With an effort, he forced himself to continue with his survey, silently deciding her thin, aquiline nose and lush lips (the color of summer roses) were just as perfect as the rest of her.
Well, she would be perfect if not for the appalling brown gown that was a size too large for her slender curves and buttoned nearly to her pretty chin. Fredrick decided that whatever modiste had been responsible for the hideous gown should be drawn and quartered.
Attempting to disguise this woman’s luminous beauty was as unforgivable as defiling Michelangelo’s Mona Lisa.
It was the dangerous narrowing of those magnificent eyes that at last jerked Fredrick out of his strange fog of fascination to realize he was staring at her like a bird-wit. With an effort he gathered his composure and attempted to appear as if he had not just been rattled to the very tips of his toes.
“Forgive me, did you say something?” he asked with a smile he had discovered could charm the most fastidious of women.
Most, but not all, he swiftly learned as her gaze skimmed dismissively over his once elegant attire and the beautiful features hardened to an aloof disdain.
“Your boots, sir,” she said, her voice low and startling cultured. The sort of culture that came from an expensive governess.
Far from offended by the woman’s cold response to his arrival, Fredrick found his fascination deepening. The woman was clearly the dreaded Mrs. Portia Walker, but what the devil was she doing here? She should have been cutting a swath through London’s most elite society. She should have earls and dukes panting at her heels.
To be buried here ... well, it was no less than a sin.
A tingle of anticipation trickled down his spine. The woman was a puzzle.
One that he was suddenly anxious to pursue.
“You object to Hessians?” he demanded mildly. “I assure you that they are quite the latest fashion among civilized society.”
Her lips thinned, revealing her obvious distaste.
For him in particular, or did she dislike gentlemen in general?
Had her deceased husband been a brute?
It would explain why she had never traveled to London.
“This may be no more than a quaint, provincial inn, but we do have standards. One of them being that my guests do not track mud throughout the place.” She gave a lift of her slender hand and a young lad with bad skin and a shock of red hair dashed to her side. “You will remove them and Tolly will see that they are polished and returned to you.”
Deliberately Fredrick assumed a haughty expression that would provoke the most mild-tempered woman. Mrs. Walker was clearly a woman who ran roughshod over others. How could he possibly resist tweaking that lovely nose?
“My dear, a gentleman does not lightly allow a stranger to polish his boots,” he drawled. “This boy might very well scuff them, or worse, leave a grease spot.”
“Nay, sir,” the lad protested, his pale eyes protruding at the implication he would create such a hideous fate. “I am always right careful. I would never—”
“That is enough, Tolly,” the raven-haired beauty interrupted, her voice exuding the smooth command of a seasoned general. “If our guest does not trust his precious boots to your care then perhaps he would be happier to stay at another inn. One that does not concern itself with mud on the floor.”
“Or perhaps one that has the good sense to properly drain their yard so a gentleman need not concern himself with ruining a perfectly good pair of boots,” he pointed out with a taunting smile.
She refused to rise to the bait as she gave an indifferent shrug. “As you say. The Fox and Grape is just another ten miles down the road.”
Fredrick smothered a small chuckle. Gads, but she was magnificent as she stood there regarding him with that aloof arrogance. This was a woman who would hold her own against the devil himself.
A familiar heat spread through his body as he briefly speculated on whether she would be as commanding in his bed. Such a notion held unlimited possibilities. All of which were enough to make him hard and aching.
“It is a wonder you have any business if you are always so eager to send your guests on their way without so much a cup of your famous buttered rum,” he said, futilely commanding his body to behave.
“Most of my guests understand that my rules are made to ensure their comfort and the comfort of others.”
“Very well, then.” Taking a seat on the nearby bench he motioned for the nervous Tolly to deal with his boots, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Walker’s lovely countenance. “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Your groom did warn me that you were a bit of a tartar, although he failed to mention you were such a beautiful tartar.”
She did not so much as blink. “Do you wish a chamber for the night?”
Fredrick hastily grabbed the edge of the bench as the boy threatened to launch him onto the floor with his forceful tugs on his boots.
“That was my hope. Unless, of course, you have any other rules that I am currently abusing?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Good. Then I do indeed wish a chamber for the night and a hot bath as soon as reasonably possible.”
“Of course.” Waiting until Tolly had painfully rid Fredrick of his boots, she offered a meaningless smile. “If you will follow me?”
Fredrick swallowed a groan as she turned on her heel and left the foyer with a gentle sway of her hips.
“Oh yes,” he muttered beneath his breath as he hurried to trail after her. “Yes, I will.”
