Page 50 of Surrender Your Grace
Cici let her words settle in. “Thank you,” she said at length.
“For what, dear?” the dowager asked, their eyes connecting over the rim of her cup.
“For the advice and for defending me. Most of all, for seeing me.”
“You’re the Duchess of Sommerville now, Cecilia. It’s time the world saw you—and you’re going to make sure they do. Lesson two: never falter, never explain. And when they whisper behind your back…” Catherine’s voice dropped, her eyes gleaming like steel. “Make them regret not saying it to your face.”
Convinced that every terrible adjective used to describe the dowager duchess was absolutely, gloriously true, Cici looked at Maggie wide eyed. When her friend made a ridiculous face of mock horror, it broke the tension, eased the knot in her chest.
“Now,” the dowager said, leaning forward to put down her cup and plate. “After that journey—and what I just witnessed—let’s have something stronger than tea, shall we? Heaven knows,surviving those two harpies for nearly two decades you, Ceceilia, more so than anyone you deserve a proper drink.”
Chapter 15
Her fingers hovered over the keys, coaxing each mournful note of Chopin’sPrelude in E Minoruntil the final chord faded into the hush of the music room. Lightning cracked overhead, and Cici jumped, the flash casting fleeting shadows across the polished floors. She slid the lid over the keys with a soft click and crossed to the window.
Raindrops spattered the glass in staccato bursts as thunder rolled through the gray August sky—another summer storm soaking the city. It didn’t deter the stream of messengers at the door, bearing letters, calling cards, and no fewer than six bouquets—tributes to the second duchess now in residence. Despite the bustle, Summerville House remained cloaked in quiet grief.
The dowager wasn’t receiving callers today. She’d taken to her room after breakfast, still heartsick after her loss. The house held so many memories of her late husband and of James. She mentioned that moving to a dower residence might lessen the pain. She and Maggie had exchanged worried glances, silently agreeing the ache might be the same no matter where she lived.
Maggie, too, remained melancholy since her brother’s death. Her usual sparkle had dimmed. But Cici clung to her warmth, grateful for quiet afternoons spent strolling in the park or browsing dusty bookshops. The musicale last week had felt almost routine. She’d been asked to play and obliged, her fingersgliding over the keys of the long-practiced concerto, polite applause following the last note.
They were all trying to move forward with their lives. For Cici, that was easier said than done. She hadn’t experiencednormalsince becoming a wife and subsequently a duchess. Making it more difficult, the inquisitive glances and whispered rumors, and that after ten days in Berkshire, her husband still hadn’t come home to prove them wrong.
There had been two brief notes. The first, written a week ago, mentioned delays. The second, three days later, explained arbitration might take time.
Cici turned from the window and picked up a letter resting on the music stand—the third from her sister in the span of seven days. Elizabeth rarely wrote, which made the sudden influx all the more telling. The first had been full of self-pity and a plea for forgiveness. She hadn’t replied, which was rude, but she wasn’t ready to absolve her yet, if ever.
The second arrived a few days later, more thoughtful in tone, and surprisingly included a note from their mother:
Your Grace, Duchess of Sommerville,
It does the family no favors for you and Elizabeth to remain divided. Whispers travel quickly, and I need not remind you how such talk might reflect upon the family, particularly your sister when her prospects are so narrow. As Duchess of Sommerville, it is your obligation to set an example.Do not disappoint.
Her Ladyship, the Countess of Benton
Cici had rolled her eyes then, just as she did now. Funny how duty applied when it benefitted others—not necessarily herself. Still, she’d jotted a brief note, suggesting a fresh start, along withan invitation to spend the holidays at Sommerville. It was bold on her part, without asking her husband, but he wasn’t here. Besides, she knew they would decline. Her papa was a stickler about being home for Christmas.
The third letter had arrived an hour ago. Cici had stared at it for nearly half that time, dread warring with curiosity. She’d come close to tossing it into the fire, but curiosity—that traitorous thing—won out. She broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Her breath hitched as the name,Widow Winslow, rendered in precise lettering, leapt off the page.
Dearest Cici,
You have every reason not to trust me, given what happened. But I beg you to set that aside for one moment—not for my sake, but for yours.
Lady Featherstone claims she saw Andrew at Bellamy’s last evening—not just dining, but seated in the corner booth, alone with the Widow Winslow. They were still there when she left at close to midnight.
Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps it’s everything. I don’t know what stories he’s told you, but London is unforgiving when it comes to rumors—and this one is gaining traction. I thought you should hear it from someone who cares about you.
My advice, though you may not want it: enjoy the power and luxury your marriage affords, but guard your heart. You’ve always been too trusting, and I fear you won’t survive loving someone who would humiliate you publicly and sees you as nothing more than a means to an heir.
Yours, with lingering regret,Elizabeth
The paper crumpled as she made a fist. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to throw something—but mostly, to weep. She didn’tknow what to believe anymore. Her sister’s motives were rarely pure, but that didn’t mean she was wrong, not when she’d heard the same rumors from other sources.
And the warning to protect her heart came too late. She’d already given it to Andrew.
The windowpane rattled with another rumble of thunder. Even the storm raging outside felt calmer than the tempest in her chest.
Just then, the door creaked open, letting in a swirl of damp air.
