Page 18 of Surrender Your Grace
When the door closed, she returned to the chaise. Relief washed over her briefly then came the sting of something sharper. Rejection. Worse: disappointment tangled with humiliation. He didn’t want her—not enough to even try.
She wasn’t entirely naïve. Some men didn’t wait. Andrew was a man used to command, not restraint. He could’ve claimed what their vows gave him. She might have clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, but she would have yielded, nonetheless. Instead, he deferred to her supposed exhaustion.
Her bare feet made no sound on the thick Aubusson rug as she paced. Her robe fluttered open, the linen gown beneath whispering against her skin. Catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror, Cici paused, wondering what her husband saw.
She wasn’t plain. But not a beauty either. Not the kind men noticed first—or chose.
Pressing a hand to her fluttering belly, she asked her reflection, “Why do you care so much?”
The answer wasn’t a mystery, though. His charm, when he chose to use it, was captivating, and his handsomeness made her ache. A genuine smile brought a vibrant sparkle to his blue eyes. His strong, elegant fingers ignited a longing to feel their touch, not only on her hand or cheek, but in intimate places.
In a shaky voice, she announced to her lonely room, “It’s so obvious—and one-sided,” before extinguishing the candles and lamp. Disappointed and more than a little sorry for herself, she crossed to the bed, stripped off her robe, and pulled back the coverlet. The sheets were cool against her skin as she slipped in, alone. She lay back, the note still clutched in her hand, her eyes fixed on the shadowy ceiling above.
“Until morning,” she whispered, echoing his words.
Sleep eluded her. The notion her husband didn’t want her lingered, a taunting voice echoing in her mind.What did you expect?You’re not Elizabeth. Not his first choice. Not the one who dazzles.
***
Even before entering the breakfast room, she could see the morning light pouring in through the mullioned windows. It glinted off the silverware and gold-trimmed china. The room was brilliantly lit—offensively so. He’d meant for her to rest, but his note had done the opposite, and she’d tossed and turned all night, her mind unable to shut off. She’d accomplished one thing, mustering the courage to confront him first thing and have him define exactly what kind of marriage this would be.
Hesitantly, she paused at the door, her courage failing. She might have retreated, but a footman standing at attention inside spotted her. He bowed, announcing, “Good morning, my lady.”
Blast. So much for retreat.
With a polite nod, she stepped inside. Andrew rose and greeted her with a bow, his grace effortless.
“Good morning,” he murmured, remaining standing as the footman seated her.
“Good morning, my lord,” she replied, nodding at another footman who offered her tea.
They sat opposite each other at a long table, easily large enough for a family of ten. As she lifted her teacup, she ignored the nervous rattle against the saucer; the sound amplified by the tension that hung between them.
“I trust you slept well?” he asked, his tone cool and measured, but not unkind.
“Well enough,” she lied. Her voice felt small in the large room, and the distance gave her the courage to mutter, “Nothing soothes the nerves like anticipation without a conclusion.”
“Excuse me, I didn’t catch that,” he said, giving her an opening to clear the air.
“Nothing of import, my lord,” she said, losing her nerve again.
He picked up a knife and buttered a slice of toast. A clock ticked loudly nearby—must they have one in every room?
The quiet warred with her thoughts. So many of them. She was used to her mother and sister’s incessant chattering. How would she break her fast with such awkwardness? Worse, to face a lifetime of meals like this?
Cici set her teacup down with a deliberate clink and met his eyes across the table.
“Is this what the future holds for us?” she asked, her voice sharper than she planned. “A distant, silent, perfunctory marriage? Tell me so that I might prepare, at least.”
His hand froze, the toast suspended before his mouth. Although his expression gave nothing away, the pause spoke volumes.
Emboldened, she continued. “I had hoped for—if not love—warmth, at least. A kind word on occasion. Companionship, perhaps. Not this awkwardness.”
A long silence stretched between them. Then he pushed his chair back and stood, not abruptly, but with purpose.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
She glanced down at the almost-full cup of tea and empty plate. “Now?”
