Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  Now he thought he might do anything, go to any length, just for the opportunity to have her in his arms again.

  Breathing deeply, Fredrick allowed his fingers to travel up the curve of her neck to cup her cheek.

  “Beneath all your starch and wool you smell of midnight roses, poppet,” he husked. “A shockingly decadent scent.”

  She touched a nervous tongue to her lips, as if she could still feel the heat of him upon her lips. Her eyes briefly darkened with the passion she could not disguise, then, without warning she was stumbling off the bed and pressing a hand to her heart.

  “No . . . I do not want this.”

  She was going to bolt, he realized with a flare of panic. And once she had disappeared she would devote her considerable will to convincing herself that he had just taken shameless advantage of her.

  He had to do something. And quickly.

  “Portia, forgive me.” He raised his slender hands in a gesture of peace. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  She blinked, as if an apology was the last thing she had expected. Good. If he could keep her off guard then perhaps she would not be so eager to judge him by her past.

  “You did not frighten me. I just . . .”

  “Do not wish to remember that you are a woman as well as an innkeeper?” he demanded.

  She folded her arms around her waist, her expression hardening. “I just have no intention of being seduced by a stranger who will soon be gone.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Once again she was caught off guard. “What?”

  Fredrick carefully shifted on the pillow, biting back a curse as a jagged pain lanced through his head.

  “Portia, I kissed you because I have longed to do so from the moment I entered this inn. And I will not deny that I want you. Desperately.” He entangled her wary gaze with his. “But I am perfectly capable of enjoying the companionship of a woman without demanding something that she is not yet comfortable offering.”

  She regarded him in wary silence until the sound of the maid returning made her give a sudden start.

  “Here’s the brandy, mum.” Blissfully unaware of the tension clogging the room, the maid moved to set the bottle of brandy onto the table beside the bed. Once her task was complete she lingered long enough to cast a bold glance down Fredrick’s reclined form, her dark eyes flashing with an unmistakable invitation.

  “Thank you, Molly,” Portia said dryly. “You may return downstairs and help with dinner.”

  “ Aye.”

  With a small dip the servant left the room and Portia moved to pour a measure of the brandy into a glass.

  “I doubt this is good for you, but gentlemen always seem to believe it will cure any ill.”

  Fredrick accepted the glass with a challenging smile. “Perhaps if nothing else, I can prove to you that not all gentlemen are the same.”

  A dark brow arched. “You would not be the first to try and to fail.”

  “My business has taught me that failure is merely one step on the path of success.”

  With a roll of her eyes she moved toward the door. “I will have Quinn bring you dinner when he returns from the stables.”

  As was her habit, Portia awoke early the next morning and washed herself with the cold water from the pitcher. Then, pulling her hair back in a smooth knot, she pulled on a fresh chemise. Instead of rushing through the rest of her morning routine, however, she discovered herself pausing before the oval mirror propped in the corner of the cramped chamber.

  A rueful smile touched her lips as she studied the delicate lace inserts and pretty flowers that she had painstakingly stitched onto the fine lawn fabric.

  Even her closest acquaintances would be shocked to discover that beneath her sensible gowns she wore such delicate, utterly feminine undergarments. To the world she had become a staid widow who devoted her life to her business. It was only in secret that she allowed herself to remember that she was still a relatively young woman who had once harbored the same hopes and dreams as any other.

  Dreams she had thought buried until last night. Stepping closer to the mirror, Portia considered her pale features and the delicate curves of her body. With vivid detail she remembered the feel of Fredrick’s lips as they had traveled over her skin. The taste and scent of him had awakened sensations that still hummed through her body.

  The knowledge was maddening, and yet, undeniably exciting. As if she had suddenly been jolted awake after years of sleep.

  With a shake of her head, Portia forced herself to finish preparing for the day. For the moment she could not understand why Fredrick could so easily slip beneath her walls of defense. Or why her body reacted to him with such force. But one thing was certain, she could not hide in her rooms until he left.

  Not only did her pride forbid such nonsense, but she had far too many tasks awaiting her attention.

  Beginning with preparing a tray of breakfast for the aggravating man, she acknowledged as she made her way down to the kitchen. It was, after all, entirely her fault that he had been injured. It was her duty to do everything possible to care for him until he was completely healed.

  Ignoring the speculative glances from her staff, Portia loaded a tray with a variety of tempting dishes before she briskly headed back up the stairs. Not so briskly that her heart should be pounding against her chest, or her breath unsteady, of course, but it was a convenient excuse.

  She halted at Fredrick’s door, giving a brief tap on the smooth wood and awaiting his call for her to come in before pushing it open.

  Entering the room, she crossed to set the tray on the table beside the bed. Only then did she allow herself to turn and regard the gentleman stretched on the bed.

  Oh . . . this was a mistake, she realized too late. A horrid, terrible mistake.

  Feeling as if she had just been kicked in the stomach, Portia forgot to breathe as her wide gaze traveled over the delicious angel lying beneath the rumpled covers.

