Page 78 of Surrender Your Grace
Madame Celeste approached, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her experienced gaze appraised Cici before flitting to Andrew with a sparkle. “Your Graces. An honor.”
“She’ll take this one in green,” he said, handing over the sketch. “The color of her eyes. Do you have it?”
The modiste’s head tilted as she once again appraised Cici. “I do indeed. Monsieur has impeccable taste.”
“Excellent. We’ll need three others ready for fittings by Wednesday.”
“That’s only two days,” Cici objected. “I’m certain Madame Celeste—”
“Will oblige,” he interjected. “For the rush fee she will charge me.”
“But, of course, Your Grace. It will be our privilege.”
As Celeste barked orders in French, Cici murmured, “Perhaps I should bring you every time.”
Andrew leaned close, his warm breath grazing her ear. “You know what would look even better than that gown?”
She tilted her head. “What?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Andrew!” she exclaimed, once again scandalized.
He merely grinned, utterly unapologetic.
***
An hour later, bundled in her heavy winter cloak, she stepped onto the cold pavement beside Andrew. Dress shopping was usually a chore, but with her husband there, offering his opinion laced with teasing and flirtation, she’d enjoyed herself more than she’d ever expected to. And she had four new gownsfor the upcoming season to show for it. For the first time in months, her spirits were buoyant.
Then the carriage failed to appear.
“It should be just down the row,” Andrew said, scanning the busy street. “I’ll fetch the driver, but you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you.”
She nodded—just as a sudden jostling from behind pitched her forward. Her foot slid on the wet cobbles, and she stumbled into the road right into the path of a speeding hackney.
A scream tore from her throat. Andrew’s shout came a split second later. But her ears registered mostly the pounding hooves bearing down on her. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact and agony—
Powerful arms seized her around the waist, hauling her back onto the pavement. By some miracle, the hackney missed her by mere inches.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his hands skimming over her, checking for blood and broken bones. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no,” she gasped, breathless. “I-I tripped…”
“No, ma’am. You were pushed,” said a wide-eyed shopgirl from the doorway. “A man in a dark cape came up behind you.”
“I saw him, too,” added another. “Tall. Slender. Carried a pearl-handled cane—expensive-looking. He ran off that way.” She pointed down a narrow alley.
The words “pearl-handled cane” wrung the breath from Cici’s lungs.
“I don’t dare leave you,” Andrew murmured.
Just then, their footman and driver appeared at a sprint.
“Stay with the duchess,” Andrew ordered, releasing her into the footman’s care. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Then he was gone, his coat flying behind him as he vanished down the alley.
“I’m fine,” she told the men. “Go help the duke. I’ll wait in the shop.”
