Chapter 3

Chapter Three

E dward stepped into the room, trying to understand why his staff was gathered in a heated argument in the front parlor in the middle of the night.

"Tell His Grace what?" he demanded again.

He could not miss the troubled glance traded among the three of them, or the backward glance Mr. Gibbons threw toward the fire. He followed Mr. Gibbons' gaze to see a woman seated at the fireplace with his daughter.

"We were just discussing what to do about the…" Mr. Gibbons cleared his throat, "Ahem, the uh, current situation."

Edward did not care what his butler was saying. Even though Sarah seemed cheerful and relaxed, fear and anger raced through his chest. Sarah was peppering this stranger with questions, oblivious to her father's entrance or ire.

"Did you live in a castle too?" Sarah asked the stranger.

"Not in anything quite as nice as your castle," the stranger replied kindly.

Edward pushed past his staff, demanding, "And who the bl?—"

He bit his tongue just before using foul language in front of his daughter. Taking a deep breath, through gritted teeth, he asked the stranger, "And who are you?"

The young woman looked up at him wide-eyed but not afraid. She stood and dipped into a polite, polished curtsey. Her damp, honey-blonde hair fell loose over her shoulders, giving her the appearance of some fae that had suddenly emerged out of the forest.

"Genevieve Radcliffe, if you please," she said, in a smooth voice.

At first glance, she seemed to be a gentlewoman, but his gut told him that she was hiding something. As he studied her further, he guessed that she was somewhere around twenty years of age. Despite the mud and tears, her dress appeared to be well made; however, it clung to her from dampness and what he guessed was being a size too small.

"I do apologize for the disturbance," Mr. Gibbons interjected, drawing Edward's attention back to the others in the room. "Miss Radcliffe here was caught out in the rain. She just needed shelter for the evening."

"We saved her, Papa!" Sarah cried, jumping from her seat to grab his trousers. Her eyes were alight with excitement. "She was out in the rain, but I told Mrs. Caldwell she was there, but they did not believe me, even though I insisted, and when they finally heard her knocking, they saw her, and now we are saving her!"

"You should not be talking with strangers," he chided once she let him get a word in edgewise.

"But she's a princess! She would never hurt me!" Sarah said, pouting. "And she needed our help. It's as though she's jumped out of a book!"

"Books on circuses, perhaps, with that attire?" he asked, feeling uneasy about their unexpected houseguest.

He felt no chivalry to this strange woman who came into his home uninvited, even if it was in the middle of the night in a storm.

"Papa, you should not be so mean," Sarah protested, her pout deepening. His daughter knew that she could get her way with him sometimes, but this was not one of those times. Sarah tended to have an overactive imagination. He frequently listened to her recount tales of fairy kingdoms living in their garden.

"I do admit my dress is a bit ridiculous and in a bit of disrepair," the woman chimed in, "but I did not mean any harm."

"No harm? Do you think it acceptable to approach a stranger's child without permission?" he asked her gruffly. He held Sarah protectively against him. "You might not have much of a sense of self-preservation. Though, I should not be surprised with you being here in this state, after all."

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah was quicker, pulling away from him to look up into his face. "Papa, Miss Radcliffe means well!"

"Enough. You should be in bed," he said with a smile, unable to maintain his ire when he spoke with her. He looked up to Mrs. Caldwell, "Take Sarah up to bed. And give her some warm milk to help her sleep."

Mrs. Caldwell nodded quickly and stepped forward to take Sarah's hand.

"But Papa!" Sarah protested, pulling away from her governess to tug on his hand. While he usually found the gesture sweet, he was impatient to get Sarah away from the woman so that he could question her further.

"Should I prepare a room for our guest?" Mrs. Fenton asked softly.

He sighed, becoming fed up with the entire situation. "Everyone out! I must speak with our trespasser alone."