  A decadent angel, she corrected as her eyes skimmed over the rumpled honey curls and sleep-flushed features. Against her will her gaze lowered to the sight of his wide, smooth chest that was exposed in all its glory.

  Mercy, she inwardly breathed, a violent explosion of awareness racing through her body. Who could have suspected that beneath those fine clothes were such sleek, powerful muscles? Or that his skin would be as smooth as polished velvet?

  Her fingers twitched, they actually twitched, as she battled the overwhelming desire to reach out and explore the tantalizing flesh.

  Thankfully unaware of her schoolgirl titillation at the sight of his half-naked body, Fredrick flashed that charming grin as he pulled the tray onto his lap and studied the thick slices of ham, eggs, kippers, and lightly toasted bread.

  “Now this is a delightful surprise.” He gave a low groan as he tasted of the ham, his grey eyes misty between the thick lace of his lashes. “Perhaps I shall take a tumble from my horse every evening.”

  Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Portia managed to paste a cool smile onto her lips.

  “I doubt that even your thick skull could withstand such punishment.”

  As always, he was undaunted by her aloof manner, his eyes shimmering in amusement as he continued to consume the large amount of food.

  “Perhaps not.” He polished off the eggs cooked in butter and chives, his eyes briefly closing in pleasure. “Where in God’s name did you find your cook?”

  Portia’s heart skipped a beat as she studied the beautiful features that were softened by a faint shadow of whiskers. She remembered how those features had tightened with desire as he had kissed her. How those eyes had turned to smoke.

  Portia wrapped her arms around her waist, willing her heart to resume beating. “Actually, I found her at a local gambling house in Winchester.”

  His eyes flew open with startled surprise. “Are you jesting?”

  “Not at all.” She gave a lift of her shoulders. “The . . . establishment was as famous for its bu
ffet as its selection of house wenches. Perhaps more so.”

  “I can well believe it, but how did she come to work at a respectable inn?”

  “After the death of my husband I realized that I must do something to attract the passing customers so I traveled to Winchester and convinced Mrs. Cornell that I could offer her more than her current employer.”

  “You went to a gaming hell? Personally?”

  She met his curious gaze squarely. Over the past few years she had learned to endure the shock and disapproval of gentlemen who thought business a purely male domain. Women were too unstable, too weak, too soft-hearted, too stupid . . .

  She had heard every reason why she should sell her inn and retreat quietly to a small cottage. Which, of course, only made her more determined to succeed.

  “If you truly are a businessman then you must know that a faint heart can never survive,” she challenged in tart tones.

  The expected expression of censure never appeared. Instead, Fredrick continued to regard her with that mild curiosity.

  “And it does not trouble you that she worked at such a place?”

  “No more so than the fact that two of my maids were once prostitutes at that same gaming hell. Or that Quinn was imprisoned for poaching. Or that Spenser was once a smuggler.”

  Without warning Fredrick tipped back his head to chuckle with unexpected amusement.

  “You know, poppet, you are something of a fraud.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beneath that hard-hearted businesswoman lies the soul of a saint.”

  A warm blush stained her cheeks at the low sincerity in his voice. She was quite prepared to defend herself against disdain, but it seemed she had no ready resistance to flattery.

  “Not at all,” she said, hoping she did not appear as flustered as she felt. “My servants possess a genuine appreciation for their posts. They work far harder than most staff.”

  “I do not believe that was your reason for hiring them, but I do agree that it is preferable to work with those who are eager to prove themselves.”

  She stilled as she realized that this was one gentleman who might actually understand the effort it had taken her and her staff to overcome the narrow, condemning view of others. Although he was clearly a well-educated gentleman, the mere fact that he was a bastard would have shut any number of doors in his face.

  “As you were?”

  “Yes.” His smile twisted. “Had I been born an aristocrat I doubt I should ever have made the effort to make my own fortune. I suppose I should be grateful to my father for not bothering to give me his name.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Silently chastising her scattered wits, Portia reached into her pocket to withdraw the small envelope. “This came for you earlier this morning.”

  Setting aside the tray, Fredrick reached for the envelope and slid his finger beneath the seal.

  “It is from my father,” he muttered, a frown tugging at his brows. “Bloody hell.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Just an invitation to luncheon.”

  “You do not seem especially pleased.”

  Fredrick crumpled the paper in his hand before tossing it aside. “Considering that he could barely exchange ten words with me when I called upon him yesterday, it is rather odd he would desire me to share a meal with him.”

  “I presume that the two of you are not close?”

  He ran a restless hand over his unshaven jaw. “As far as my father is concerned, I am nothing more than a mistake his conscience will not allow him to simply forget.”

  Against her will, Portia felt her heart softening at his bald confession. Blast the man. Why could he not just be another worthless rake? It was bad enough that her body reacted to him as if she were standing in the center of a lightning storm. But now he was in perilous danger of making her actually like him.

  “I am sorry.” She gave a short shake of her head. “Everyone should have family who loves them.”

  He regarded her with a searching gaze. “You sound as if you know something of the matter.”

  She hesitated only a moment before confessing the truth. Her past was hardly a secret in the neighborhood.

