Page 41 of Surrender Your Grace
“I forget nothing,” Elizabeth snapped. “This all would have been mine if you hadn’t stolen Andrew.”
Cici gaped at her, stunned by the audacity of such a blatant lie. Elizabeth’s jealousy had twisted her memory—or herconscience—into forgetting she had orchestrated the entire plan. But the front steps of Sommerville, so soon after the funeral, was neither the time nor place for an argument.
With effort, Cici kept her voice neutral. “Safe travels,” she murmured, and turned toward the manor.
“I suppose it’s for the best,” Elizabeth added with feigned resignation. “I could never abide a husband who keeps a mistress.”
Cici knew she was being baited but couldn’t help glancing back. “Andrew ended that relationship weeks ago. He told me so.”
Elizabeth gave a condescending tsk, shaking her head. “He lied, you simple goose. The duke and the widow were seen together days after your wedding. The gossip is everywhere.”
Her eyes swept over Cici from head to toe, as if assessing and dismissing her in one glance.
“Do you really think a man like him would give up his rakish ways… for you?”
“That’s a malicious rumor. The ton feeds on such things.”
Elizabeth’s laugh rang out, cruel and mocking in the crisp morning air. “Have you seen Lady Winslow? She’s older, but still very beautiful. As well as poised, and accomplished, which you are not. Andrew must regret marrying an eighteen-year-old frump like you.”
Cici blinked back tears. She was used to Elizabeth’s cruelty, but this was her most vicious. Well—excluding the incident with the poisoned lemonade. That memory she tried to keep buried, mostly in vain.
“Why do you hate me so much? Or do you just enjoy being cruel?”
“I’m simply being honest,” Elizabeth retorted, unapologetic. “As your elder sister, it’s my duty to warn you—your husband is a scoundrel. Now that he’s proven me right, I feel no guilt aboutmy little deception. Even to become a duchess, I would never have married someone so utterly unsuitable.”
With a false look of sympathy that fell short of masking her glee, she added, “I pity you, Cici,” and climbed into the carriage.
Cici stood rooted to the steps, her heart heavy as the carriage disappeared in a swirl of dust. Andrew had promised fidelity, but she hadn’t been his choice. Had his vow been meant only to appease her?
He’d been the one who suggested she remain at Arendale—was that merely to keep her out of the way to resume his affair? Like so many titled men, did he believe he could have both wife and mistress without consequence?
She turned back toward the manor, her steps slow and burdened. Elizabeth’s venom had done its work—sowing doubts and discord—which was her aim all along.
The thought of breakfast—or facing Andrew—turned her stomach. In need of solitude, she wandered to the back garden and sank onto a quiet bench where anyone passing by would blame her sadness on the household’s collective mourning. She brooded long and hard on what to do.
Elizabeth had proven she couldn’t be trusted. Out of respect for Andrew’s grief, she chose—for now—not to raise the accusation. If the rumors were false, Elizabeth had only deepened her sins. If true… Cici didn’t yet know how she’d endure it.
Two hours passed beneath the lilacs; once a source of calm and comfort, they had lost their magic.
Chapter 11
Cici sat before her mirror as Mary arranged her hair. She tried not to fidget, but anticipation shimmered through her. Tonight, Andrew was taking her to an outdoor concert beneath the domes at Victoria Embankment Gardens.
London had changed since their return—not just the oppressive July heat that wilted her, but its tone. The city no longer thrummed with society’s sparkle. Most of the peerage had retreated to their country estates, leaving Grosvenor Square more hushed than Cici had ever known.
She and Andrew remained behind. Parliament had one final week in session, and the newly minted duke of Sommerville had no reprieve from duty—not even for grief.
The rest of the family had entered deep mourning, as etiquette demanded. Widows bore the heaviest burden, withdrawing to the country, draped in black and heavy veils, their lives narrowed to shadow and silence. Men had fewer restrictions, often resuming public life swiftly. So it was with Andrew, who lingered at black-crepe-draped Sommerville Hall for a fortnight then returned to London with little more than an armband to mark his sorrow.
News of their return had spread, triggering a flurry of invitations. Lavish balls and extravagant dinners were politely declined—too celebratory for the circumstances. Hostesses had to content themselves with securing the Sommervilles’ presence at teas, small musicales, or quiet suppers. Their previouslyoverlooked marriage had become a matter of considerable social consequence.
But Cici didn’t feel consequential. She felt like an afterthought.
Andrew had changed. More aloof and contemplative. Distance crept in again—not from uncertainty now, but from the weight of responsibility.
Managing twelve Sommerville estates—with their hundreds of tenants and endless concerns—demanded most of Andrew’s time. Until he could visit each in person, correspondence dominated his days. Though he had stewards, messengers arrived daily, and a constant stream of letters crossed his desk. Disputes, land sales, crop failures, building repairs all required his input or signature. It was as though the vast duchy paused to honor the late duke for two short weeks then roared back to life again, demanding the new duke’s attention.
His influence in the House of Lords had grown threefold. He championed his counties fiercely, ever mindful of his family’s legacy. Andrew’s swift elevation to land baron and powerful political figure was enough to leave Cici reeling. And she, the unprepared duchess, was left adrift in a life she hadn’t rehearsed.
