3. Edward
Edward
T he November rain had followed me from London, drumming against the Bentley's roof like an ominous percussion throughout the two-hour drive to Gloucestershire.
My hands gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary force as I navigated the winding country roads, the Gardens & Home Television folder haunting my thoughts from where it sat on the passenger seat.
I needed the sanctuary of my private chambers like a drowning man needed air.
The acquisition details had churned in my mind during the entire journey—financial projections, market analyses, and the uncomfortable truth that Daphne’s friend’s fate rested in documents I'd helped draft.
The rain intensified as I approached the estate, as if the very weather conspired to match my turbulent mood.
The manor's windows glowed warmly against the storm, welcoming beacons that should have provided comfort.
Instead, tension coiled tighter in my chest with each step toward the entrance.
I'd specifically instructed Hartwell to keep my arrival discreet—no fanfare, no family gatherings, just the blessed solitude of my private quarters where I could think clearly about the impossible situation Daphne had unwittingly created.
My footsteps echoed through the silent halls as I climbed the staircase, each step offering welcome familiarity.
The house slept peacefully around me, portraits of ancestors watching with painted eyes that seemed to judge my uncharacteristic agitation.
Here, finally, I could shed the practiced facade of courtroom performance and simply exist.
I reached my door and paused, allowing myself one moment to savor the anticipation of perfect order. Everything would be precisely as I'd left it—books aligned, papers organized, the Egyptian cotton duvet smoothed to military precision.
The door opened silently on well-maintained hinges.
Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the familiar landscape of my domain—the Chippendale desk where I'd penned countless legal briefs, the leather reading chair where I contemplated complex cases.
But tonight, that same moonlight revealed the impossible: a woman curled in my bed like a sleeping golden cat.
Time fractured.
My breath caught somewhere between my throat and lungs as rational thought deserted me entirely.
She lay on her side, facing away, blonde hair spilling across my pillow like liquid sunlight against dark silk. One delicate hand clutched the duvet while her legs curled beneath her in unconscious elegance.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had never lost a case in fifteen years—screamed violation, intrusion, absolute breach of the sacred order I'd cultivated. Someone would pay dearly for this inexcusable lapse in security.
But another part, a treacherous corner of my consciousness I rarely acknowledged, found itself utterly transfixed.
The gentle rise and fall of her ribcage, visible beneath what appeared to be a vintage blue dress that had twisted artfully around her form.
The vulnerable curve of her shoulder, exposed where the fabric had slipped.
Even in sleep, she possessed a warmth that seemed to radiate through the typically cool air of my chambers.
As I stood frozen in the doorway, studying this beautiful disruption to my perfectly ordered world, fury and fascination warred for dominance.
How dare she violate my most private sanctuary? Yet how could something so lovely inspire anything but wonder?
My eyes traced the delicate arch of her neck, the way moonlight caught in her hair, the soft parting of her lips as she breathed.
A scent I couldn't identify drifted toward me—vanilla and something warmer, something that made my head spin with possibilities I had no business contemplating.
I should wake her immediately. Demand explanation. Assert control over this unprecedented chaos.
Instead, I found myself taking another silent step forward, drawn by forces I couldn't name or understand.
"Excuse me." The words emerged sharp enough to cut crystal, each syllable precisely enunciated.
She stirred but didn't wake, making a soft sound that went straight to parts of me I'd thought permanently under control. Her breathing remained deep and even, occasionally hitching in a way that suggested dreams.
I found myself noting the flutter of her lashes against her cheeks, the way her lips curved slightly as if smiling at some private joke.
"I said, excuse me." Louder this time, I turned on the bed side light, with the full glacial authority that had intimidated senior barristers and corporate executives across three continents.
This time her eyes flew open—the most startling green I'd ever seen, like new leaves kissed by spring rain.
For an eternal moment, we simply stared at each other across the moonlit space, her obvious confusion warring with my cold fury.
