Page 66 of Surrender Your Grace
“Up here, Dr. Wadsworth,” Andrew called from the upper landing. Then, for Cici’s ears alone, he uttered, low and implacable, “You are spared my wrath momentarily, Cecilia. Do not think you have escaped it.”
She swallowed hard. He only used her full name when his disappointment ran deep.
***
The physician diagnosed a sprained ankle and deep bruising to her shoulder, hip, and backside. He prescribed three days of bed rest, a week off her foot, warm baths for the aches, and twice-daily soaks in bitter salts to ease the swelling.
Andrew stood at the foot of the bed the entire time, arms folded, jaw tight. Once Dr. Wadsworth left, and Mary went to draw her a warm bath, they were finally alone.
He didn’t sit. He paced, silent and simmering, for several long minutes before he came to her. He dropped onto the edge of the bed and took her hand, turning it over in his. Her skin was soft, her fingers delicate. The thought of her bruised and battered in some filthy bookshop reignited the fury he’d fought to contain.
“You dislike my rules,” he began, struggling to keep his tone level, “but you’ve made them necessary. Every single one.”
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
He drew back slightly, incredulous. “That’s just it. You aren’t anyone.” His voice sharpened. “A duchess—my duchess—has no business in that part of the city. Not with criminals on every corner and buildings on the verge of collapse. And she certainly shouldn’t place herself in a position where another man has to carry her into her own home.”
That last sentence came out louder than he intended. She flinched. He didn’t shout often—never at her—but today? Today, she’d earned it.
Rubbing his forehead, he let out a rough breath. “You need a keeper,” he muttered.
“Andrew!”
He stood again, pacing the room, his boots thudding on the carpet. “Tell me why you had to go there. Why not Hatchard’s? Or any number of reputable booksellers?”
“I’d rather not say,” she hedged.
He turned on her, eyes blazing. “I don’t care what you’d rather not say. Even if you’re keeping secrets for the queen herself. I am your husband, and you will answer me. Now.”
Her fingers twisted in the coverlet. “I went to purchase a Christmas gift—for you.”
Silence fell, heavy and strained.
He exhaled raggedly, dragging both hands through his hair. “Cici…”
“I wanted it to be special,” she said quietly. “Not something you could buy yourself.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d trade every gift under heaven for your safety.” Her rubbed his face, pacing a slow circle near the foot of the bed. “You must swear to me you’ll never do anything so reckless again. That area of London—God, you could have been robbed. Or kidnapped. Or—” His voice cracked. “Or worse.”
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she whispered.
Andrew let out a dry laugh, eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Frightened doesn’t begin to cover it.”
He sat and took her hand once more.
“Before your debut, you lived in a protective bubble—exactly as you should’ve as a well-bred young lady. But the world outside that bubble is full of dangers. To ensure this doesn’t happen again, I’ll be instructing your guards—and the drivers—on where you may go. If there’s another incident, you’ll need my express permission to leave the house.”
She blinked. “That sounds suspiciously like house arrest.”
“Call it what you will. For the next week, you’re homebound. Physician’s orders. My orders.” His fingers tightened on hers, his gaze unrelenting. “If you need a reminder of what disobedience earns you... defy me again, and you’ll have it.”
“This was a one-time occurrence, I promise you.”
“See that it is.”
“Am I allowed visitors, at least? My mother will wonder if I vanish out of the blue.”
“Of course. This is about protection, not punishment.”
