Chapter Four

Stonebridge virtually stormed his way back to the house. Several thoughts fought for prominence in his mind: what in the hell had come over him? How could one woman cause him to lose his composure so completely? And why did the name Radclyffe sound so bloody familiar?

He was a duke, thirty years old, at a society house party preparing to propose to Lady Beatryce Beckett, when suddenly a young miss he had only just met nearly had him grinning like a young, carefree…buffoon. He never behaved this way out in society. Especially not with near perfect strangers. It was too easy to stumble in the face of such scrutiny as with the watch dogs of propriety. Too easy to make a small slip and invite unwanted attention. His mask of calm indifference in any situation was one of his biggest defenses against the vultures of the ton. And some slip of a girl had unerringly flung it in the mud.

He threw open the French doors at the back of the house and marched inside, pulling at his neck cloth as he went as if it were a noose choking off the air to his lungs. He was heedless of anyone else about, his actions completely out of character. He was proud of his reputation for having a level head. He suffered no fools, and though people of society might find him cold and even boring at times, he knew nothing he ever said or did in the last fifteen years had suggested even a hint of scandal, and he wouldn't start now. And on top of all that, in the face of his self-directed anger, he was repeating himself. Dammit.

Abruptly, he let loose his grip on his cravat lest he embarrass himself by stripping it off in front of any guests who happened to be wandering about; never mind the state of his soiled clothes and the frightening scowl upon his face. At the very least, he would carry on to his assigned room with his dignity intact.

He reached the front stairs, and as efficiently as expected, the Becketts' butler was there waiting for him. At his nod and without a word to the state of his dress, the man guided him up the stairs to his temporary accommodations.

Immediately, his thoughts returned to the Incident. Fortunately, his many years' experience as a duke had provided him with the control he needed to keep from revealing any cracks in his perfectly cultivated bearing to his beautiful tormentor. It had been a long time since he had felt so carefree; therefore, it came as quite a shock to his peace of mind that some strange, silly woman, and a new acquaintance at that, could draw forth such a feeling so effortlessly. In point of fact, she wasn't even really an acquaintance, and yet it took quite an effort to reign in his sudden desire to chuckle lightheartedly and grin like a fool with her. She was utterly endearing to behold.

He worked his way up another flight of stairs, and his thoughts of Grace continued. Not only had he been feeling like the veritable green lad in her presence, but the warmth of her body against his had him imagining some very lewd and carnal scenes. As he carried her away from the slippery mud, he was overcome with the need to pull her closer into his embrace. And when her body had pressed so intimately against his, as if made for him, his desire to throw her back down into that bed of mud and have his way with her was nearly uncontrollable—despite having just met her and there being a house full of guests awaiting his attendance, not the least of whom was meant to be his future wife.

He knew his abrupt departure was rude and quite the conduct unbecoming a duke, but really, he had no choice. The chit was not just a danger to gardens everywhere; she threatened his peace of mind and his hard-won self-control.

Hell, she threatens my very sanity.

But damn me if she doesn't have the brightest eyes in a becoming shade of blue, more brilliant and brighter than the sky on a clear, spring morning.

And earthy brown hair that turned the color of caramel in the sunlight.

Her hair was definitely distracting. He wanted to touch it. Run his fingers through it.

And was that a kiss of sun across the bridge of her nose?

Damn, but it suited her near faultless face. Made her real. Human. Not the fairy she appeared to be otherwise.

And since when have I started cursing and talking to myself so frequently?

It must be the result of being agitated over such a minor incident, and the sleepless night in the boisterous inn the night before. And quite possibly nerves over his upcoming engagement. Who was he kidding? He was never nervous. Calm and self-assured, but never nervous.

He shook his head as if the action would clear his mind of unwanted thoughts and realized he was simply standing in front of the door to his rooms like a bedlamite. The butler was too well trained to comment on his odd behavior, but rather, stood stoically aside lest he have any further need of assistance.

Stonebridge jerked himself out of his silent stupor and threw open the door, fighting the urge to blush. Blush!

"Bryans!" he barked as he strode into the room. He didn't yell, of course. He definitely didn't yell. Dukes never raised their voices or lost their composure.

"Yes, Your Grace," replied Bryans, promptly as expected. Good. At least something was still working predictably.

The look of complete calm on his valet's countenance was expected—no, demanded—as it was of all his servants. At all times. Well, maybe he wasn't quite that tyrannical with his staff, but clearly, his own thoughts were out of character this morning. However, fortunately for his valet, the duke in his unreasonable agitation missed the slight upturn of the corner of his valet's lips.

