Page 39 of Surrender Your Grace
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, bowing briefly before disappearing down the corridor.
Cici stood a moment at her husband’s door, hand raised to knock, trying to think of words that might bring comfort. None came.
What could one possibly say at a time like this?
Hoping something would surface, she rapped softly.
“Come.”
Andrew stood with his back to her, head bowed, staring into the cold fireplace. She’d never been in his room before—he always came to hers, as if the balance between them had always tipped his way. The massive bed and somber décor barely registered.
He didn’t turn, but he knew it was her. “You know?” he asked.
“Lord Rothbury told me.” She approached, laying a hand on his back. “I am so sorry, Andrew.”
He moved without warning, collapsing into a wing chair as if his legs would no longer hold him. Head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, he whispered, “The gun misfired,” as though the words alone could explain the unthinkable. “They say he died instantly.”
She hovered beside him, aching to embrace him and take his pain away, but uncertain whether it would be welcome after knowing him such a short time.
He drew a breath and met her gaze, delivering another staggering truth. “I’m now the eighth duke of Sommerville. Everything has changed.”
The words hung in the air like a bell tolling a new era. Cici grappled with their weight. Just two weeks ago she had married a younger son—never expecting him to inherit. Now the burden of wealth, power, and responsibility draped across his shoulders, and Andrew was no longer simply hers.
The thought terrified her. Overwhelmed, she wondered if this would reshape what they were building—and reshape her.The younger daughter of a minor earl, she didn’t yet know how to be a viscountess, much less a duchess.
She pushed aside the tumult inside. The focus must be her husband. She stroked his hair, threading her fingers gently. “I wish I had words, but they fail me.”
A choked sound escaped him, and his arms came up, pulling her between his knees. He buried his face against her, and she curled around him, pressing her lips to his head, aching to absorb his grief.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Andrew whispered, ravaged. “James was thirty-four, in the prime of his life and so full of promise. Mother will be inconsolable. And Maggie… Father’s death nearly destroyed her. Now this…”
Tears rolled down Cici’s cheeks as she held him tighter. “What can I do?”
“Being here helps,” he answered, his warm breath penetrated the light fabric of her summer gown and her unboned waist—a cruel contrast to the bliss they’d shared only an hour ago.
***
Two weeks dragged by—an eternity for the family—each day heavy with grief. James’ death left Andrew reeling. He’d wanted to drown his sorrow in bourbon, but duty refused to wait. First, the journey to London to comfort his mother. Then Birmingham, to bring his brother home. James lay in state for five days at St. Paul’s Cathedral, as nobles, members of Parliament, and countless London acquaintances paid their respects while messengers carried the grim news to distant friends and family ahead of the Sommerville estate burial.
The day of the funeral dawned bright and sunny in stark contrast to the somber occasion. The procession mirrored their father’s only months ago. Six ebony horses drew the hearse,followed by the staff, some who’d served the duke since birth, all dressed in mourning black. Villagers lined the road to bid quiet farewells as it passed. The air hung thick with lilies and tolling bells.
Andrew and Cici followed in the open carriage. Despite the distance between them and the depth of his grief, her quiet strength and dignity during such a trying time impressed him.
He took her hand, entwining their fingers. “I know I’ve been distant. This wasn’t the honeymoon I envisioned.”
She squeezed his hand gently. “You don’t owe me an apology. This has been devastating for all of you.”
He met her gaze, holding it for several heartbeats. “I realize more every day what a favor your sister did me that night in the Easterly’s gazebo.”
Cici looked away, gently redirecting. “How is your mother holding up? She says very little. Everything stays buried inside, unlike Maggie, who’s been openly unraveling.”
“The news came as such a shock, it will take time.”
A long line of coaches trailed behind—dozens of relatives, peers, and many of James’ friends. Andrew would have preferred his mother and sister ride with him in the ducal carriage, but protocol dictated otherwise. The presence of the Archbishop of Oxford, a longtime spiritual advisor and officiant for the service, lent comfort.
The ceremony was fitting, solemn. A few close friends spoke, but the eulogy fell to Andrew. He delivered it with restraint, leaning on discipline ingrained since boyhood. Behind black veils, his mother and Maggie maintained admirable poise, though his sister sniffled softly throughout.
