Page 48 of Surrender Your Grace
Cici blinked. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed Elizabeth by the window, the bold claret of her gown jarring against the soft decor. Too bright for afternoon wear, too loud for a house in mourning.
Lady Benton ignored her eldest daughter—something that rarely happened—and instead, commented excitedly, “I’ve never had this many invitations before! Your rise in stature has opened many doors socially for your father and me.”
Elizabeth let out an undignified snort. “I’d wager it’s because you’ve worked your connection with the Sommervilles into every conversation you’ve had of late. You’d thinkher nibshad hung the moon for all the folderols.”
Without so much as a word to her hostess, least of all the politeness of a greeting, her sister proceeded with her diatribe in a flawless imitation of their mother.
“‘Have you heard, Lady So-and-So? My daughter is now the esteemed duchess of Sommerville.’ And you’ve tirelessly corrected those who might have missed the earth-shattering news while residing in the country. ‘Good heavens, she’s no longer Lady Cecilia, but Her Grace, the duchess of Sommerville.’” Elizabeth threw her hands up in exasperation. “It has been ‘my daughter, the duchess’ this and ‘my daughter, Her Grace’ that for nigh on a month. Honestly, it’s getting exhausting.”
Cici forced a smile. “Sister. I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”
“Surprise.” Elizabeth flopped onto the settee with a graceless thud. “Since people keep asking me about the duchess, I couldn’t wait for a personal invitation. One must experience these things while the paint is still fresh.”
“Hmm,” Cici murmured, eyeing the walls. “Silk damask doesn’t require paint.”
The Sommervilles could easily afford silk, unlike the Edwards. It was a petty jab but, after the day she’d had, she indulged herself.
“It’s a figure of speech,” Elizabeth snapped, green eyes narrowing. “They say this is one of the oldest homes in Grosvenor Square. No wonder it smells like a musty old museum.”
Whoevertheywere, she’d heard quite enough of their opinion. The same went for her sister, who proceeded to pick apart everything with merciless precision—from the furnishings: “Chintz? How brave,” to the servants: “The footman who greeted us had a limp. Is that the best you can do?” and, of course, Cici herself: “You call it auburn, but let’s be honest—it draws the eye in the worst way. And that gown…”
Her eyes raked Cici’s dove-gray ensemble. “You need my modiste. She’s marvelous at disguising”—she waved a hand vaguely in Cici’s direction before wrinkling her nose—“all the extras. What shoddy seamstress made that thing? Those sleeves do you no favors.”
Cici looked down at her dress, which had to be taken in. The stress of the past two months and a lot of lonely dinners had robbed her of her appetite. “I like this gown.”
Elizabeth stared at her pointedly. “That does rather explain things.”
Cici waited, but her mother didn’t rise to her defense. Not even a word. She simply sipped her tea in silence, as she had for years.
Fine. She’d go it alone, as always. Luckily, she was in the right mood.
“If you came only to gather gossip fodder, you may leave. This house is in mourning, and I won’t tolerate your jealousy upsetting anyone.”
Elizabeth rose and gave a grand curtsy, her tone dripping false sweetness. “Most Noble Duchess do forgive this humble caller who merely wished to see her sister. Even if said sister is a backstabbing thief who stole my suitor.”
“There was no theft. You set the whole damnable thing up yourself.” Cici sputtered in indignation. “You were the one who didn’t want amere viscount. Now that I’m unexpectedly elevated, you’re jealous of the sister you called unfashionable and clumsy.”
“Don’t forget chubby,” Elizabeth added with a smirk.
Cici saw red. “Did you hear when I said you may go?”
Their mother at long last roused to insert herself. “Girls. This is unseemly.”
Too little, too late. A lifetime too late.
“Andrew isn’t good enough, nor is his ‘musty’ home, I certainly don’t live up to your standards. You belittle my appearance, my choices, my marriage. What is your problem?” she demanded of her sister. “Have you missed your punching bag? There are places in London where you can do so that don’t involve me.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I’m not the one with the problem. You’ve landed your duke, but where is he?” She spread her hands, palms up, and looked around as if searching for Andrew. “No one has seen him for weeks. One can infer from his absence that he’s not satisfied with the arrangement. Maybe he’s tired of pale, pudgy, and weak. Maybe he’s gone back to something familiar. And blonde.”
Except for the rattle of her mother’s teacup and saucer as she set them aside, silence hung thick like smoke. Cici’s voice, when it came, was low but firm. “You talk endlessly about others’ faults, but have you looked in the mirror? You’re twenty-one, in your third season, and the dukes and earls aren’t exactly lined up at the door to have you. Maybe if you spent more time beingkind—and less being jealous, bitter, and cruel—you wouldn’t be on the shelf.”
Elizabeth, who’d always claimed being a spinster was a fate worse than death, flinched as if Cici had slapped her. Rendered speechless for once in her life, she had no cutting reply.
Not so her mother. “Cecilia! That was incredibly unkind!”
Before she could point out her mother’s double standard, and her own cruelty—allowing her eldest daughter to pummel her youngest verbally for two decades without batting an eye—another voice cut through the tension.
“Indeed, Lady Elizabeth. If venom were a virtue, you’d be thrice married by now,” the dowager duchess said as she swept into the room.