Stonebridge marched off toward a nearby closed door, hoping it was an adjoining dressing room. He had never, not since he had become an adult at any rate, been in public in any state of dress that was less than orderly and precise. He certainly hadn't been this…disorderly…when he had alighted from the carriage this morning despite the many hours on the dusty road. And it was entirely her fault.

"Bryans, help me remove and dispose of these garments. And find me something appropriate and significantly less…soiled," he thundered from the adjoining dressing room, for he had indeed found the dressing room. He didn't normally care much about a bit of dirt, but he was too irritated and feeling out of sorts to stop and think about what he was saying. What was taking Bryans so long anyway?

"Yes, Your Grace," replied Bryans. Finally.

Stonebridge sat on a low bench and held up a booted leg. As Bryans bent to remove the offensive smelling boots, the duke's thoughts drifted back to his morning encounter with Miss Radclyffe, to the moment when she had looked up at him with those vividly shining eyes. At first, he saw humor in those rounded orbs before the shock of her embarrassing situation took hold.

When she had looked up at him that way, with humor and so completely at ease, time had stood still. And with her oval face, fair skin, and wide open eyes, she was so expressive he could read every thought that flittered across her mind. In real time. As if her every thought was written out visibly in bold, black ink. At the time, it had felt refreshing.

He shook his head of his wayward thoughts. She was decidedly not duchess material, to say the least.

Now, where in the hell had that thought come from? Duchess material?

"Pardon me, but did you say something, Your Grace?"

Stonebridge tried to cover up the fact that he had just snorted aloud. Never mind the mud and effusive bellowing. That he wasn't doing. Because Dukes didn't do that sort of thing.

"No, I most certainly did not. God, this jacket is irritatingly too snug. It's ridiculous that I should need assistance just to remove my damned jacket." He had stood after the removal of his boots and was now attempting to peel off his coat on his own. Bryans moved in to assist.

"Yes, Your Grace. Your Grace, if I may be so bold, is everything quite…"

"No, you may not be so bold," interrupted the duke. "She's…It's nothing. Everything will be resolved as soon as this damned house party is over and things return to normal."

A few moments passed without further comment as the duke, with the help of Bryans, removed his remaining clothes and stepped into his dressing gown to be worn until suitable replacement garments could be readied. Abruptly, Stonebridge spoke:

"Bryans, I want you to find out all you can about a woman here by the name of Miss Grace Radclyffe. I assume she's a guest." He wasn't sure what prompted his request; the words just seemed to burst out of his mouth of their own volition.

"No need, Your Grace. She's all anyone has talked about since we arrived. Apparently, she's the earl's niece through his first, now deceased, wife. All the servants are half in love with her, as she's quite friendly with the staff, knows everyone by their first name and all that. She's been living here about a year, since her parents died. Her father was a bookseller in Oxford, and probably why she doesn't put on airs with the staff. Shall I inquire further?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

"Oh, and I almost forgot. It seems she has a peculiar tendency toward clumsiness." "Don't I know it," murmured the duke.

"What was that, Your Grace?"

"Nothing. That will be all."

"Very good, Your Grace. I shall inquire further without betraying your interest."

The duke ignored the impudence and left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

Stonebridge reentered his bedchamber and walked over to the windows overlooking the west side gardens. Thankfully, he didn't have a view over the back lawn, though the formal and colorless style of the side garden wasn't much of an improvement.

He leaned his hands against the window frame, tapping his fingers in his habitual staccato rhythm, and stared out across the expanse of gardens, forcing his thoughts on to his soon-to-be betrothed. He was surprised she hadn't been in attendance when he arrived, though he had to admit he had probably arrived earlier than expected and he was glad for the respite.

He clasped his hands behind his back as he realized he was tapping the window with enough force to rattle the frame. He paced the floor instead and allowed his thoughts to wander where they would. They headed unerringly to Miss Radclyffe, of course.

He had never met her before today, despite knowing the Beckett family for many years. I would have remembered her. And she had not been living in the earl's house above a year ago. Surely, I would have known of it.

Things had obviously changed in the last year, and when this house party came about, the situation must have forced Swindon's hand. He couldn't very well hide her from his guests, now could he?

He had no idea why Miss Radclyffe had not taken part in the little season with the rest of her family. She was respectable enough through her relationship to the earl to attend, and if she had attended, he would have known about it. They would have been introduced. In different circumstances. At a different time. At least he wasn't caught unawares after he had married Beatryce.

And why in the hell would it matter if I had met her after my marriage? It wouldn't change a damn thing.

He shut the door to further thoughts of the Mud Goddess and turned toward his dressing room. What was keeping his valet? "Bryans!" he bellowed.

Grace's Room…

At the same time…

Phew.

