Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  Without the two of them . . .

  Instinctively, Ian reached beneath his jacket to retrieve his silver flask filled with the finest whiskey to be bought outside Ireland.

  Prepared for Raoul’s stern warning at drinking at such an early hour, Ian was caught off-guard when the handsome actor instead leaned against the railing and regarded the sun-drenched garden with a thoughtful expression.

  “It was a beautiful service.”

  Ian gave a bark of laughter. “Yes, so long as you ignored Lady Graystone, who sobbed and moaned loud enough to rattle the windows, and that drunken jackass Simon who passed out in the midst of the ceremony.”

  Raoul shrugged, ignoring the giggling maids who leaned out the kitchen door in an obvious attempt to capture their attention.

  “Lady Graystone is intelligent enough to keep her opinions to herself, and I sense that beneath all his bluster, Simon is relieved to hand over his responsibilities as baron to Fredrick.” The thin lips twisted with distaste at the overdressed peacock. “Now he need do nothing more than prance about London and be an embarrassment to the Graystone name.”

  “Poor Fredrick.” Ian tossed aside his cheroot and took a swig of the whiskey. “Saddled not only with a wife, but a family who will no doubt be nothing more than blood-sucking leeches. That is not even to mention his tedious business ventures and now an aging inn with a staff of reformed rapscallions.”

  “He does not appear concerned.” Raoul’s smile softened. “In fact, I have never seen a gentleman appear quite so content with his lot in life.”

  Ian deliberately refused to dwell upon his friend’s obvious satisfaction with his new life.

  “Ah, well, better him than me.”

  “And what of you, Ian?”

  “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “Were you not determined to travel to Surrey and discover your own father’s secret?”

  Ian took another draw on the flask. Clearly the expected lecture was in the offing.

  “I will get there.” He grimaced at the mere thought of encountering his arrogant, disdainful father. “Eventually.”

  He sensed Raoul move, then the warmth of his hand as it gently squeezed his shoulder.

  “Ian, there is nothing to force you to seek out your father. You are content with your life as it is. Return to London and enjoy it.”

  Ian gave a sharp, bitter laugh. As much as he disliked the thought of stepping beneath his father’s roof it was preferable to returning to London and the cold, empty rooms that awaited him there.

  It was nothing short of pathetic.

  “Oh yes, quite content,” he muttered.

  Raoul’s fingers tightened, his expression concerned. “Ian?”

  “What of you, Raoul?” Smoothly stepping from his friend’s grasp before he confessed the haunting restlessness that would not leave him in peace, Ian managed a bland smile. “When do you begin your own search for the truth?”

  Raoul arched one pale, perfect brow. “I cannot leave London until the end of the theatre season.”

  “Ah, yes. The irresistible Romeo who slays the ladies of the ton with his honey voice and come-hither glance.”

  “Actually, it has been years since I played Romeo,” Raoul retorted dryly. “My current role is that of King Lear.”

  Ian shrugged, knowing full well what role his friend was performing. He had attended the production on opening night and on a half a dozen evenings after that. Like most of London, he remained in awe of Raoul’s extraordinary skill.

  Not that he would ever admit his admiration, he wryly acknowledged. Not without the threat of a hot poker.

  “No doubt it is your own royal blood that makes you such a convincing king,” he drawled.

  Raoul shrugged aside the noble blood that ran in his veins. “Hardly royal.”

  “No?” Ian lifted his flask in a mocking toast. “Unlike Fredrick, our lives are still shrouded in mystery. Who is to say what we might discover?”

  The sleek black carriage pulled away from Oak Manor at a sharp pace, urged on by Fredrick’s muttered command to flee the lingering guests with all possible speed.

  He had waited a fortnight for this moment, he acknowledged, as he reached out to tug Portia firmly onto his lap. Or perhaps a lifetime.

  Gazing down at the beauty of her upturned countenance, Fredrick found his breath tangling in his throat. When he had first seen this woman standing in the shadowed foyer of the inn he had known that she was different from any other woman he had ever encountered.

