Page 68 of Surrender Your Grace
“It does,” he acknowledged, his thumb brushing the aged cover. “We spent summers there when I was a boy. Myfather adored it. I think he loved the place even more than Sommerville.”
Maggie leaned forward and inquired, “What do you have there, Brother?”
“Cici found the first printing of the Arendale history.” Andrew flipped to the table of contents. “It includes gifting of the land to the first duke of Sommerville from Williams the Conqueror himself and the story of the swans by the willows where we used to picnic every summer.”
“I remember you and James trying to joust with willow branches,” his mother said fondly. “You almost lost an eye.”
“I was nine,” he said, a bit defensively.
Cici smiled. “Is that story in there, too?”
“No,” he said, flipping pages. “But the one about the ruined chapel is. Now in print. Easier to pass down to our—” He stopped himself, the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air.
Cici reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t walk on eggshells, please. I’m confident we’ll have that heir one day.”
He met her gaze. Something flickered in his eyes—gratitude, love, perhaps even longing.
“It’s been a wonderful evening,” Catherine said, rising. “Perhaps next year we’ll feel up to celebrating at the Hall with all of our traditions. I just wasn’t up to it this year.”
“We all understand,” Andrew assured her.
She nodded, still looking so sad Cici’s heart broke. “I’m for bed,” Catherine said, blinking back tears, “if I plan to be up for church in the morning.”
“I’ll walk up with you, Mama,” Maggie said, linking arms with her mother.
A round of Happy Christmases followed before she and Andrew were left alone.
Clutching the book, he leaned toward her, “I’ll treasure this,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s what I was hoping for.”
He leaned in and brushed a kiss over her mouth, a gentle press of lips that carried more tenderness than heat. She responded, breath catching, heart leaping with hope… but he pulled back too soon.
“Let me read to you,” he said, voice hoarse.
She blinked, surprised. “Read?”
He opened the book to a time-worn page and began in a low, resonant voice: “The lands surrounding Arendale Hall were once thick with ash and yew, sacred groves where the old gods were worshipped, and offerings buried beneath the earth.”
His low, lulling voice settled into her bones. She watched him as he read, his features soft in the firelight, the deep timbre of his voice soothing—and maddening. This intimacy was sweet, yes. Safe. Domestic. But it wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
He hadn’t touched her beyond necessity since losing the baby. Not even to spank her after the bookshop escapade, when she’d all but begged for consequences. He was always gentle, always thoughtful—but careful. Too careful. And the way he tucked her in each night and left the bed cold gnawed at something vulnerable inside her.
Cici leaned against him, listening, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.
The warmth of the fire, the cadence of his voice, wove together like a lullaby. Eventually, her lashes fluttered closed.
She woke when he lifted her.
“I’m not asleep,” she whispered, without opening her eyes.
“You’re snoring, sweeting.”
“Am not.”
He chuckled low, conceding the point. “Time for bed.”
Snuggling into the circle of his arms, she sighed. This was something, at least.
