Page 7 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

With no time for a bath, she washed the road dust from her face and hands, changed into a fresh gown suitable for tea and dinner, and sat at the vanity while Mary brushed and re-pinned her hair.

She stood ready as the mantel clock chimed the three-quarter hour—fifteen minutes to spare.

“Is there anything else, my lady?” the very capable Mary asked.

“Only a question. You are so efficient. Why aren’t you in another lady’s service?”

“There were no positions when we moved nearby, so I joined his lordship’s staff as an upstairs maid. If it pleases you, a word to Mr. Higgins would let me serve as your lady’s maid until the official one arrives.”

“I shared a maid with my sister—she stayed in London with her. If you’re agreeable and available full-time—”

“Oh, yes, my lady. That would be most agreeable,” Mary said, vibrating with excitement as she tried valiantly to mask it.

Cici smiled kindly. “I’ll speak with his lordship about it tonight.”

With a wide grin, the woman—several years her senior—bobbed a curtsy and all but danced from the room.

“At least someone’s happy with their lot,” Cici muttered to the empty room.

Her thoughts returned to Andrew’s rules, replaying again and again. He spoke of correction for defiance—but what did that mean? Would he truly take her over his knee?

The notion made her wary, and yet it tingled down her spine. She imagined herself over his lap, skirts lifted, modesty surrendered. The ache that followed was no longer fleeting—it pressed low and hot, unsettling in its intensity.

Her hands drifted behind her, seeking to soothe—but doing so would require touching more than her bottom.

“Cecilia.”

She jumped and whirled, startled by her husband’s deep voice disrupting the silence of her chamber. “My lord,” she breathed, her hands flying to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So it seems. I knocked and called your name—what had you so lost in thought?”

Her cheeks flamed. There was no possibility she’d confess the truth. “Just… um… reflecting on all the changes… lately.”

Not a complete lie, but from the way his gaze flicked to her cheeks and the corners of his mouth curved downward, he clearly didn’t believe her.

“I expect you to tell me if something is wrong.”

“Of course, I will, my lord,” she replied as she crossed the room to stand before him.“Shall we go meet the staff? I shouldn’t like to keep them waiting.”

His jaw tensed at her evasive pivot, but, after a pause, he extended his arm.

Her fingers trembled as she accepted it. She was about to play lady of the manor for the first time. She’d imagined something modest—a townhome or a small country house. Not a grand estate with full staff and far-reaching expectations.

Her title was new, her footing uncertain, and the manor felt less like a home than a stage awaiting performance. She questioned whether she was truly up to the challenge of opening night.

“Breathe, Cici,” he urged, his big hand covering hers clutching his forearm. His encouragement and the soft smile he offered gave her the courage to walk out the door.

Now, if she could keep from falling flat on her face.

***

Before her stretched a long line of servants, assembled beneath the gilt-framed portraits of long-dead Arendale lords and ladies. Flickering sconces threw long shadows. Cici clasped her hands together to still their tremble. She felt wholly out of place—an imposter thrust into a medieval castle.

The butler’s voice echoed off the ancient stone walls. “May I present the household staff, my lady.”

They bowed and curtsied in waves—from Mrs. Weatherford, the housekeeper, to over a dozen footmen, and the youngest scullery maid, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

She forced a polite smile, aiming for friendly yet dignified, as Andrew had advised. The names came rapid-fire. “Preston, the cook in charge of the kitchens, Kinnock the underbutler, footmen: George, Benjamin, Alfred...” Too many. They blurred together in her mind.

“The upstairs maids—Mary, Mary, and”—Mrs. Weatherford hesitated— “also Mary.”

Cici blinked. “Three Marys?”

A fourth curtsied. “Mary Anne, a parlor maid, my lady.”

“I-I see,” she managed, her voice higher than intended.

“Then there’s the kitchen maid, Mary Ellen. She’s home today tending her mother who took a spill,” Mrs. Weatherford added.

Five Marys or a variation of it. Good heavens—how would she keep them straight?

She offered a weak smile. “I’m sure I’ll remember everyone… eventually.”

There was a polite ripple of laughter, swiftly stifled. Forty sets of eyes watched her—not unkind, but assessing. Weighing. Wondering what kind of mistress she’d be. She’d never been in charge of more than one maid—whom she’d shared. How could she possibly know the answer?

With the introductions ended and the staff dismissed, she stood in the echoing silence of the gallery, her palms damp.

