Page 56 of Surrender Your Grace
Cici nodded slightly, gaze drifting to the bed—neat, untouched, mocking.
James’ death had left a hollow in the household, one that echoed in every quiet room. Andrew had grieved, just as they all had. When he was home, he sought her out—in the garden, the music room when she played, and her bedroom. Despite custom, when he came to her bed, he stayed.
That should have reassured her. But she had doubted him. Unfairly.
She refused dinner. Declined a tray. Listened to the house grow quiet.
The hallway clock chimed two when she heard footsteps—a slow tread that passed her door and continued toward the master suite beyond. A burst of resolve shot through her.
Barefoot and wrapped in a shawl, she crept through the sitting room and knocked.
“Come,” Andrew said from within.
He stood near the fireplace, shirt unbuttoned, trousers slung low, hair tousled. One hand gripped the mantel.
“It’s late,” he said, not unkindly. “You should be asleep.”
“I couldn’t. Not while this lingers between us.”
“We’ll speak tomorrow,” he offered with gentle finality. “Go rest.”
“I can’t wait,” she whispered, eyes stinging. “I feel wretched. I acted from fear and jealousy.” In a breathless blur, she sank to her knees in front of him, gown pooling over his shoes. “Please, forgive me.”
He sighed, visibly softening. “All right. We’ll do this now.”
Reaching down, he touched her cheek, his fingers feather-light.
“I was angry,” he admitted. “Hurt, too. But after dinner with Mama, I gained some perspective. The rumors you’ve heard—they plagued my parents, and James. The Sommervilles are a favorite target for the scandal seekers.”
“And we landed in their sights.” She looked up. “Can you forgive me?”
“I already have.” As she sobbed with relief, he pulled her into his arms and eased them into one of the chairs flanking the hearth, cuddling her on his lap. “Next time, which unfortunately is bound to happen, you must believe me. Not Lady Winslow. Not Elizabeth or all of Mayfair. Me.”
“I will,” she whispered, burrowing closer as she hiccupped and sniffled.
“Hush, sweeting,” he murmured. “You’ll make yourself ill.”
“I already feel sick—for believing her.”
He produced a handkerchief and dabbed her tears then held it to her nose like a nursemaid. “Blow.”
She obeyed.
“I should’ve told you about her note,” he said after a moment. “The visit, too. I wanted to protect you.”
She gave a soft, watery laugh. “Clearly, that backfired.”
“In fairness, Lady Winslow belongs on the stage. She fooled me for a time, too. Even if I hadn’t decided to marry, I would’ve ended it. She was too conniving.”
Cici tilted her head to see him. “I’m struggling to understand what you saw in her.”
His delayed response and the touch of color rising in his cheeks gave her the answer.
“That was a foolish question. Despite her abysmal personality, and advanced age,” she remarked pointedly, “she’s still beautiful, I suppose. In an obvious, predatory way.”
“Her beauty vanished the moment she spoke. I’ve learned real beauty is deeper. And I married someone who has both.”
Cici melted a little at that.