  “My mother died giving birth to me and my father was a hardened gamester who lost his entire fortune at the tables before fleeing to India to escape his creditors.”

  “How old were you when he left?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Fredrick sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowed. “And they call me a bastard.”

  She smiled wryly. “Yes, well, when you are born a nobleman you can be the worst sort of villain without ever raising an eyebrow.”

  “You will get no argument from me,” he said softly.

  No, she probably would not. Fredrick Smith had no doubt experienced any number of slights and snubs from gentlemen of the ton. Not that it seemed to have hampered him on his climb to success.

  She had to admire him for that.

  “Will you accept your father’s offer to dine?”

  His expression unexpectedly hardened. “Unfortunately, I have little choice in the matter. I have to accept.”

  “Are you sure you should be leaving your bed?” With a small frown she moved forward, her hand instinctively reaching out to lightly touch the gash on his forehead before she realized the sheer intimacy of her behavior. “The wound has closed over, but you still have a lump.”

  With a swift motion he had captured her wrist in a light grip, his eyes darkening with the awareness that crackled to life between them.

  “Is it bad enough to tempt you to kiss it better?”

  Portia sternly told herself to move away. His touch was light enough that she could easily break his hold. But as her gaze clashed with his own she realized that his fingers might as well have been steel shackles.

  Mercy. His touch was as light as a feather, but it was sending tongues of flame licking up her arm and over her shivering skin.

  “Certainly not,” she breathed, her voice oddly husky.

  His thumb brushed the pulse at her wrist. “Even if I tell you that it still aches like the very devil?”

  “Perhaps I should call for the doctor.”

  “I would prefer a kiss.”

  The flames spread to curl in the secret depths of her stomach. Oh, yes. A kiss. A simple, delicious kiss.

  It was what she had desired from the moment she walked into the room and saw him lying on the bed like some fallen angel.

  No. It was what she desired from the moment she had awoken with the taste of him still lingering on her lips.

  “Mr. . . .”

  “Fredrick,” he interrupted. “I have never seen such perfect skin. It is like ivory satin.” He shifted her arm, bringing it lower so that he could sniff deeply of her inner wrist. “Satin scented with roses.”

  Her knees felt weak as she gulped in the elusive air. “I should go.”

  He gave a light tug on her wrist, steadily pulling her closer to his sinfully tempting lips.

  “I will not try to halt you.”

  Tiny thrills of excitement feathered down her spine. A kiss, the voice of the devil whispered in the back of her mind. What was one kiss to recall during the long, endless nights?

  Before the voice of reason could rise and destroy the moment, Portia leaned downward and touched her mouth to his own.

  He gave a choked sound, as if he had been caught off guard by her daring. Then, before she could pull back, his hands had shifted to capture her face, his lips softening as they swept over hers with slow, drugging kisses.

  Sweet, blissful heat flowed through her body as she instinctively parted her lips and allowed his tongue to explore ever deeper. Oh . . . God. Nothing in all her six and twenty years had ever felt like this.

  Her hands fluttered before landing on the naked flesh of his chest. Another blaze of heat rocked through her, and barely aware of what she did, her fingers trailed a searching path over the warm skin, exploring the rigi
d muscles that flexed beneath her touch.

  “Yes, poppet,” he groaned, his mouth searching and finding the sensitive pulse at the base of her throat. “Touch me. Please, touch me.”

  She gave a low groan at the sound of his ragged voice. She wanted to touch him. Everywhere. From the thick, honey curls to the tip of his toes. She wanted to rub against him like a cat, heating her skin against his own.

  As if sensing her shocking response, Fredrick allowed his slender, utterly clever fingers to slide down the curve of her neck and over the high neckline of her gown. Portia’s breath evaporated, her knees nearly buckling as those fingers at last cupped the aching fullness of her breasts.

  Blessed heavens.

  That was what she wanted. Needed. For one insane moment she arched her back to thrust herself toward his touch, her nipples hard beneath her corset.

  Oh . . . to have her stupid wool and whalebone magically disappear. To feel those wondrous hands on her bare skin.

  It did not take a great imagination to know that the sensations that Fredrick Smith could inspire would be a world away from her previous experience.

  He was no callow youth, intent only on his own pleasure. Nor was he elderly enough to consider her more a daughter than lover.

  No, he would be patient and tender and he would teach her all the delicious secrets that other women whispered of.

  The sound of voices in the corridor at last jerked Portia out of her sensual haze. Dear God, she had left the door wide open. Anyone could have walked by and seen her acting as if this were some bawdy house rather than a respectable inn.

  With a small gasp she stumbled away from the lingering touch, her hand pressed to her pounding heart.

  Fredrick sat up on the bed, his hand stretched out. “Portia . . .”

  “No,” she whispered, refusing to allow her gaze to lower to the vast amount of flesh exposed as his blanket tumbled to his waist. “I do not know why I did that. I cannot . . .” She gave a shake of her head and rushed toward the door. “Not again. Never again.”

  Chapter Five

  Not again. Never again.

  Portia’s tortured words haunted Fredrick as he forced himself to bathe and dress for the upcoming meeting with his father.