Page 69 of Surrender Your Grace
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The room was quiet, lit only by the amber glow of embers in the hearth. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, soft and persistent. Cici stirred beneath the covers, fingers curling into the sheets.
In her dream, the world was warm.
The cold and sorrow of the last weeks had vanished. She was at Arendale—she knew it instinctively, though the details were hazy, softened by candlelight and the scent of lavender. A fire roared nearby, casting flickers across rough-hewn stone walls and tapestries that swayed in some unseen breeze.
Andrew was there.
Not distant, not gentle, not tucking her in like a patient or an invalid—butthere, all heat and hunger and restrained power. He stood at the foot of the bed, jacket discarded, waistcoat half undone, his cravat hanging loose. His eyes were dark, almost molten.
“Tell me what you want, sweeting.”
The sound of his voice—deep and seductive—was enough to make her tremble.
“I want you,” she whispered, reaching for him.
He came to her. His hands gentle but determined as they cupped her face then her waist then trailed lower, setting her skin alight wherever they passed. She arched beneath him, moaning as his mouth found hers, possessive and eager. There was no fear or hesitation, only need and the exquisite agony of release just out of reach.
He undressed her, taking his time, exploring her body inch by inch as if reacquainting himself. She whispered his name as he kissed the hollow of her throat then her collarbone and lower still, each kiss a brand, each sigh a benediction.
Their bodies came together with a kind of fierce desperation, a reunion not just of lovers but of something more elemental—husband and wife, man and woman, broken and whole. She felt him everywhere, inside and surrounding her, filling a void she hadn’t realized she carried.
“I’ve missed you,” she breathed, clutching his shoulders as her world tipped into molten bliss.
He whispered her name as they crested together, holding her through the tremors.
But when she opened her eyes, the bed was cold. The room was empty.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. Her nightgown clung damply to her skin, and her pulse still thrummed wildly in her throat.
Cici lay back on the pillow, breath catching.
It was only a dream.
But it had felt real. Too real.
And for the first time in weeks, she wanted to cry, not from grief but aching with want. She turned to Andrew’s side of the bed and reached out, fingertips brushing the cold sheets.
She’d have to step up her efforts to lure him back—or be consumed by longing and loneliness.
Chapter 20
Mayfair, 1863 (January)
Cici shivered as she stared out the icy windowpane at the snow-covered square. It wasn’t just the winter chill that left her cold. Four months—of healing, waiting, aching. She was weary of mourning, of being confined—first by injury, now by endless snow. Tired of the distance from the man she loved. Most of all, she was tired of sleeping alone. Her sigh fogged the glass.
Maggie looked up from her book. “What’s wrong?”
So many things came to mind, but she only said, “I don’t think winter will ever end.”
Setting her book aside, she joined her at the window. “I’ve never seen this much snow in Mayfair.”
“We could be at Sommerville, skating on the frozen pond and going on sleigh rides. Instead, we’re trapped here, staring at the same four walls, and it’s all because of me.”
“No one forced us to stay,” Maggie reminded her then she turned to face her, hands on her hips. “You’re in a mood as gloomy as the weather, and it’s rubbing off. Snap out of it, will you?”
“I miss Andrew,” Cici admitted, too weary to pretend otherwise. And not just his company—his touch. His attention. His hunger.
