Page 13 of Surrender Your Grace
“Oh, yes, my lady. That would be most agreeable,” Mary said, vibrating with excitement as she tried valiantly to mask it.
Cici smiled kindly. “I’ll speak with his lordship about it tonight.”
With a wide grin, the woman—several years her senior—bobbed a curtsy and all but danced from the room.
“At least someone’s happy with their lot,” Cici muttered to the empty room.
Her thoughts returned to Andrew’s rules, replaying again and again. He spoke of correction for defiance—but what did that mean? Would he truly take her over his knee?
The notion made her wary, and yet it tingled down her spine. She imagined herself over his lap, skirts lifted, modesty surrendered. The ache that followed was no longer fleeting—it pressed low and hot, unsettling in its intensity.
Her hands drifted behind her, seeking to soothe—but doing so would require touching more than her bottom.
“Cecilia.”
She jumped and whirled, startled by her husband’s deep voice disrupting the silence of her chamber. “My lord,” she breathed, her hands flying to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“So it seems. I knocked and called your name—what had you so lost in thought?”
Her cheeks flamed. There was no possibility she’d confess the truth. “Just… um… reflecting on all the changes… lately.”
Not a complete lie, but from the way his gaze flicked to her cheeks and the corners of his mouth curved downward, he clearly didn’t believe her.
“I expect you to tell me if something is wrong.”
“Of course, I will, my lord,” she replied as she crossed the room to stand before him.“Shall we go meet the staff? I shouldn’t like to keep them waiting.”
His jaw tensed at her evasive pivot, but, after a pause, he extended his arm.
Her fingers trembled as she accepted it. She was about to play lady of the manor for the first time. She’d imagined something modest—a townhome or a small country house. Not a grand estate with full staff and far-reaching expectations.
Her title was new, her footing uncertain, and the manor felt less like a home than a stage awaiting performance. Shequestioned whether she was truly up to the challenge of opening night.
“Breathe, Cici,” he urged, his big hand covering hers clutching his forearm. His encouragement and the soft smile he offered gave her the courage to walk out the door.
Now, if she could keep from falling flat on her face.
***
Before her stretched a long line of servants, assembled beneath the gilt-framed portraits of long-dead Arendale lords and ladies. Flickering sconces threw long shadows. Cici clasped her hands together to still their tremble. She felt wholly out of place—an imposter thrust into a medieval castle.
The butler’s voice echoed off the ancient stone walls. “May I present the household staff, my lady.”
They bowed and curtsied in waves—from Mrs. Weatherford, the housekeeper, to over a dozen footmen, and the youngest scullery maid, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
She forced a polite smile, aiming for friendly yet dignified, as Andrew had advised. The names came rapid-fire. “Preston, the cook in charge of the kitchens, Kinnock the underbutler, footmen: George, Benjamin, Alfred...” Too many. They blurred together in her mind.
“The upstairs maids—Mary, Mary, and”—Mrs. Weatherford hesitated— “also Mary.”
Cici blinked. “Three Marys?”
A fourth curtsied. “Mary Anne, a parlor maid, my lady.”
“I-I see,” she managed, her voice higher than intended.
“Then there’s the kitchen maid, Mary Ellen. She’s home today tending her mother who took a spill,” Mrs. Weatherford added.
Five Marys or a variation of it. Good heavens—how would she keep them straight?
