Page 15 of Surrender Your Grace
“It’s unusual for a woman to inherit a title, isn’t it?”
“It is, and not without controversy. After my father’s death, I took on the subsidiary title and her seat in the House of Lords through a writ of acceptance. Her Majesty created the viscountcy to avoid any controversy over rank, which runs rampant in the Lords.”
“It is, and it caused quite the stir. After Father passed, I assumed her subsidiary title and seat in the Lords through writ of acceptance. Her Majesty created the viscountcy to avoid rank confusion. Politics in the Lords can be… delicate.”
“And confusing since the Acts of Union passed,” she said with a sigh. “Especially when Scottish lines are involved.” She took her last sip and set the glass aside, fingers laced together. “Despite my boasting about management skills, I fear you were thrust into an even worse mismatch than you expected. I feel ill-equipped to manage two estates—let alone four households.”
She watched him carefully, searching his features for disappointment—but found only gentle amusement.
“Don’t fret,” he said, enclosing her hands in one of his. “Each property has a well-trained staff. They’ll need only oversight. We’ll visit all of them in the coming months—though I say we move Brighton down the list until after the Season when the waters are warm enough to swim.”
“I should love that, Andrew. But I worry about representing you well—I don’t want to muddle everything.”
“Impossible,” he murmured. “If you like, I’ll ask Mother to spend time with you. She’ll get you up to snuff quickly.”
“I would appreciate her wisdom.”
He chuckled, catching her hesitation. “Ah, the wheels are turning. What’s bothering you? Is it Mother? She’s fond of you—I've heard her say so often, especially since you and Maggie became thick as thieves.”
Cici shook her head gently. Catherine, the dowager duchess, had always been kind and welcoming—though Cici had wondered if that warmth might cool after her sudden marriage to her son.
Andrew reached out and brushed his thumb down her cheek in a tender gesture. “Then, what has you worried?”
“I’ve never been to Brighton,” she confessed. “I’d love to frolic in the waves, soak up the sunshine… but I never learned to swim.”
“Is that all?” he said with a grin. “I’ll teach you—and find great pleasure in it. You’ll see. A dip in the sea is exhilarating.”
“But… I heard men and women swim separately, my—” she stammered, catching herself before saying “my lord.” Drat. Would she ever get used to calling him by name? “And I’ve heard tales about those horrid bathing machines. I doubt I’d enjoy that.”
When Andrew’s full-throated laugh echoed through the salon, Cici felt her cheeks warm. It wasn’t just the sound—it was the way his whole face opened up, like he’d dropped every guard. She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen the goofy smile she couldn’t seem to suppress or guessed how thoroughly infatuated she was.
“We have a private beach,” he said at length. “No audience. No gossipmongers. We can even swim dressed in the bathing costume God gave us.”
She gasped, scandalized. “Without clothes? That’s illegal—not to mention scandalous.”
Still, her mind betrayed her, imagining his bare chest—and the rest. The very notion was preposterous. And thrilling.
She glanced up to see his eyes sparkling, the curve of his lips unmistakable. “You tease, my, uh—Andrew.”
He grunted softly. “I’m growing used to that… though I dislike my-uh Andrew and sometimes my-lo Andrew almost as much as my-lord-uh Andrew.”
She stared at him, dumbstruck. His outrageous wink made her laugh despite herself. Perhaps there was more to her formidable husband than she’d realized.
Higgins interrupted once again. “Dinner is served.”
Andrew waited for her to rise and, with his hand low on her back, walked with her to the door. “We’ll use the family dining room, which is smaller. I prefer a relaxed routine in the country.”
“Of course, Andrew,” she replied deliberately—no prefixes this time. “Whatever you’re accustomed to.”
“If wine doesn’t suit, what do you usually drink with supper?”
“Water or lemonade. It’s not that I dislike wine—I’m simply not used to it. Papa forbade it, claiming it led to ‘female independence, drunkenness, and other immoral behavior in the fairer gender,’” she said, mimicking her father’s staid manner.
She peeped up at her husband, thinking he might perceive her imitation as disrespect and disapprove. When she caught Andrew’s smile, she returned it, emboldened by his lightheartedness.
“Papa allowed champagne on special occasions,” she continued, “but he was a teetotaler himself.”
“I don’t hold such strict standards and enjoy a well-aged cognac or brandy.” He hailed a footman. “Bring a bottle of the Sémillon Bordeaux for my lady.”
