Page 45 of Surrender Your Grace
He slipped from bed, tugging on his shirt. When he turned back, he caught her propped on her elbows watching him. Amused, he didn’t comment, just quirked a brow.
Her blush crept to her hairline as she flopped onto the pillows. “Everyone gets a piece of you but me. I’m always last!”
He returned to the bed and braced himself over her hips. “I gave you a piece of me just a few short minutes ago. Was it that forgettable?”
“Good heavens, Andrew. The things you say!”
“Answer the question, sweeting.”
She huffed. “I think the noises I made were quite clear on that point.”
“Then stop grumbling,” he teased, leaning down until their lips nearly touched. “We’ll have an encore performance tonight.”
“You think you’ve earned an encore. Feeling mighty full of yourself this morning.”
He grinned, unable to help it. “You were the one full of me, sweeting. I’ll defer to your judgment.”
She covered her face with a groan. “Gallantry is indeed dead—and so are your manners,Your Grace.”
He clicked his tongue. “We’re not doing that again. Unless you’re angling for—”
Her hands flew behind her so fast, she clipped his chin. “No,Andrew”—she deliberately drew out his name—“I am not!”
He chuckled, sliding his hand down to cup one warm bottom cheek. “You’re getting exceptionally sassy. Might be time for an encore of a different sort.”
“You wouldn’t?” she gasped, though her smile betrayed her.
“You’ve asked that before,” he murmured, “and you know the answer.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Saved by the butler. For now.” He kissed her—hard and fast. On the way to his dressing room, he promised, “We’ll continue this discussion tonight.”
He heard her say, grumbling again, “That seems unnecessary.”
He laughed, starting the morning in a better mood than he had in a long time.
Chapter 13
A hot August breeze tugged at Cici’s skirt as she stepped down from the carriage. Ashworth House loomed behind a pair of ancient plane trees, its imposing facade as daunting as the day ahead. The door slammed behind her with a jarring clang, and she flinched. She was already on edge.
Mary followed closely, a silent anchor of comfort, but it did little to ease the feeling that eyes were already on her—speculative, assessing, and perhaps even pitying—as she entered the house alone, without her husband.
Andrew had returned to Berkshire now that the cooling-off period had passed. During the week he’d spent at home, he was busy as ever—but he’d made a point of coming home for supper, and they’d retired early most nights, slipping back into something that resembled intimacy. He’d even taken her to a celebratory dinner with colleagues on Parliament’s final day before recess. Though the ladies had smiled and nodded, the evening had been as dull as dry toast, and the men had spoken only of politics.
Most evenings were accounted for, but her days stretched long and empty. Maggie and her mother-in-law were still away but expected any day. Desperate for something—anything—to do, Cici had accepted an invitation to a literary salon hosted by Lady Ashworth. Anne, her daughter, had made her debut this season too. More acquaintance than friend, but familiar, nonetheless.
Andrew had encouraged her to find something to occupy her time, though she wasn’t sure what he’d think of this particular diversion. Men often scoffed at women’s intellectual pursuits, but the invitation had arrived at the perfect moment. It was this or climb the walls.
The footman’s voice boomed: “Her Grace, the Duchess of Sommerville.”
Heads turned, and conversation lulled. A subtle, collective pause as the room took in Cici standing alone.
Anne appeared from a nearby cluster, her smile wide. “Your Grace, I’m so pleased you came. Mama will be beside herself to have you at her little salon.”
“You have quite a crowd,” she said. “The invitation suggested an intimate gathering.”
“That was our plan, but word spread that Joseph Woods would be here to discuss his new book. So many replied, we had to move it to the music room.” She practically glowed. “It’s quite a triumph.”
