Page 103 of Surrender Your Grace
Cici stood near the French doors, open to catch the breeze since spring had arrived early. In a gown of periwinkle silk, her auburn hair swept up with pearl pins, a few loose curls left free to frame her face and softly brush her neck, she looked every inch the elegant hostess—gracious and composed. Inside her stomach was in knots. Holding her first ball, it was to be expected, even though at first blush, it appeared to be a huge success.
Members of the peerage, with much more experience at these things, congratulated her. Foreign guests and dignitaries bowed with thanks. Matrons, who had so recently sniffed with disapproval, smiled and nodded. A pair of debutantes clasped hands and whispered that she must have been born under a lucky star—to marry for love in her first season. And Lady Tavistock offered a hum of approval as she bit into a lemon tart and muttered something about “poise under pressure.”
Andrew watched her from across the room, filled with pride. She moved with natural grace, her laughter soft, her wit quick, self-possessed without pretense. No longer the tentative bride forced into the spotlight, she was a duchess unafraid to shine.
When the musicians struck the first notes of the waltz, he strode toward her. “May I?” he asked, bowing over her hand.
Her smile tilted. “You may.”
All around the room conversations fell away as the duke and duchess of Sommerville took to the floor. His hand steady on her back, hers confident on his shoulder. They moved in perfect rhythm, sweeping turns and gentle dips, eyes only for each other.
A hush lingered as they danced. Even hardened gossips held their tongues because the sight was undeniable: love had taken root in their scandal, and from that soil, something rare had bloomed.
“They’re watching,” he said with a gentle smile.
“You?” she asked, tilting her head, green eyes glittering.
“Not this time. They’re captivated by you, and not a one is wondering if I’ll cast you aside.”
“Because you’d never,” she said, sure of it. “Do you still want to cast all of Mayfair into the Thames?”
“Every other day and twice on Sunday,” he said without hesitation.
Her laugh, soft and melodic, stirred something deep in him—as it always did. He pulled her closer than was strictly proper, but he didn’t give a damn.
“Not us,” he added.
She looked up at him, her eyes dancing. “Because we’re Sommervilles, and like cream, we rose to the top?”
“Exactly,” he murmured. The urge to kiss her was unbearable, but even for the season’s reigning couple, that might be a step too far in public.
“This feels so different from just a month ago,” she whispered.
“Time passes. Scandals fade. And, fortunately, gossips find new prey.”
“Do you think our turn has passed?”
“Not likely, sweet pea. But if another storm threatens, we’ll weather it together.”
As they stepped off the dance floor, he caught the whisper of two nearby debutantes.
“Did you hear? He calls her sweet pea.”
The other sighed. “That’s what I want. A husband who looks at me like the duke does his duchess.”
***
Later, after the last carriage had rolled away, Andrew and Cici ascended to their rooms hand in hand. The moment the door to his, where they now spent every night together, shut, he tugged her toward him.
“Your first ball,” he murmured, voice low and awed. “And you conquered it.”
“I had help from your mother and mine, but I’m braver than I expected,” she replied, impressed she’d pulled it off, regardless.
His lips brushed hers. “You were magnificent.”
“I’m sorry our best friends couldn’t be here.”
“Four more months and they will join us. You can host an end-of-season ball.”
