Page 24 of Surrender Your Grace
He stared. “Not so awful? She tried to poison you!”
Her gaze dropped. “There’s that,” she whispered.
His chest, broad and warm beneath his open collar, distracted her from anything else. Especially the past.
“Look at me, Cici.” He waited, silent until her gaze lifted to his. “Your eyes are the color of a spring meadow. Lovely and expressive. In them, I see innocence and fire. Your charm is refreshing in a world full of pretense. You’re not inferior—not in any sense. Is that clear?”
She nodded, though doubt still lingered. Their marriage wasn’t born of love, but duty. His rage in her father’s study still echoed.
“Are you truly happy to be wed to me?” she asked softly.
“We don’t know each other well, but with time, trust will grow. For now, you’ll have to believe when I say, I do not lie.”
A prickling unease, like a thousand tiny needles, covered her skin. She waited, half-expecting to jolt awake and find it all a dream.
“Pinch me,” she urged in a whisper, “so I know this isn’t a figment of my overactive imagination.”
His slow smile warmed her from the inside out, chasing away the prickling sensation. “I’d rather do something we’ll both enjoy.” His head lowered, his lips meeting hers.
Her breath hitched as his tongue teased the seam of her lips. She opened eagerly, only to have him catch her lower lip between his teeth—a soft nip—followed by the gentle sweep of his tongue, tasting and teasing, coaxing her deeper.
His arms enclosed her, bending her slightly backward. His body, hard and warm against her softness, especially her belly, overwhelmed her. She was so lost in sensation that she didn’t notice the slow gathering of her gown’s hem until he said, “Hands over your head. This absurd tent must go.”
Without thought, she raised her arms. Cool air brushed her bare skin and panic rose. Her arms fell, and a flustered tug-of-war with the fabric ensued until it ripped.
“The lamps are still burning, my lord! It’s indecent!” Cici exclaimed.
“I care not,” he muttered, using the yards of fabric to reel her in. His palm cupped a bare bottom cheek, and she yelped in surprise.
“It’s your inability to follow a simple request that matters.”
Cici blinked. “What request?”
“If not Andrew—call me husband, my love, anything—but not ‘my lord’ on our wedding night. Is that truly so hard?”
“No, but this is all so new to me,” she whispered. “Please be patient, my lo—uh, Andrew.” Dear heavens, she’d almost done it again.
“I’ll try harder,” she murmured—and promptly burst into tears.
He stiffened, alarmed. “Sweetness—what is this? Calling me by name shouldn’t unravel you.”
Her words tangled with sobs. “I don’t know what to do—or how to act—or what you expect.” Her voice cracked. “Mama only said—” But the rest stuck in her throat.
“What exactly did your mother tell you?”
She shook her head, hiding her flaming face against his chest. “I can’t repeat it.”
“Yes, you can—and you will,” he said gently. “To repair what’s broken, I must know the damage.”
“She said to let my husband… uh…” Her cheeks burned hotter. “She told me this right before our vows, in the vaguest possible terms.”
He lifted her chin, watching her stall.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Mama told me to follow Queen Victoria’s advice.”
“And what is that?”
“She reasoned—if it was good enough for the queen’s daughter, it was good enough for an earl’s.”
