Page 8 of Surrender Your Grace
Her mother tsked. “My dear, you must realize the implications of last night. You were found with the viscount in a state of undress, disheveled and unchaperoned in a private garden. Whether you became ill or not hardly matters now.”
“I loosened her cape so she could breathe,” Andrew interjected, his tone flat. “It was far from indecent. Ladies in the ballroom wore far less.”
“It’s no longer about intentions,” her father said heavily. “It’s about perception. She was an innocent, Arendale, and your actions have left her disgraced. This betrothal”—he gestured to the document—“is the only way to save her from social ruin.”
“You expect me to marry him?” she asked, stunned. “But… he’s courting Elizabeth!”
“It never got that far,” Andrew corrected. “Speaking of your sister—what did she say about last night?” He turned to the earl. “According to the ever-reliable Mayfair gossip mill, she wasn’t happy about lowering herself to my station.”
“I’ve wondered that myself, but in all the chaos that has ensued, there has been no time to question her.” Well acquainted with his eldest daughter’s talent for manipulation, the earl marched to the door and flung it open. “Reynolds! Fetch Lady Elizabeth. Immediately.”
“Charles,” her mother protested, “surely Elizabeth is innocent in all of this.”
It came as no surprise that she immediately leaped to her favorite daughter’s defense. His eyes flashed with anger aimed at his wife. “If she’s blameless, she’ll have nothing to fear discussing her role.”
Elizabeth arrived moments later, bonnet in hand, perfectly dressed for a drive in the park. Her curtsy to the duke was low and graceful. “Your Grace,” she said sweetly, betraying no surprise at their exalted guest. To the viscount, her greeting was clipped, her tone honeyed but perfunctory— “My lord.”
“Your ride will have to wait. Sit down,” her father instructed.
She glided across the room in a cloud of delicate perfume, settling into a chair with the ease of a woman accustomed to admiration. As she arranged her skirts with precision, Cici stole a glance at the gentlemen.
The duke’s fingers gripped his knees. He blinked slowly, as though woken from a dream. The viscount also reacted, sitting straighter, his gaze fixed with admiration.
Cici resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Men tripped over their tongues for her sister. A single smile from Elizabeth and either one of them would dissolve like sugar in tea.
Her father, immune to such charms, began his inquiry. “What do you know about your sister’s collapse last night?”
“Only what I told you, Papa,” she replied sweetly, in that sugar-wouldn’t-melt voice. “Cici fell ill. I ran to find Mama. When I couldn’t, I returned and saw her being carried through the ballroom by Viscount Arendale.”
“Did you, in fact, search for your mother?” her father pressed. “Because we passed you in the ballroom, and you did not appear to be doing so.”
Elizabeth picked at an imaginary speck on her skirt, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “It was crowded. I did what I could.”
After eighteen years living in the same household, Cici could read the signs. Elizabeth was hiding something.
Arendale addressed her next. “You claimed your mother would chaperone our walk—but that wasn’t true, was it?”
Her papa demanded of her mother. “Eugenia?”
“I… well… I don’t recall. With all this upset, I’ve a dreadful headache.”
As the pieces fell into place—Elizabeth scheming and their mother shielding her, as always—Cici’s temper boiled over. “What did you do, Elizabeth?”
“I’d like to know that, too.” A dangerous tone crept into her father’s voice when he demanded, “Tell the truth. Did you plan this?”
Accustomed to admiration, not reproach, Elizabeth squirmed under the weight of their stares. She fiddled with the ribbons on her hat. “This is the thanks I get for my efforts? I ran to find help with your”—she made a vague gesture as though plucking a word from the air—“affliction. I should be praised, not condemned!”
Cici had replayed the disastrous night over and over—what little she remembered between the fog and hallucinations. And suddenly, one of the missing pieces fell into place.
“Before we went outside, I was parched from the dancing. You offered me your lemonade. I thought nothing of it at the time, but you hate lemonade!” Her voice sharpened as she accused. “You put something in it, didn’t you?”
Elizabeth raised her chin and responded coolly. “That is preposterous. I’m your loving sister. Would I do such a thing?”
Cici stood. “You’d sell your soul for a title. Why not your sister?”
“Cecilia Anne. What a terrible thing to say. Take it back this instant,” her mother cried.
“Eugenia, be silent,” Lord Benton ordered, his face as red as a beet. “Coddling the girl has contributed to her uncontrollable behavior. Elizabeth Louise, tell the truth this instant or I will fetch the cane for the both of you.”
