Page 23 of Surrender Your Grace
Andrew’s eyes widened, a playful twist to his lips as he drawled, “Did I mention our cook is half French? Heaven forbid.”
He took her hand, his fingers warm against hers, and led her from the clearing. Behind them, the ancient chapel stood silent and still once more.
***
They dined privately in their sitting room, candlelight dancing between them on a table set for two. Andrew, in his shirtsleeves, looked heartbreakingly handsome—so much so Cici could scarcely breathe. She wore pale-rose silk, her hair pinned at the crown to fall in soft waves around her shoulders. Mary had worked magic again. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all evening.
“There’s dessert,” he offered. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Cook’s chocolate-raspberry torte.”
“I want to,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “But I can’t eat another bite.”
And she was too nervous. After clearing the air, the day had unfolded perfectly. But she dared not hope the night would follow suit.
He took only one bite from his torte before he set his fork aside. “The hour grows late, and we’ve had a full day.”
Cici startled. His words, eerily similar to the night before. Disappointment flared in her chest.
“Summon your maid,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll be back once you’re ready for bed.”
Her voice trembled. “Truthfully?”
“Yes, Cici,” he replied, voice low and husky, his blue eyes darkening with intensity. “You have fifteen minutes left as a virgin bride—not a second more.”
At his bluntness, she sucked in a breath.
Pulling her from her chair, he turned her toward her bedroom door and gave her a gentle nudge. “Go. The clock is ticking, and I’ve waited long enough to have you.”
Her legs barely held her as she crossed to her chamber, striving for calm she didn’t feel. Once alone, she leaned back against the closed door, releasing a shaky breath.
“This is it,” she whispered. She was about to become a wife. Aside from a few wonderful kisses that made her heart flutter, she faced the night with little more than vague metaphors and tongue-in-cheek gossip.
The mantel clock chimed. That infernal contraption really had to go. But the sound spurred her to yank the bellpull with urgency.
Mary readied her in twelve minutes. Instead of waiting on the chaise—which felt too like the night before—Cici paced in front of the cold fireplace, glancing at the time every few seconds. Surely, he wouldn’t retreat again, not after the closeness they’d shared.
A firm rap on the connecting door made her spin around. He didn’t wait for an invitation. The latch clicked softly, sealing them in together.
Andrew still wore his dinner clothes—barefoot now, tousled and less meticulous than usual. Cici nearly giggled, but the look he gave her chased the humor away.
“Gads!” he exclaimed without warning. “Where did you get that nightgown? It has swallowed you whole.”
She glanced down at the voluminous gown that pooled around her feet, sleeves trailing past her fingers, the neckband uncomfortably tight. It was more of a spinster’s shroud than an alluring bridal gown.
Hot tears blurred her vision.
“There was no time for a trousseau,” she whispered, the words a bitter reminder she was a replacement. A second-rate bride thrust upon him. “I’m so sorry,” she choked. “It’s terribly unfair you’re saddled with such an inferior wife.”
She blinked repeatedly, dismayed when her tears overflowed. Unlike her sister, she wasn’t a graceful crier. She wiped her cheeks with the oversized sleeves, embarrassed.
“Despite my obvious flaws, I’ll try to be a good wife, Andrew. I promise.”
He gathered her into his arms, holding her close. “That’s absolute nonsense,” he said gently. “I’m eternally grateful your sister found me unworthy.”
“You pursued her,” she reminded him, searching his face.
“I did—before I knew her true nature. Once I did, the thought of being bound to her chilled me to the bone.”
“She’s not so awful.”