Mr. Gibbons opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Edward's face must have stopped him. So, instead, Mr. Gibbons waved to everyone in the room, shepherding them out and closing the door behind him. Even Sarah left though she continued her protests even as the door shut.

Edward finally turned back to the stranger. The fire and candlelight danced across her face as she met his gaze evenly.

He moved closer to the fire to get a better look at her.

"Do not be unkind to your staff on my account," the woman said, her voice kind but direct. "It seems reasonable to me to offer a poor soul shelter in this dreadful storm, whether king or pauper."

Upon coming closer to her, Edward could see her cheeks were delicately flushed, giving her fair complexion a lovely rosy hue. The way her hair fell around her face looked like she had just awakened from a long slumber. Her skintight dress clung to her skin, accentuating the gentle swell of her bosom. Her whole appearance was made even more distracting by the dampness of her dress which had now become slightly translucent, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the contours of her skin. He found himself captivated by the softness of her exposed flesh, aching to touch, to explore every inch of her delicate form.

Suddenly, a jolt of desire coursed through him, stirring a longing he had not experienced in years.

Realizing that he was staring at her, he cleared his throat and asked, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Genevieve Radcliffe," she responded politely. "And who may I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"Edward Sheffield, Duke of Whitehall," he responded tersely.

Her eyes grew just a touch wider, and she dropped into another graceful curtsey.

"I apologize, Your Grace, I was not aware," she breathed, her voice almost melodic. She spoke carefully like a well-bred woman. He told himself even the lowest of criminals could learn to speak in an educated way in pursuit of a prize.

"And how do you find yourself all alone in the middle of the woods, Princess Genevieve Radcliffe?" he asked, using his daughter's term mockingly.

"I was on my way to visit an ailing aunt when the horses were scared by the first peal of thunder. My driver was thrown, and the horses ran off, stopping only once they crashed the carriage into the trees. When I freed myself, I tried to find the road again, but I became lost in the forest, wandering aimlessly until I found myself here."

"A carriage accident, hmm?" he asked skeptically, looking her over again. "You do not seem injured."

"Is there a question there, Your Grace?" the woman challenged, growing stiff.

"I do not suppose you could deduce the question, then," he smirked, amused by her defensiveness.

"I have not yet had the opportunity to assess the damage," she explained and then raising an eyebrow, added, "I imagine many injuries may lie underneath my damp dress."

Oh, God, she is good, he thought, imagining her taking off her dress there in front of the fire and how her pale skin might look in the firelight. He quickly chided himself. What am I thinking? Compose yourself.

He tried to continue his questioning. "Where does your aunt live? I suppose you would want to carry on toward her on the morrow."

"I am quite shaken by my journey," she said, still shivering slightly. "I may instead turn homeward to recuperate before reattempting my journey."

Suddenly growing empathetic to her condition, he almost wanted to reach out to her to warm her but shook himself again to focus. "Would you not want to collect your things? I assume you did not travel without luggage."

"I could not tell you where the carriage or the luggage was, I became so lost."

"This must be a very trying time for you," he observed, looking down at her.

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes catching the firelight. In a soft, pleading voice, she said, "All I ask is for shelter, Your Grace. I will be gone by tomorrow."

Somehow, he did not realize that he had stepped closer and closer while he was questioning her and was now closer to her than polite society would allow. He could see the tremble of her shoulders from cold, her neck beautifully pale and soft. The temptation to feel the coolness of her skin and the warm flush of her cheeks maddened him at its strength and intensity. What concerned him most of all was how sudden the feeling came on.

"I do not believe you," he said simply, trying to hide the breathlessness he felt. He cleared his throat to keep his voice from going husky. She did not back away from him but rather continued to meet his gaze, her eyes beseeching.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and her cheeks flushed a bit deeper. Her nostrils flared as she breathed deeply. "What threat could I possibly pose to you? I am a young woman, shivering in the cold, begging for shelter. And yet here you are, challenging me, berating me as I catch my death from cold."