Grace was familiar with all access points to her room, including the route through the servants' stairs, just in case a hasty retreat was required. More than once, she had been thankful for this knowledge and today was no exception. She made it back to her room without anyone bearing witness to her less than flawless attire.

While she took a moment to catch her breath, she noticed a change of clothes laid out on her bed. Bessie. Ah, bless her. And if she knew her maid, and she did, or rather if her maid knew her, and she did, then, there was also a copper bathing tub, filled with hot water, awaiting her behind the screen. Grace could smell the lavender oil already.

Someone scratched at the door. At Grace's "enter," Bessie, her lady's maid and pretty-much-second mother, entered the room. Bessie was round and petite and in her early fifties with a kind face and ginger hair. She had been with the Radclyffes as a helper, maid, child-minder, cook—everything and anything—for many, many years. Bessie was a real mothering sort, despite having no family of her own.

Grace and her mother (when she was living) had always helped Bessie with the daily chores. Their life had been too modest to require a full staff, as they danced on the edges of the gentry. Now, in this new life, Grace was closer to Bessie than anyone, in truth.

"How did you know?" queried Grace as Bessie hurried across the room to help her undress.

"Well, you took a wee bit longer than usual on your morning walk, and weel, based on past experience…weel, I just assumed…"

Bessie's gentle Scottish brogue trailed off. The maid looked pointedly down at her shoes, but not before Grace noticed the telltale blush that stole across her cheeks.

"Oh, no need for embarrassment, Bessie. I'm thankful you know me so well, and you never complain. I don't know what I'd do without you." Grace's voice trailed off as an unexpected wave of sadness crept over her when her mind touched on the changes in her life over the past year. Thankfully, Bessie spoke and put a halt to her wandering thoughts.

"Now, now dearest, there's no need to thank me, really. You're like the daughter I never had, and when your dear mother and father passed, bless their souls, I couldn't leave you. With no siblings and just your aunt? Oh dear, how I do rattle on. Let's get you situated in the tub and start setting you to rights. I've brought you a pot of hot chocolate and some toast since you'll likely miss breakfast before we're through."

"Thank you, Bessie, really. As always, you make everything just right." Grace, now undressed, relaxed into the steaming tub. "Oh, this water feels wonderful. It almost makes my trip to the mud bath worth it."

"My dear, what a lovely you are. You handle your incidents with such…well, grace. Now, you just relax whilst I run off to see what I can do for these clothes. I shall be back in a trice to help you dress and ready yourself for the afternoon. For now, simply relax and I'll be back before you know it."

And at that, Bessie left and Grace set herself to the task of washing away the souvenirs from her adventure in the garden.

After a thorough wash and final rinse of her hair, she calmed enough to relax in the soothing waters of her bath where her thoughts quickly returned to her encounter with the infamous Duke of Stonebridge, known stickler for propriety, noted for his impatience for anyone less than perfect, famous for his seriousness at all times, and well-known as the soon-to-be fiancé to her first cousin, Beatryce.

Though the duke and Beatryce had known each other since childhood, she never had the pleasure of meeting him before today, not directly anyway. She'd certainly heard plenty about him though. With his extreme wealth, title, and good looks, he was considered THE catch of the upper ten thousand even though everyone expected him to marry Beatryce.

Despite all of that knowledge, however, nothing prepared her for the reality of the presence of the Duke of Stonebridge. Just thinking about their encounter brought forth an alarming wave of heat across her body. Fortunately, it was quite easy to convince herself that these telltale signs were due to the warmth of her bath water. Not a result of thinking about him.

Of all the people to meet during one of my incidents. The duke himself. In the flesh. Beatryce's almost betrothed. Sigh.

Did she imagine the secret smile and the heat that seemed to flash in his eyes before he so abruptly left her in the garden? Nothing about their encounter fit with her mind's preconceived picture of the duke's personality. He was known for his seriousness and staid countenance. The gossip below-stairs had painted an all too vivid picture in her mind despite her best attempt not to prejudge someone she didn't know. Yet for a moment, she thought she had detected real warmth in his gaze, albeit briefly. Did she meet an imposter? Most likely this warmth was the result of her own overactive imagination. Or perhaps, wishful thinking that for once, her clumsiness could be overlooked by someone other than herself, the servants, and Bessie. Certainly, above all, she detected barely constrained power lurking behind his eyes. In her mind, that power equated to warmth and passion. So much for the cold, aloof man she had expected.

Ugh. And why should I care? Really. He is practically married. To Beatryce of all people.

And he was reputably too stuffy to warrant a turn of her head anyway. Just because he had heavenly eyes, didn't mean he…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a rapid knock on the door.