Page 10 of Surrender Your Grace
His eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to suggest he’d heard the mild rebuke.
“Let’s get you inside. You’ll want to rest before supper.”
“I’d rather explore your country estate. The manor is most intriguing,” she replied, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “The stonework is beautifully preserved. And is that a battlement I see?”
His smile tilted with quiet amusement, almost fondness, as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Indeed. The views from above are spectacular.”
“How long has the estate been in your family?”
“Since 1067. William the Conqueror gifted it to my grandfather, the first duke of Sommerville, for loyalty to the crown. It was a Saxon stronghold, guarding the river valley from raiders, before that. The original timber palisades were all replaced by stone.”
“And stood the test of time,” she breathed.
“Indeed.”
Andrew took her arm and led her up the steps, through parallel rows of assembled staff. At the top stood the butler, dressed in pristine formality—black tailcoat, crisp white waistcoat, and gloves so spotless he must keep a laundry brush in his pocket.
“Higgins. It’s my pleasure to present Lady Arendale, your new mistress.”
The man bowed deeply. “Welcome, my lady. The staff await your command.”
Her gaze swept over the dozen men and women gathered—footmen in blue-and-gray livery with silver buttons gleaming in the dusk, maids in modest dresses with starched aprons and lace caps—each standing ramrod straight.
She felt the weight of every eye, not as judgment, but in expectation. She’d attended balls, teas, and country weekends—but never had she stood at the center of such orchestrated attention. It was like stepping onto a stage where she was no longer a player in the chorus but the principal herself.
“We were unsure of your arrival time,” Higgins continued, “so the others will assemble shortly.”
“There are more?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Forty serve the household,” he replied proudly.
Andrew nodded. “Gather everyone in one hour, Higgins. I’ll see the viscountess to her rooms.”
Inside, he placed a steady hand at her back. Attentive, but distant still.
At the second floor, his stride was purposeful, sweeping her past each door. Portraits lined the hallway—somber viscounts and viscountesses in oils and gilt—and Cici longed to pause, to understand the heritage she’d become part of.
But Andrew’s clipped “later” repeated like a refrain.
Stopping before an intricately carved wooden door, he nodded toward identical double doors on either side. “The viscountess’ rooms are to the left. Mine are at the end of the hall.” He reached past her, turned the knob, and the door swung inward. “This is our adjoining sitting room.”
She crossed the threshold slowly, half expecting the room to feel cold or imposing. Instead, she found a spacious, high-ceilinged room done in pale yellow and hunter green—sun-washed and tranquil.
“It’s lovely, my lord.”
He arched a brow. “I’ve asked you to call me by name when we’re alone.”
“I’ll try to remember… Andrew.”
His lips curved, faintly amused. “Better.”
He gestured to the settee before the fireplace. “Sit. We’ll speak a moment.”
It wasn’t barked, but still very much a command.
Cici chose a high-backed velvet chair in the corner. The positioning made her feel protected, if only by a small measure. She was alone, without allies, her husband essentially a stranger. Her fingers curled in her lap to hide the tremble she refused to let show. Andrew remained standing, tall and composed, one arm resting on the carved mantelpiece—watching her with the steady calm of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
He looked perfectly at ease, as certain of his place in the manor as she was uncertain.