Edward shrugged, nonchalantly, and shared his idea of her ruse, "Perhaps instead of a princess, you are some short-heeled wench who has laid waste on a lady who was traveling along the road and stolen her clothes as a way to trick wealthier gentlemen into her bed."

The woman gasped, shocked by his language. "What part of my appearance makes me look like a lady who provides such services to you?"

He looked down at her lips and décolletage for a moment but quickly looked up. The way she spoke and the way she looked screamed seduction, and worse, her techniques were working on him. "I called you a murderer, yet you are most offended by my insult of your appearance?"

She rolled her eyes with a smirk, a look he found charming and frank. In a plain, even tone, she reiterated, "I am no criminal. I promise, I am no threat to you or your daughter."

Trying to keep his eyes above her neckline, he swallowed and sighed. The woman who stood before him shivering proved to be a well-educated, well-spoken, quick-thinking woman. "Fine. You may stay the night, but stay away from my daughter," he told her, turning away to head to the door.

"Oh, come on," she protested, offended. "She is such a charming child. Why are you so militaristic about whom she speaks with?"

"That is none of your business!" he growled, turning back to her.

He did not realize that she had followed so closely behind him, stopping short at his quick turn. His arm brushed her bosom, and they stood too closely together again.

"My daughter is my business and mine alone," he said in a low voice. "Besides, I thought you would be off by first light, is that not what you said? Why should it matter to you if I forbid you to speak with her?"

"It is not that—" she started to protest but stopped, her eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips.

As she looked up to him, lips parted and eyes wide, he wanted to bend down to kiss her. Surprised by the feelings stirring in his chest at a mere stranger, he felt the need to push her away. "I would suggest you hold your tongue," he warned her in a low voice.

Her breath sucked in, and she started to protest again, but the door to the parlor slammed open again.

"Papa, please do not make her go!" Sarah cried, rushing in.

He jumped back from the stranger, heart racing as though he was ashamed of being caught. Right behind Sarah, Mrs. Caldwell and Mrs. Fenton rushed in, skirts held up with their hands in the rush to chase the girl. Thankfully, they were too focused on the runaway child to notice how close he and the stranger were standing.

"I am so sorry, Your Grace," Mrs. Caldwell apologized, scooping Sarah up in her arms. "She just slipped past us."

"The poor girl could not rest, not knowing if Miss Radcliffe would be safe for the evening," Mrs. Fenton added.

Edward looked between his daughter, with her innocent concern, and the unknown woman, with her strange lure. Then, thunder pealed overhead so loud the windows rattled in their frames. The rain that had pattered on the glass before only increased in effort.

He raked his hands through his hair, feeling like he had been outmaneuvered by the four women.

"Of course, I would not turn out anyone in this weather," he said with a sigh. The stranger's shoulders sagged with relief, drawing his gaze back to the lovely curve at the base of her neck. He averted his eyes, trying not to undress the stranger with his gaze again. "No one, whether they be king or pauper."

"Thank you, Papa!" Sarah cried, leaping from Mrs. Caldwell's arms to hug Edward's legs in thanks. He patted his daughter's head, feeling a bit awkward with her dramatic display of affection.

"Mrs. Fenton, please find Miss Radcliffe some dry clothes, a room for the night, and warm her tea anew. She may have a horse first thing in the morning to resume her journey," Edward directed, trying to keep his voice matter of fact.

"Yes, Your Grace," Mrs. Fenton agreed, curtseying lightly. Mrs. Caldwell grabbed Sarah again to guide her from the room.

Edward looked back to the strange woman, adding, "Wherever that journey may take you."

The woman nodded, and he swore he saw the smallest smirk play at the corner of her lips. She followed Mrs. Fenton from the room, throwing a look backward over her shoulder as she left the room.

Edward headed back to his chambers on the east wing of the castle. He could not get the stranger out of his head, and he wondered if he would be able to sleep, knowing that she would be sleeping somewhere in the castle.