Page 8 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

Cici shook her head gently. Catherine, the dowager duchess, had always been kind and welcoming—though Cici had wondered if that warmth might cool after her sudden marriage to her son.

Andrew reached out and brushed his thumb down her cheek in a tender gesture. “Then, what has you worried?”

“I’ve never been to Brighton,” she confessed. “I’d love to frolic in the waves, soak up the sunshine… but I never learned to swim.”

“Is that all?” he said with a grin. “I’ll teach you—and find great pleasure in it. You’ll see. A dip in the sea is exhilarating.”

“But… I heard men and women swim separately, my—” she stammered, catching herself before saying “my lord.” Drat. Would she ever get used to calling him by name? “And I’ve heard tales about those horrid bathing machines. I doubt I’d enjoy that.”

When Andrew’s full-throated laugh echoed through the salon, Cici felt her cheeks warm.

It wasn’t just the sound—it was the way his whole face opened up, like he’d dropped every guard.

She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen the goofy smile she couldn’t seem to suppress or guessed how thoroughly infatuated she was.

“We have a private beach,” he said at length. “No audience. No gossipmongers. We can even swim dressed in the bathing costume God gave us.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Without clothes? That’s illegal—not to mention scandalous.”

Still, her mind betrayed her, imagining his bare chest—and the rest. The very notion was preposterous. And thrilling.

She glanced up to see his eyes sparkling, the curve of his lips unmistakable. “You tease, my, uh—Andrew.”

He grunted softly. “I’m growing used to that… though I dislike my-uh Andrew and sometimes my-lo Andrew almost as much as my-lord-uh Andrew.”

She stared at him, dumbstruck. His outrageous wink made her laugh despite herself. Perhaps there was more to her formidable husband than she’d realized.

Higgins interrupted once again. “Dinner is served.”

Andrew waited for her to rise and, with his hand low on her back, walked with her to the door. “We’ll use the family dining room, which is smaller. I prefer a relaxed routine in the country.”

“Of course, Andrew,” she replied deliberately—no prefixes this time. “Whatever you’re accustomed to.”

“If wine doesn’t suit, what do you usually drink with supper?”

“Water or lemonade. It’s not that I dislike wine—I’m simply not used to it. Papa forbade it, claiming it led to ‘female independence, drunkenness, and other immoral behavior in the fairer gender,’” she said, mimicking her father’s staid manner.

She peeped up at her husband, thinking he might perceive her imitation as disrespect and disapprove. When she caught Andrew’s smile, she returned it, emboldened by his lightheartedness.

“Papa allowed champagne on special occasions,” she continued, “but he was a teetotaler himself.”

“I don’t hold such strict standards and enjoy a well-aged cognac or brandy.” He hailed a footman. “Bring a bottle of the Sémillon Bordeaux for my lady.”

As the footman bowed and departed, Andrew explained, “It’s a sweet white wine. I believe it will suit your palate.”

Perhaps he wasn’t as stuffy and strict as she’d feared after all. “Might I sample a brandy after dinner? I’ve heard it’s quite the thing with peaches or berries.”

“Let’s not get too eager,” he chuckled. “I don’t have my favored brandy here, only cognac, which is far too potent for you. We’ll explore your tastes in time—but no more than two glasses a night. We wouldn’t want to put your papa’s theories on female drunkenness to the test.”

Though his tone was teasing, she didn’t doubt she’d just been handed another rule. Soon, she’d need paper and pen to write them all down, to keep track. Maybe in a few years she could write a guidebook.

As they strolled down the hall, potential titles popped into her head: 101 Rules for a Proper Viscount’s Wife or Marrying an Imperious English Lord: Straighten Up or Get Walloped .

She giggled at both. They’d fly off the shelves at Hatchard’s in Piccadilly.

“What’s amusing?” he asked, seating her at one end of the still-daunting informal table.

She blushed, caught in a moment of absurdity, and quickly created a half-truth. “I was imagining Papa’s reaction if he saw me exploring wines and spirits. He’d be appalled and might snatch me back home before you properly corrupt me.”

“It’s far too late for that.” He leaned in to murmur in her ear after seating her, “I spirited you out of London, and, after tonight, you’ll be compromised in actuality .”

Her eyes darted to the staff poised to serve, and her cheeks flamed anew. He said the most scandalous things.

Andrew settled into his seat at the head of the table and said in a more conversational tone. “You’re free to make whatever changes you wish—it’s your home now. But speak with Higgins or Mrs. Weatherford before rearranging any staff. Things run smoothly, and I prefer to keep it so.”

Higgins stood discreetly in the doorway; Mrs. Weatherford, no doubt, worked invisibly behind the scenes. Cici doubted she’d make many changes, but replied dutifully, “Yes, my lord husband.”

