Page 70 of Surrender Your Grace
She had planned an elaborate seduction—a candlelit supper, his favorite vintage, an alluring gown that hugged her curves which, hopefully, he wouldn’t be able to resist. On the eveningshe’d intended to set her scheme in motion, he’d been called away again. Another estate, an urgent matter that needed the duke’s personal attention, another disappointment.
It had been so long since they’d shared a bed. Too long for a virile young man to go without. What if he’d found comfort elsewhere…
No. She refused to let old doubts creep in—not after everything they'd been through. Still, insecurity whispered in the dark corners of her heart.
“From what he said, it wasn’t another Berkshire-type crisis,” Maggie assured her. “He expected to be back in a few days. Chin up.”
Cici glanced out the window. “I’m sure he didn’t expect a foot of snow.”
“No one expected a foot of snow,” her sister-in-law drawled.
“It’s so frustrating. Every time he’s called away, there’s a different excuse. It’s too far, too cold. I’m still recovering or too pale.”
Maggie gestured to the bleak scene beyond the window. “Would you really want to travel in this? Carriages get stuck, horses slip, and not all the estates are close to a railway.”
“That’s not reassuring, considering my husband is out in that mess.”
“Sorry.” Maggie slung an arm around her shoulders. “Losing James has been hard on everyone, but I think it has been the hardest on Andrew. He had to shoulder the weight of a dukedom overnight. No time to get used to the idea of being duke, he had to dive right in and take over. It was made worse when his secretary, with James for years and my father before him, retired. Once his new man finds his footing, life will even out.”
“You’re right. I sound like a bitter old harpy.”
“Nonsense, you’re not old,” she deadpanned.
Startled, Cici glanced at her friend, whose blue eyes, so like Andrew’s were dancing with mischief. Shaking off her gloom, she pivoted from the window. “Let’s do something wicked. Lead me to the infamous bookshelf.”
Maggie blinked. “What?”
“The naughty books. The ones you said Andrew keeps hidden in his study.”
“That was a turnabout so swift, I’ve got whiplash,” Maggie said, grinning.
“You’re not afraid to snoop on your brother, are you?”
“Me? Never!” Maggie grabbed her hand with conspiratorial excitement. “Since you questioned my daring, I can’t wait to see your face when you see Andrew’s edition ofBecklard’s Physiologyand his copy of theKama Sutra.They both have drawings.”
“The what and the who?” she asked as she hurried to keep up with her sister-in-law’s longer strides.
“Becklard’sis a manual on bedroom, uh… gymnastics, shall we say. The other—Indian, I think—is more imaginative. Both banned. Both illustrated. My brother’s scandalous streak runs deeper than I thought.” She winked at Cici, who was blushing furiously. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Why is it that I’m the married one, yet you know more about these things?”
“My knowledge is entirely academic, I assure you. Come along.” She led her down the hall and into Andrew’s study, closing and locking the door behind them. “Pour us both a brandy, and let’s see what we can find.”
Cici walked to the decanter on the brass and gold cart.
Maggie scoffed. “That’s for guests. The good stuff is in his desk. Bottom right-hand drawer.”
When she unearthed a bottle of imported French brandy, Cici arched a brow. “How did you know his hiding place?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t take a detective. James and Papa used the same drawer. It’s practically a tradition.”
An hour and half the bottle later, Cici was five rungs up the library ladder, one hand gripping a shelf, a snifter in the other, a cigar awkwardly clamped between her teeth. “If there’s a book on tupping in this house, it’s hiding from me on purpose!” she declared before letting out an unladylike hiccup.
They both laughed uproariously until the door slamming cut through their liquor-infused hilarity. Maggie dropped her cigar with a squeal. Cici twisted and froze.
Andrew stood in the doorway, snow in his hair and a storm brewing in his eyes. Behind him, Duncan Rothbury loomed, having difficulty suppressing a grin.
On her third brandy, Cici swayed, sending the ladder into a wobble. She grabbed for the shelf—and missed. Her arms flailed. The cigar and snifter slipped from her hands, the glass crashing as it shattered across the floor.