Beside her, Andrew offered a faint smile. “They’ll warm to you. Just don’t confuse Mary Ellen with Mary Anne. Or Mary Two with the original Mary. Disaster could follow.”

Her head snapped around. “How so?”.

The glint in his eyes revealed the tease, and Cici laughed—a high, nervous sound that verged on hysteria.

“It’s going to be fine,” he assured gently, “but you’ll have to learn to relax.”

“I’m trying,” she muttered, wringing her hands. “But this is absurd. I’m the lady of the house—no, the castle—and I don’t know a single soul.”

“You will,” he said, patting her hand with quiet reassurance. “You don’t need to win them all over tonight.”

No, only you . She swallowed that thought with a tentative smile.

The awkward moment was saved by Higgins’ timely reappearance.

“My lord, my lady,” he said with a crisp bow. “Supper will be served at the top of the hour.”

Andrew offered her his arm. “Let’s relax in the salon while we wait.”

As they stepped into the cozy room, warmth from the hearth wrapped around her cheeks. Andrew moved toward the brass bar cart while she crossed to the open French doors, letting the evening breeze cool her flushed skin.

“An aperitif?” he suggested. “Madeira, perhaps.”

“No thank you. I’ve never acquired a taste for it,” she replied, watching the last fingers of daylight vanish behind the tower beeches.

“Something sweeter, then? A fruit cordial made with blackberries grown here at Arendale?”

Her interest piqued. “Aren’t cordials digestifs, for after dinner?”

“Usually. But it’s sweet and light, and I think you’ll like it. Or we can call for the tea cart.”

“I’ve disturbed the household enough,” she said, shaking her head. “But I do like berries—so yes, I’ll try the cordial.”

He joined her at the doors, a glass of wine in his hand, and passed her the petite stemmed glass filled with dark-purple liqueur. She steeled herself, expecting bitterness—but was pleasantly surprised.

“It’s quite good,” she said, savoring another dainty sip.

“Preston also makes a lemon cordial, but blackberry is by far the favorite. You’ll have to give him your compliments.”

“I shall.” Her smile came more easily now. “Arendale is lovely. Aside from your London townhouse, do you own other properties?”

She prayed for a negative response, but her spirits lagged at his answer.

“There is a small estate in Kippford, and an ocean-side cottage near Brighton.”

“Kippford? Isn’t that in Scotland?”

“Yes. It was passed down through my mother’s family, as was the title.

” He gestured toward the settee and waited until they were both seated before continuing.

“Kippford is a quaint coastal town south of Dumfries on Solway Firth. There’s a lighthouse nearby perched atop a 250-foot cliff where you can see the Isle of Man, England, and the Irish coast.”

“It sounds beautiful. But how did you inherit?” she asked. “I thought your brother, being the eldest, would have through primogeniture.”

“My mother—also Maggie’s—was my father’s second wife. Many forget, since they wed when James was still an infant. She raised him as her own. He’s always called her mother. But she was Baroness Arendale suo jure through her father’s Scottish line.”

“It’s unusual for a woman to inherit a title, isn’t it?”

“It is, and not without controversy. After my father’s death, I took on the subsidiary title and her seat in the House of Lords through a writ of acceptance. Her Majesty created the viscountcy to avoid any controversy over rank, which runs rampant in the Lords.”

“It is, and it caused quite the stir. After Father passed, I assumed her subsidiary title and seat in the Lords through writ of acceptance. Her Majesty created the viscountcy to avoid rank confusion. Politics in the Lords can be… delicate.”

“And confusing since the Acts of Union passed,” she said with a sigh.

“Especially when Scottish lines are involved.” She took her last sip and set the glass aside, fingers laced together.

“Despite my boasting about management skills, I fear you were thrust into an even worse mismatch than you expected. I feel ill-equipped to manage two estates—let alone four households.”

She watched him carefully, searching his features for disappointment—but found only gentle amusement.

“Don’t fret,” he said, enclosing her hands in one of his. “Each property has a well-trained staff. They’ll need only oversight. We’ll visit all of them in the coming months—though I say we move Brighton down the list until after the Season when the waters are warm enough to swim.”

“I should love that, Andrew. But I worry about representing you well—I don’t want to muddle everything.”

“Impossible,” he murmured. “If you like, I’ll ask Mother to spend time with you. She’ll get you up to snuff quickly.”

“I would appreciate her wisdom.”

He chuckled, catching her hesitation. “Ah, the wheels are turning. What’s bothering you? Is it Mother? She’s fond of you—I've heard her say so often, especially since you and Maggie became thick as thieves.”