Page 43 of Surrender Your Grace
“Most treat me differently now. Maggie and Elizabeth were my circle.”
“I’d prefer your time with sister be kept to a minimum.”
“Me too,” she murmured. “But you’re right. I need something to fill my days.”
“There was a stack of invitations and calling cards on the entry table.”
She sighed. “I don’t know where to start with those either.”
“You need a secretary,” he declared.
She laughed. When he didn’t join in, she paused. “Oh. You’re serious.”
He nodded. “You don’t think women of your rank handle everything alone, do you? A secretary can help with correspondence, RSVPs, your social calendar, and sponsorships if that’s what you choose to do.”
“Where does on find such a miracle worker?”
“That I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ll send for my mother.”
“But she’s still in deep mourning. Won’t people talk?”
“She needn’t attend anything. Guiding you in your new role might help her to take her mind off things”
“Could Maggie come with her?”
He smiled—genuinely smiled—for the first time in what felt like months. “That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”
“Very much.”
“Then, I’ll make it happen.” He tilted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “It won’t always be like this, sweeting. I promise.”
“I hope not. I miss you—and…”
“Finish your thought,” he urged.
“I miss what we had before.”
“I do too. But grief and exhaustion don’t inspire passion.” He raised a hand to her lips, the heat of interest, missing for months, gleaming in his eyes. “You in a violet dress with jewels twinkling in your hair does, however. We’ll fix the distance between us when I return.”
“I’d like that.”
Soft as a whisper, his thumb traced the line of her jaw. “This is difficult, I know.”
“For you too.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. In a rare moment of vulnerability, his shoulders dropped. “This all hit like a bolt from the blue—James’ death, the title, the estates—”
“Marrying me.”
Silence bloomed.
Wanting to ease the moment, she reached for him, fingertips brushing his jaw. “I understand, truly, and I apologize for adding to the weight on your shoulders.”
“Don’t apologize. This is no one’s fault.” Their lips met—tentative at first, then fierce and hungry, a spark reigniting. When he lifted his mouth, he whispered, “I’m not imaginary, sweeting. I’ve very real, just not yet present. But I will be soon. I promise.”
The damnable mantel clock chimed the hour—seven o’clock.
Andrew groaned. “If I’m to make my train at Paddington, I must go.”