  Wonderfully and spectacularly different.

  “Alone at last,” he murmured, his hand absently stroking her shoulder that was left bare by the daring satin bodice. No one had been more shocked than him when Portia had arrived at Oak Manor attired in an ivory gown that was designed to set a man’s blood on fire. He had been slowly burning throughout the brief ceremony and wedding breakfast his father had insisted upon. “Thank God.”

  She offered a slow, tantalizing smile that did nothing to ease the tightness of his groin.

  “You do realize that I still have no notion of where we are going?”

  He growled low in his throat as his gaze drifted to the ripe swell of her breasts blatantly revealed by the low cut of her neckline.

  “I promised myself that I would whisk you somewhere that we would not be interrupted once I had you as my wife.” His frustration was thick in his voice. Although Portia had willingly allowed Mrs. Cornell to take command of the inn, she remained living in the attic until they were wed. Which, of course, had meant that they could not find a moment alone. “I want to walk through the gardens without concern that some disaster is looming in the kitchens, and hold you in my arms with the knowledge that there will be no one knocking upon your door at some inconvenient moment.”

  Her breath caught at his soft caresses. “And where would this magical place be located?”

  “My father has offered us the use of his hunting lodge. He promises that there are no more than a handful of servants who are all quite discreet and not one neighbor within twenty miles at this time of year.”

  “Good heavens, we shall be terribly isolated.” She gave a tormenting bat of her lashes. “Whatever shall we do with ourselves?”

  He shivered, his fingers continuing to explore the silken heat of her skin.

  “Do you desire a description, or would you prefer a demonstration?”

  She stilled as she gazed deep into his eyes, her expression sending a wave of golden pleasure through his body.

  “I love you, Fredrick Colstone,” she said softly, her hand lifting to touch his cheek as he gave a small jerk of surprise. “What is the matter?”

  He gave a rueful shake of his head. Even after two weeks he found it difficult to think of himself as anything other than Fredrick Smith. And no doubt a part of him would always be the shy, determined young lad that Dunnington had molded into a man.

  “That name still seems . . . odd,” he admitted.

  “You shall have to accustom yourself to it,” she warned, her eyes darkening with concern. “By the time we return from our honeymoon everyone will know that you are Lord Graystone’s legitimate heir.”

  He gave a pretend shudder. “Then perhaps we should remain hidden at the hunting lodge.”

  “Oh, no,” she swiftly countered, her expression resolute. “No more hiding. From now on we will confront the world with our chins held high.”

  Fredrick wrapped her more tightly in his arms, his heart overwhelmed with the love she had stirred to life. He had come to Wessex to dig through the past and instead discovered his future.

  “An easy task, so long as I have you at my side,” he whispered, his head lowering toward her waiting lips.

  “At your side is where I shall always be, my wicked baron.”

  Illegitimacy is no obstacle for Ian Breckford. Darkly handsome and thoroughly charming, he has bedded his way through London’s most exclusive society. Yet this pleasurable existence has l
ately seemed a trifle dull—a fact soon remedied by a visit to his father’s estate, where his aunt has acquired a delightful new companion. Mercy Simpson may be shy, but she is also sharp-witted and stubborn, especially when persuading Ian to relieve her of her innocence . . .

  Ian’s arrival presents the opportunity for Mercy to experience uninhibited sensual adventure before she returns to her spinster life. Ian’s extraordinary skill is everything she dreamed a lover might offer—and everything she can never hope to keep . . . unless her brazen seduction can ignite a true, lasting passion . . .

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Alexandra Ivy’s

  SEDUCING THE VISCOUNT,

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  Prologue

  The two gentlemen seated before the fire at the small coaching inn in the midst of Winchester appeared oblivious to the near riot they were causing among the guests and staff.

  In truth, they were oblivious.

