Page 47 of Surrender Your Grace
“Thank you. Forgive my forwardness, but you speak as though from familiarity.”
“Growing up books were my closest companions. I shouldn’t admit that, but I found them far kinder than most I’ve encountered in society.”
“I expect that would have changed once you became a duchess.”
With the callous judgmental whispers still fresh in her mind, Cici murmured, “it’s early days, but after today, I’m doubtful.”
He hesitated, lips slightly part, as though considering a reply, but excused himself when Anne reappeared at Cici’s side, all flushed and fluttering.
“Your Grace, my mother wonders if you might stay for supper. Mr. Dickens and Mr. Woods promised more stories. Oh, do say yes.”
“I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement.” Cici would much rather stay than rush home for tea with her mother, but she’d promised her. “Please thank Lady Ashworth for the invitation.”
Anne nodded. “Another time?”
“That would be lovely,” she replied. As long as it was intimate, not the crush of today’s salon.
As Anne turned to greet someone else, Cici moved to the refreshment table laid with miniature jellies and wafer-thin sandwiches layered with cucumber and watercress. She stepped aside with a glass of sparkling, wine hoping to collect herself after the moving reading.
Mid-sip she heard more whispers from two young women behind her.
“It’s tragic, really, to be abandoned so soon after the wedding…”
“Tragic—or convenient. Old habits die hard. Especially for London’s most notorious rake.”
She’d had enough of being the subject of speculation and would have moved in a beeline for the door, except the first girl said with some urgency, “Don’t look now, but Lady Armitage isbehind you. She swears he called on the widow just days after the wedding.”
“At her house?” the second gasped. “Scandalous. But some women—so plain—must settle for being fourth or fifth.”
Their words struck like a lash. Cici’s cheeks burned.
The harpist resumed her play, accompanied by a pianist, and drowned out what else they said. A moment later, the two gossips swept past her, offering her a cursory curtsy as they unsuccessfully swallowed their giggles.
She drained her glass and smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers. She would not run or cry, as much as she wanted to. Instead, with all the calm she could muster, she went in search of her hostess.
“Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Lady Ashworth,” she said, offering a practiced smile.”
The countess curtsied, which still seemed strange to Cici since the lady was her own mother’s contemporary. “We were honored by your presence, Your Grace. Perhaps you and His Grace might join us for dinner when he returns from his travels?”
Did everyone know about her vagabond duke?
“Perhaps,” Cici said, vaguely, unwilling to speak for her vagabond husband. As she quit the room, her smile forced but undimmed, the ache in her chest twisted deeper.
Chapter 14
On the carriage ride home, the biting words played in her mind. a spiteful refrain in a discordant key. As she stormed up the stairs, her destination was the music room, where she planned to pound out Czerny’s “Sonata No. 1 in A-flat Major”—the angriest piece she knew—imagining Andrew’s head as the keys.
She paused to hand her wrap to a maid. At a waft of rose-petal attar and lemon biscuits—her mother’s favorites—Cici suppressed a groan. So much for venting her feelings on the pianoforte.
Despite her urge to run away, she steadied herself with a deep breath and entered the drawing room.
Lady Benton rose from her chair by the fire and offered the deepest curtsy her aging knees could manage. “Your Grace, we settled in to wait,” she said with brittle cheer. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“You’re family, Mother. Of course, I don’t mind,” Cici replied, though her voice came out sharper than intended. Her nerves were already frayed. “And stop with the curtsies and Your Graces every five minutes. It’s awkward.”
“I’m still adjusting to your new title and station. I thought repetition might help.” Her mother straightened with a rustle of silk and the faint crackle of protesting joints.
“When do you suppose it might stick?” another voice said acidly from across the room.
