Page 7 of Surrender Your Grace
Cici rose to curtsy, but the duke waved her down.
“No need for ceremony,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “I have heard much about you from my sister, Lady Cecilia. Why is it we have never met?”
“I haven’t yet visited Sommerville House, Your Grace. Lady Maggie and I usually meet in town—to shop, promenade, or take ices at Gunter’s.” She offered a tentative smile. “She speaks of you often. Though she usually refers to you as… Ducky.”
The quip was a risk. She’d hoped it might dispel the tension—but her parents audibly gasped at her breach of decorum. The duke, mercifully, did not appear offended, though he didn’t smile either.
“Maggie bestowed that name upon me when she was two,” he said evenly. “Unfortunately, she’s yet to outgrow it.”
Cici studied him as subtly as she could. He was older than Maggie by a decade or more, with prematurely silvering blond hair and a reserved, patrician air. Though they shared the same striking blue eyes, his held a steely intensity that seemed to take her measure—and find her lacking.
Her cheeks flushed. She was no stranger to titled company, having been presented to the queen when she’d made her debut months earlier. But to be so plainly dismissed by the duke in her own home stung.
The duke turned his head slightly. “Stop skulking by the fireplace, Brother. I have other appointments this afternoon and would see this matter settled.”
A man stepped from the shadows, and Cici’s heart stuttered.
It was Andrew Ashwick. Not the charming gentleman from the night before, but a different version entirely. Cold and coiled with fury. He addressed the duke, his voice laced with biting sarcasm.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I thought it more expedient to remain standing, considering I’ll have to drop my trousers to berogeredup the—”
“Andrew!” the duke barked.
“Must we proceed with someone so vulgar?” her mother cried, flapping her fan with renewed vigor.
“There are ladies present, Arendale!” her father thundered.
Andrew’s gaze flicked to Cici then back to his brother. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
She and her mother gasped, the insult lingering in the air like smoke.
The duke rose and issued a stilted warning. “You are not helping. One more ungentlemanly remark, and you’ll find yourself outside, leaving me to represent your interests. Is that clear?”
The viscount didn’t flinch. His eyes locked with Cici’s as he replied, “Crystal.”
His Grace turned his focus to her. “My apologies. My brother speaks out of turn, but I cannot fault his temper—not entirely.” His tone cooled. “Given the circumstances.”
Still reeling, she found her voice. “May I ask what I’m being accused of?”
“You appear remarkably hale for someone who collapsed so dramatically last night,” the duke said, his skepticism cutting. “One might say you’ve had a miraculous recovery.”
Cici turned to her parents, her voice rising. “Mama? Papa? What is going on?”
Her mother leapt to her defense. “She has a sensitivity, Your Grace. She’s suffered such episodes before—though not in years. It must have been something in the food. An herb, perhaps.”
“Our physician examined her and agreed it was a reoccurrence of the malady,” her father explained. “This wasn’t theatrics, if that is what you are suggesting. I’ll have him summoned to corroborate at once,” he said, striding toward the door.
“No need,” Andrew cut in. “The means do not matter so much as the end in this case.” His fury seemed to have ebbed, replaced by grim resignation. “Let us be done with it.”
He withdrew a folded document from his coat and handed it to her father.
“The contract,” he said flatly. “Drawn up to your specifications, with His Grace’s oversight. All it requires now are signatures.”
“What contract?” Cici asked, her anxiety rising along with the pitch of her voice. “Will someone please explain what is happening?”
Neither parent answered. Her father was too absorbed in the papers.
“Mama?” she whispered, desperation tightening her throat. “This concerns me. Why am I the last to know?”