  Raoul Charlebois with his white-gold hair and piercing blue eyes was accustomed to crowds gaping and fawning over his elegant beauty. As the most renowned actor in all of England, it would be more shocking if he could walk into a room without causing a stir.

  Even Ian Breckford was familiar with such titillated interest.

  Known throughout London as Casanova, he possessed a dark, sultry beauty that had captivated women from the moment he had left the cradle. He might not comprehend their fascination with his golden eyes framed by sinfully long lashes, or the thick ebony curls that tumbled carelessly about his lean, fiercely male countenance, but he was always swift to take advantage of their enthrallment.

  The same way he was always swift to take advantage of those gentlemen foolish enough to sit down opposite him at a card table or wager against him in the boxing ring.

  He might have been born a bastard, but he had forged a position among society that even the most aristocratic gentlemen envied.

  Now he lifted a glass of his favorite whiskey in a mocking toast.

  “To Fredrick,” he announced, a cynical smile playing about his full lips. “May his honeymoon be delectable enough to compensate for the years of being shackled in holy matrimony.”

  Raoul touched his glass to Ian’s, his own expression one of satisfaction. Typical. Although Raoul had been fostered by Mr. Dunnington at the same time as Fredrick and Ian, he had swiftly taken on the role of older brother and devoted himself to bullying, encouraging, and at times comforting his young charges. Dunnington might have been the father they had so desperately needed, but it was Raoul who had rushed to Fredrick’s rescue when the local ruffians attempted to rob him of his coins, and thumped Ian soundly when he caught him cheating at cards.

  Now the ridiculously handsome man was nearly preening at the thought that Fredrick had managed to wed a woman he clearly adored.

  “I do not believe he will object to being shackled to Portia. Indeed, he has never appeared more content with his lot in life.”

  Ian gave a sharp laugh. “Well, he always did have an appalling preference for the dull and tedious sort of existence. Why else would he tinker with those ridiculous gadgets of his? No doubt he shall feel quite at home as a respectable husband and heir apparent to Lord Graystone.”

  Raoul grimaced. “At least once he forgives his father for keeping his legitimacy a secret all these years.”

  “Ah, yes. The infamous secret.” Ian tossed the whiskey down his throat as he recalled the moment the three of them had discovered that Dunnington had left them each a legacy of twenty thousand pounds on his death. Money that the tutor had extorted from their respective fathers to keep some deeply hidden secret . . . well, secret. Fredrick had traveled to Winchester to find the truth and learned he was not the bastard he had always been named, but instead Lord Graystone’s legitimate heir. A discovery that was bound to change his life forever. “I suppose we knew when we heard of Dunnington’s legacy that our dear papas must harbor something dark and wicked in their pasts. But to have allowed Fredrick to believe he was a bastard just to gain Wilhelmina Burke’s dowry . . . well, that is one hell of a skeleton in the cupboard. It makes a wise man consider leaving his own skeletons alone.”

  Raoul shrugged, but his eyes were watchful as he studied Ian’s tense features. “There are any number of bastards who would be delighted to discover they are true bloods.”

  “Devil a bit.” Ian shuddered, quick to refill his glass with the whiskey from his flask. “I cannot think of anything more hideous.”

  “Why?” Raoul gave a lift of one pale, perfect brow. Everything about Raoul was perfect. “Your father is one of the wealthiest gentlemen in all of England. Not to mention he possesses a near-dozen homes and estates from here to Scotland. As his heir you would become one of the most respected and powerful men in the world.”

  Ian glanced toward a gaggle of maids who were currently giggling and batting their lashes in his direction. Not far behind them, two elegant women in the latest fashion were needlessly pacing near the door of the common room in an obvious attempt to gain his attention.

  “I have no desire for power or respectability. God knows that I have devoted my life to avoiding either of those fine traits,” he mocked even as his lips twisted with bitterness. “And I would rather be strung from the rafters than be beholden to the frigid Lord Norrington. I would not accept a groat from him, let alone his entire bloody fortune.”

