Page 38 of Surrender Your Grace
The earl bowed as she dropped into a curtsy.
“A pleasure, my lord. Or should I say laird?”
“I answer tae both,” he replied, a light though distinctive burr in his voice,
“Duncan straddles two worlds—Highland tradition and English nobility,” Andrew explained. His gaze flicked from her to his friend. “You didn’t come all this way to congratulate us.”
“You are correct. I’m afraid this is no’ a social call,” Rothbury said, his expression as grim as Higgins’. “I have news that cannot wait.”
Andrew gestured to the hall. “We’ll speak in my study.” He said quietly to her, “Excuse us.”
After they disappeared behind the heavy door, she asked the butler. “Higgins, do you know what’s happening?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“All I can say is prepare for the worst.”
Cici waited in the salon, asking that supper be delayed. She paced, too anxious to sit.
The sharp echo of boot heels on marble drew her to the door. Andrew, his usual tan replaced by an alarming pallor, passed her on the way to the stairs.
“Andrew. Is all well?”
He stopped, turning only his head. “Far from it,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. Then, more sharply: “Change in plans. We leave for town within the hour.”
No further explanation followed. He climbed the stairs with heavy, dragging steps, as though his legs were weighted with lead.
Stunned, Cici turned to Rothbury.
He bowed slightly. “You’d best hurry, Your Grace. Your husband sets great store in promptness.”
Cici started up the stairs but paused halfway when something clicked.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but did you say, ‘Your Grace?’”
His gaze didn’t waver. “The news I carried from London is tragic.”
A breath, silent and strained, passed between them.
“Andrew’s brother James, the 7th duke of Sommerville, suffered a fatal wound in a hunting accident yesterday.” Rothbury looked down, briefly, then stepped forward. His voice softened. “Their mother is en route from Paris. The new duke and his duchess must be present when she arrives. That’s you now, Your Grace.”
One word lingered in Cici’s mind more than any other, unsettling her like a cold wind.
Duchess.
The title she had never imagined wearing—not even once—now draped over her like a heavy cloak, laden with import.
Foremost in her chest surged empathy—raw and visceral—for the mother she’d met only once. “To lose a husband and son in the same year… I can’t imagine.”
Her heart ached for Andrew, too, now grieving both a father and a brother. It was no wonder he’d been so short with her; he had to be devastated. The only family he had left was his widowed mother, his sister, and herself.
She blinked hard, tears welling. “Oh my gracious, Maggie,” she whispered—for her friend, for him, for all of them.
“Excuse me, Lord Rothbury,” she somehow managed before rushing up the stairs to her room. She called for Mary to summon extra maids to help her pack. Until they had arrived and were set upon their task, she waiting to cross into the sitting room.
Andrew’s valet emerged, composed and focused. The only sign this wasn’t an ordinary day was the tension locked in his jaw.