"Oh my God," she breathed, and I caught the unmistakable cadence of American South—not the harsh twang I'd expected, but something softer, more musical. Then she bolted upright with such force the movement sent her tumbling off the far side of the bed in a cascade of fabric and limbs.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on a pogo stick," came her muffled voice from the floor. "I'm so sorry. I was just—I mean, I didn't mean to—this is so embarrassing I could just crawl under this beautiful rug and die right here."
She emerged from behind the bed like Venus from the waves, hair magnificently mussed and cheeks flushed pink as summer roses. Her dress had twisted during the fall, and I caught a glimpse of script tattooed along her inner wrist before she tugged the fabric back into place with flustered movements.
"Who," I said with lethal precision, each word carved from ice, "are you?"
"I'm Lili. Anderton. I'm Daphne's friend? From university?" She twisted her hands together in a gesture so nervous it was almost endearing. "I got lost, and I was just so tired, and I didn't realize—I mean, obviously this isn't my room, and I'm really, truly, deeply sorry."
"You were sleeping. In my bed." The words emerged more harshly than intended, but the sight of her—disheveled and defensive and utterly lovely—was doing things to my equilibrium that years of legal training hadn't prepared me for.
Her green eyes flashed with something that might have been irritation.
"Look, I said I was sorry. It's not like I planned this.
" That accent became more pronounced as her embarrassment transformed into defensive fire.
"Trust me, if I'd known this was someone's room, I would've kept wandering until I found the kitchen or collapsed in a hallway. "
"Someone's room?" I stepped closer, noting how her chin lifted defiantly despite the bright flush staining her cheeks. "This is my room. My private quarters. My bed. And you've been sleeping in it like some sort of American Goldilocks who stumbled into the wrong fairy tale."
"Well, excuse me for not realizing I'd stumbled into the big bad wolf's den," she shot back, then immediately looked horrified at her own audacity. "I mean—sorry. That was rude. I just—you're very angry, and very tall, and very... intense."
"I am not angry." The lie came through gritted teeth. "I am merely profoundly disconcerted to find my private sanctuary invaded by a stranger."
Something electric crackled in the space between us, charged and dangerous.
She stood there, disheveled and defiant, and I found my anger warring with something far more treacherous.
The way she held herself—shoulders back despite obvious embarrassment, chin raised in challenge—spoke of inner steel beneath the soft exterior.
Her dress had shifted again, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone, and I forced my gaze back to her face. Those remarkable eyes held mine with surprising directness, as if she were measuring me.
"You're very British," she said suddenly, the observation escaping without permission. "Like, very, very British. All proper and... intimidating."
"Astute observation, Miss Anderton." I moved closer, drawn by invisible threads I didn't understand. "And you are very American, very clearly out of your depth, and currently inhabiting my most private space."
"I'll just go," she said, but made no move to leave. Her eyes had dropped to my mouth before snapping back up. "Right now. As soon as I figure out which way I came from."
"Yes, you should." But I didn't step back. If anything, I moved closer, until I could see the pulse fluttering at her throat like a captive bird.
She smelled like vanilla and warm skin and something uniquely hers that made my carefully controlled world tilt on its axis.
"You're awfully close," she whispered, her voice husky in a way that sent heat racing through my veins.
"Am I?" My voice had dropped to barely above a murmur. "I hadn't noticed."
"Liar." The word was breathed rather than spoken, carrying enough heat to melt glaciers. "You notice everything. I can tell."
She wasn't wrong. I noticed the way her lips parted slightly when nervous. The way her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for me. The way her breathing had quickened to match mine.
"Tell me," I said, voice rough with barely controlled desire, "why were you in my bed?"
"It smelled like you," she admitted, then looked stunned by her own honesty. Color flooded her face again. "I mean—it was comfortable. The bed. Not you. I don't know what you smell like."
"Don't you?" I leaned closer, close enough to see the golden flecks scattered through her green irises like stardust. "Then why did you say—"
"I should find Daphne," she interrupted, taking a step back that brought her against the bedpost. "Right now. Immediately."
But I followed, drawn by forces beyond logic or propriety. The space between us crackled with tension so thick it was almost visible. "Daphne isn't here. She won't return until morning."
Her eyes widened. "Morning? But I thought—we were supposed to—"