her skirt. Elizabeth had put her in dire straits, yet again.

He stepped closer—not looming, but certain—reaching down and tilting her chin up with the barest pressure.

“You needn’t fear me. I expect respect, but I give it in kind. I also grant freedom within the bounds of trust—but that trust must be earned. Is that clear?”

Cici nodded too quickly. Then, slower: “Yes, Andrew.”

“I don’t demand perfection, Cici,” he said, the warmth in his tone surprising her. “If you behave as a lady should—with grace and decorum—you will have nothing to worry about.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The gesture was unexpectedly tender—an unsettling contrast to the weight of his promise. His touch lingered a moment, then he stepped back.

“You have forty-five minutes before the staff introductions. Refresh yourself—but know that I value punctuality.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and exited, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.

Cici sat frozen for a moment, her skin prickling as if from a draft that wasn’t there. His words unsettled her, yet something inside her hummed—not fear, but awareness.

Her husband was a paradox. One moment issuing rules and consequences, the next kissing her forehead gently. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t indifferent. He was something else entirely: firm, magnetic, and unlike any man she’d known.

It was dizzying, trying to reconcile the man who set boundaries with the one who offered tenderness and warmth.

Just a week ago, she’d been a debutante, her days filled with luncheons and promenades with her friends, the heady scent of London’s theatres, and dirt-stained fingers from plucking blooms, and often weeds in the garden.

Invitations included her out of politeness, but she attended only the events she fancied—never to parade, but to observe.

Her family, for the most part, had paid her little heed.

Now, such leniency had vanished.

Elizabeth, who engineered the mess she was in, had escaped with a few strokes across her skirts and returned to her pampered life. No rules. No husband with expectations and consequences. Just ribbons and teas and a string of admirers unaware of her sins.

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air tighter, as something hot and sharp climbed up Cici’s spine.

She snatched a pillow from the bed and hurled it across the room.

She expected something—a crash, resistance, or to at least vent her spleen.

Instead, it landed with a whisper, as unsatisfactory as her ineffectual protest.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?” she called, breath short.

“It’s Mary, my lady. Mr. Higgins sent me to assist you.”

“Please come in,” Cici replied, her face heating further when the maid opened the door and the pillow glided across the floor.

Without so much as blinking, the maid stooped, picked up the proof of her tantrum, and placed it back onto the bed.

“I require water for washing, Mary, and a dress to be pressed. It must be done swiftly, as I am expected to meet the staff within the hour,” she added, recalling her lordship’s dislike of being made to wait.

“Hot water is on the way up, and one of the other girls is heating the iron. All my lady must do is choose which gown,” she reassured.

Cici nodded, pleased with the girl’s forethought and efficiency. It was a small silver lining in an otherwise disappointing day.