Page 6 of Surrender Your Grace
Andrew saw no sign of insects—but, to her, they were unmistakably real. She swiped at her skin and pulled at her clothing, but, finding no relief, she shrieked again, “They’re everywhere. I can’t bear it. Get them off me!”
Her fingers clawed at her scalp, tearing out the jeweled pins. Her auburn curls tumbled around her shoulders, wild anduncontained. Despite her state, the thick, glossy mass left him speechless.
“What is going on here?” an affronted voice demanded.
Andrew turned to see Lord Benton enter the gazebo, flanked by his wife, Marquess Easterly, and his marchioness.
“Lady Cecilia fell ill, unexpectedly. I assisted her to the bench while Lady Elizabeth went for help.”
“It looks as though you did more than that,” the marchioness observed. “Her hair is down and her clothing is, well, askew.”
Lady Benton rushed to her daughter’s side. “I’ll tend her now. What you’ve done, alone out here with my daughter, is most unseemly.”
“She couldn’t breathe,” Andrew protested. “I was trying to make her more comfortable until you could arrive, my lady.”
“Arrive? Why would you expect me, when I knew nothing was amiss until a footman advised me to make haste to the gazebo?”
“But Lady Elizabeth assured me you were meeting us here for a stroll,” Andrew explained through gritted teeth. Interestingly, the lady who could corroborate his story was nowhere around to do so. As he felt their condemning stares, he began to suspect something was afoot.
“I made no such arrangements.” She looked at her husband. “Had you, Charles?”
In a piteous voice, Cici implored, “Please, get them off me.” What followed was a string of incoherent words as she continued to pull at her hair and gown.
“We must get her somewhere private and summon a physician, my lord husband,” Lady Benton exclaimed. “Clearly, she cannot walk in her condition. One of you gentlemen will need to carry her.”
The Marquess, who was past sixty, deferred to her father but Lord Benton shook his head regretfully, “Arendale, you will have to do it. A back injury prevents me—”
“Certainly,” he interrupted and once again scooped up a now pale and shivering Cecilia Edwards in his arms. Turning, he addressed his host. “If you will lead, I will follow, my lord.”
In minutes, they were at the back door.
“You can’t mean to take her through the ballroom,” the marchioness exclaimed. “Think of the scandal.”
“I think her inability to breathe takes precedence,” Andrew said cuttingly.
As their party of six passed through the crush of guests, dancing stopped, as did the music. Whispers, murmurs of concern, and a few gasps of outrage surrounded them. The sight of Lady Cecilia fidgeting restlessly and mumbling incoherently was startling enough. Seeing her in a mussed gown with her long hair loose and falling in a riot of color over the viscount’s arm was salacious.
As whispers spread and speculation rippled like waves across the ballroom, Andrew did his best to maintain his hold on his wriggling charge, who continued to slap at the invisible creatures. While he followed the Marquess, her parents close on his heels, he turned her face into his shoulder to minimize any further embarrassment for the young lady.
From the corner of his eye, Andrew caught a flash of lavender silk. Elizabeth stood among the crowd, a smug smile playing on her lips as she watched the spectacle unfold. She had gone to fetch her mama, but they’d arrived within seconds of her leaving. With only one entrance to the garden, their paths would have crossed. The timing, the conflicting stories, the way Elizabeth vanished just as chaos struck—none of it added up.
An ominous chill ran down his spine. This reeked of treachery.
Chapter 3
The itching had faded, the haze lifted, but a dull headache throbbed behind her eyes. She’d much rather have stayed in bed with the curtains drawn, but her father’s summons could not be ignored. The study door stood open, so she stepped inside.
“Have a seat, Cecilia,” he said, gesturing to a lone chair.
She hesitated. It wasn’t in its usual spot but positioned awkwardly between her mother and his desk.
The air in the room felt unnaturally still as she crossed it, sat and smoothed her skirts, and then folded her hands in her lap. When she looked up, eager to learn what this was about, the sight that greeted her filled her with dread.
Both her parents wore equally grim expressions. Her mother dabbed delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief while liberally employing her fan.In the chair opposite her father’s sat her friend Maggie’s brother, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. They had never been formally introduced, though they’d crossed paths at numerous balls and soirees. That a duke would come calling at her home and request an audience with her was absurd enough to feel surreal.
“Papa?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What is this about?”
“In due time,” her father replied. “First, allow me to present, His Grace, the Duke of Sommerville.”
