Page 85 of Surrender Your Grace
“Where’s the invincible duchess of an hour ago?”
“Beaten down,” she said. “Again.”
He rose. “Dance with me.”
“Now?” she blinked.
“If not now, when? We came tonight to prove something. Let’s show everyone that we don’t care a whit about malicious rumors and innuendo.”
“That would be a lie because I do care. Can’t we just go home.”
“What’s one more lie added to the others swirling around us?”
“But, Andrew, what if it’s true?”
“It changes nothing. You are my wife, my duchess, my love. You are not retreating to Arendale to live apart from me.”
“Andrew…”
He held out his hand. “Dance with me. Let them see.”
When she laid her fingers across his palm, he gripped them firmly. With prefect timing, the ensemble played the overture to a waltz as he led her out onto the floor.
“Eyes on me and relax,” he murmured as he guided her expertly into motion.
She met his gaze—and in his arms, the weight of the whispers and condemning stares began to lift.
“They’re watching me,” he said, a gentle smile on the handsomest face she’d ever seen.
“You?” she asked, doubting that was true.
“They’re wondering if I’ll cast you aside.”
“But you won’t,” she said, sure of it.
“Never. I’d sooner cast all of Mayfair into the Thames, which would solve a lot of problems.”
“We’re part of Mayfair. Wouldn’t we have to go into the drink too?”
“I suppose so, but we’re Sommervilles. Like cream, we would rise to the top.”
Her laughter sparkled, and her steps lightened. They danced not once but three times—a scandal in itself—then escaped to the veranda for some air. They nodded at acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk as if they were too enamored with one another to be interrupted. Andrew stayed at her side, constant and calm, as she’d teasingly told him to do before the awful rumors emerged. And when it was time for the supper dance, he claimed yet another waltz, and afterward escorted her into the dining room.
When everyone was seated, and their glasses filled, Andrew rose and lifted his.
“If anyone here values truth more than titles, raise your glass to my wife. Legitimate in birth, peerless in character, and the only woman worthy to stand beside me.”
A beat of stunned silence followed.
Lord Benton rose next, her mother at his side, as slandered as Cici. In his hand, her papa clutched what could only be the defaming letter. “For those who chase idle rumors, let it be settled. My daughter’s name, bloodline, and position are beyond question. And anyone who implies otherwise tarnishes their own honor, not hers.”
Silence gave way to soft applause.
Cici lifted her chin, proud of the men in her life, and of herself because she hadn’t turned tail and run like she’d wanted to.
Later, in a stolen moment with Maggie, Cici leaned close and whispered, “This must end.”
“Agreed. The widow and your sister seemed far too pleased with themselves,” she said dryly. “At least, until the toast—then they vanished.”