  Without warning, Raoul set aside his glass and leaned forward. The brilliant blue eyes were filled with concern.

  “Then return to London with me, Ian. There is nothing for you in Surrey but ancient secrets and wounds that have not healed. Both are best left alone.”

  Ian gritted his teeth. “Do you not think that I have packed my bags to return to London on a dozen occasions?”

  “Then what has halted you?”

  That was a question that had haunted Ian on far too many sleepless nights. Common sense warned him to avoid Surrey and his father, Viscount Norrington, like the plague. What good could come of uncovering some secret that no doubt had nothing to do with him?

  Unfortunately, he never heeded common sense.

  He was a creature of impulse and passion who possessed an uncanny instinct for finding trouble.

  Realizing his friend was regarding him with an expression that warned he was about to whack Ian over the head and drag him back to London, Ian heaved a restless sigh. The older man had an unshakable belief that he always knew what was best for others.

  “Fredrick had the right of it when he said that knowing my father is hiding some dark sin would be like a splinter in my flesh that is bound to fester. I have to know. I cannot explain why, but I have to know.”

  Raoul was not appeased. “And yet you have lingered here for near a month.”

  Ian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You could not expect me to miss Fredrick’s wedding?”

  “No, I suppose not. But—”

  “Just leave it be, Raoul,” Ian growled, his expression warning he would endure no more. “I will travel to Surrey when I am ready.”

  Raoul studied him a long moment. “What are you looking for, mon ami?”

  Ian turned his head to study the flames dancing in the fireplace, his heart oddly heavy.

  “I suppose I will know when I finally find it.”

  Several hours later, Ian sat on the edge of the mattress and struggled to pull on his Hessians. It was a task that should not have posed a great deal of effort. He had deliberately requested that the boots be cut so that he could easily attend to them without the need for a valet. A gentleman who enjoyed spontaneous and frequent trysts had to consider such matters.

  It was one of those tiny details that made the difference between a successful rake and a bumbling amateur.

  Unfortunately, on this night his usual expertise was absent.

  No doubt because he was gloriously, marvelously, and spectacularly drunk.

  “Devil a bit,” he muttered as he gave the demon-spawned boot a last jerk a
nd nearly tumbled onto the rough-planked floor.

  “Ian?”

  The soft, sleepy voice came from behind him, and Ian glanced over his shoulder at the pretty maid curled beneath the thin cover.

  They had retired to her cramped room above the tavern, leaving only a small fire burning in the grate to offer light. Now, with the shadows filling the room, Ian could make out little more than a round face with a cloud of brown hair that tumbled about her naked shoulders.

  “Shh,” he murmured softly. “’Tis late. Go back to sleep.”

  “What are ye doing?”

  “I fear that I must be on my way.”

  “Now?” With a lazy smile, the maid tugged down the cover to reveal the lush bounty of her breasts. “We still have plenty of time before the sun comes up. Why don’t ye lay back down and we’ll have some fun?”

  Ian’s body stirred at the sight of her warm, luscious curves. Hell, what man would not be stirred? Stirred, stimulated, and stiffening by the moment.

  And there were few things he would like better than to dive back beneath the covers and drown in her sweet heat.

  It was only the thought of Raoul Charlebois that kept him from yanking off the damnable boots and tumbling back into the woman’s waiting arms.

  Although the older man had left for London after their meal together, his smoldering concern lingered like a bad taste in Ian’s mouth.

  He had not come out and accused Ian of hiding in Winchester like a coward. No, the trained actor was far too subtle for that. But the unspoken words had hovered between them nonetheless.

  Now Ian was faced with the unpleasant decision of whether to seek the truth of his own father or return to London and an existence that was becoming increasingly empty.

  The feel of warm fingers stroking through the strands of his dark hair brought Ian out of his broodings with a small start.

  Bloody hell. He should never have consumed so much whiskey. It was making him positively maudlin.