***

His bride’s overly polite response brought Andrew’s head up. Was she testing the boundaries he’d set? With the footman and Higgins present, the use of his title didn’t violate his rule, per se, but he had to wonder why she’d reverted to formality again.

He’d surprised her by teasing, even winking—not as stodgy as she apparently thought—but her youth and his dealings with her manipulative sister made him cautious.

There was also his late father’s oft-repeated advice to consider: start as you mean to go on.

His frank talk about his rules from the outset had certainly done that, but it would set them on the right path.

Andrew studied his new wife closely. Although not of the current fashion like her sister, she was really quite lovely.

A flush from the day’s introductions still lingered on her cheeks, her eyes glinted with youthful curiosity, and her hair gleamed as though burnished in the candlelight, taking on a life of its own.

Despite the circumstances surrounding their first meeting, he was grateful fate had brought this delightful imp into his life rather than the shrew he would otherwise have been stuck with.

He would have to tread carefully in their budding relationship.

While exerting his dominion over her, he didn’t want to quash her spirit or joy for life.

His goal was to help her blossom in her new role as his viscountess—all the while submitting to her lord husband’s authority—and, in the bedroom, to discover joy not only in being pleased, but pleasing him in return.

He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until he saw the tilt of her head and the inquisitive look in her eyes—the lovely green shade not quite jade, nor as dark as forest. He shook his head, introducing a more appropriate mealtime topic.

“Do you ride?”

“Yes, but not often. Papa doesn’t keep a full stable in town.”

“Ours here at Arendale are extensive. I have the perfect mare in mind for you. Tomorrow, we’ll tour the property, and the two of you can get acquainted.”

Her smile was genuine and captivating. “I’ll look forward to it, my lord.”

There was his damn title again. He much preferred his name in her sweet, soft voice. Perhaps another rule was in order? Deciding to let it pass—for now—he introduced another new topic.

“Tell me how you and Maggie met. You’ve become fast friends in a short time.”

“We met at the Presentation Day reception. I’m relieved never to have to endure that spectacle again.”

“There is a lot of pomp and circumstance,” he agreed. “But don’t most young ladies look forward to their debut?”

“Under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, detecting every flaw and watching for the slightest misstep? And that’s before the debutante ever reaches the queen to make her curtsy.

” She shuddered as though chilled. “No, thank you. Oh, but I do so enjoy the season’s events, from the concerts to the theatre to the literary readings, touring the loveliest gardens, and, if one gets overheated, enjoying an ice at Gunter’s. ”

“You failed to mention the balls and soirees?”

“No, I didn’t,” she deadpanned, wrinkling her nose.

Her reaction mirrored his aversion to what the ton deemed the season’s pinnacle events, which were less about the music and dancing, and more about showing off one’s wealth and competing for dowries, estates, and titles.

He often felt like a prize stallion paraded before the matchmaking mamas.

Now that the stud was off the market, at least that torture was behind him.

“Honestly, the highlight of my debut,” she continued, her expression softening, “has been all the wonderful new friends I’ve made, including your sister who is ever so engaging and funny.

Did you know Maggie was intent on introducing us that evening?

She thought we would suit. That was before Elizabeth… well, prior to, um…”

She went quiet, no doubt recalling the disastrous night, as did he.

“Before her twisted scheme and feather-headed behavior changed the course of both our lives?” he finished for her.

With eyes as round as saucers, she looked at him in surprise. “Well… yes. I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, however.” Then she giggled. “I might have said ninny-hammered, for she certainly is that.”

It was his turn to stare in surprise, and soon they were both laughing.

Despite the lack of humor or promise at the start of their marriage, Andrew took their shared mirth as a good omen.

But they had more groundwork to lay. She was clearly on edge, having barely touched her soup and only the barest forkful of fish.

“If you’re feeling out of sorts, we can skip the rest of dinner,” he offered.

She looked up with a start. “Excuse me?”

“You look rather pale, and you’re only picking at your food.” he said, voice low, meant for her ears alone.

She set her fork aside. “I'm… a little overwhelmed, I must admit. The staff. The house. The… rest of it.”

There was a beat of silence, before he agreed. “It has been a taxing week.” Andrew wiped his mouth with his linen napkin then rose. “Shall we retire early? It might do us both good.”

Eyes wide, she stared at him before stammering, “I… uh… shall be… content to… well, uh… follow your lead, my lord.”

He said nothing when his title tumbled from her lips yet again, tamping down his annoyance as he reminded himself she was but eighteen, had made her debut only a few months ago, and was new to the roles of wife and lady of the manor. Her head must be spinning from all the changes.

“Oh, dear heavens,” she moaned, closing her eyes as she realized her mistake once again. “I meant Andrew, of course.”

“It will come,” he assured her as he rose and proffered his hand, surprised by the delicate tremble as she laid her fingers in his. She was trying—awkwardly, but earnestly. And, for tonight, that would be enough.