Portia Walker had no fear that she appeared anything but cool and utterly serene as she made her way up the narrow flight of stairs. Her composure had been forged in the fires of hell, and there was nothing on this earth that could possible rattle her now.
Inwardly, however ... well, that was an entirely different matter.
Never in her six and twenty years had she been so vibrantly aware of a man. From the moment she had entered the foyer to see him standing beside the door she had felt as if she had been struck by lightning.
A ridiculous notion.
It was not as if he were any way out of the ordinary, she tried to tell herself, knowing even as the thought crossed her mind that she was lying.
Granted the man was not the massive, intimidating sort that could fill a room with his presence. Instead he was only of medium height with the sleek muscles of a thoroughbred. But that face.
Dear God, it surely did not belong on a mere mortal.
It was not just handsome. That was too mundane a word. The delicately carved features, the shimmering grey eyes, and the lush lips were painfully beautiful. As if he were a creature of smoke and mist that might disappear at any moment.
And his hair ... his thick curls were not just a predictable blond or brown, but a rich, aged gold with streaks of amber.
He was clearly created for the specific task of breaking poor women’s hearts.
Still, she was never susceptible to gentlemen. Especially not those disgusting, loathsome toads from London.
So why then was her back prickling with awareness as he moved to follow her far too closely? And why was her heart pounding against her chest with such force that it was a wonder the entire inn could not hear its frantic beat?
She was merely tired, she attempted to soothe her troubled heart. With the sudden storm her small inn was filled to the rafters. It was only because most of her guests could not afford her most elegant suite that she even had space for the obnoxious London fop.
A pity really. She would have loved to have turned him away at the door. Any fool who spent such an obvious fortune on something so ridiculous as his clothing deserved a good soaking. As it was, she could only hope his boots were smudged and scuffed beyond repair.
Yes. With all the extra work it was little wonder that her weary brain was imagining all sorts of nonsense.
That absolutely, positively had to be it.
At last reaching the rooms at the end of the long wing, Portia pulled her heavy ri
ng of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door.
Stepping over the threshold, she cast a swift, critical glance about the bedchamber, careful to note that the windows framed by the blue velvet curtains had been recently washed and that the heavy mahogany furnishings glowed with a high polish.
She moved aside to allow her guest to enter the room, an unconscious hint of pride squaring her shoulders.
“Our rooms are not as large as some inns,” she said. “But the bedding is clean and the linens freshly washed. Through the far door you will find a small parlor that looks onto the woods.”
That smile that could charm the birds from the trees curved his mouth.
“Ah, a very nice port in the storm.”
“Indeed.” She shoved a key into his hands. Regardless of the reasons for her odd reaction to this man, she was anxious to be away from the room. The flutters in the pit of her stomach and the sensation that she could not quite catch her breath were not at all comfortable. “Here you are. If you have need of a servant you need only pull the bell rope.”
“And if I have need of you?”
She assumed her most distant expression. The one that could wither the pretensions of the most hardened rake.
“One of the servants will be up to light your fire and to bring your bath.” Her voice was coated with a thick layer of ice. “I assume you have luggage?”
The damnable man dared to give a low chuckle, as if he were actually amused by her obvious set-down.
“Your groom promised to attend to it,” he assured her.
“Good.” She abruptly turned toward the door, not caring if it appeared she was in full retreat. The chamber suddenly seemed far too small. “If that will be all ...”
“What of dinner?”
With an effort she forced herself to pause, although she refused to turn around. “The cook has prepared shepherd’s pie. I will have it served in your private parlor.”
“Actually, I would prefer to eat in the public rooms,” he announced, being deliberately contrary. “There is nothing quite so refreshing as rubbing elbows with the natives on occasion.”
“Condescending ass,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“Excuse me, did you say something?”
“Enjoy your stay,” she managed to choke out before heading firmly out the door and down the hall.
Chapter Three
Halting her hasty flight at the bottom of the stairs, Portia took several deep breaths. She was behaving like a nitwit.
So, the man ... disturbed her. What did it matter?
He was just another guest in a long line of guests who had passed through her inn. After tonight he would fade from her mind and be forgotten.
Yes, there was nothing at all to trouble her.
Sucking in yet another breath, Portia took a moment to allow her gaze to drift over the dark paneling and open timbered ceiling of the wide lobby. She had inherited the inn upon the death of her elderly husband, Thomas Walker. It had been a profitable establishment from the time its doors had opened near a hundred years before, and even more profitable since her husband had possessed the good sense to add an extra wing to accommodate the numerous carriages headed to Winchester.
It had been Portia, however, who had made the Queen’s Arms famous throughout the district. With her husband dead, and the entire staff depending upon her to keep the inn afloat, she had no choice but rely upon her female instincts. Without her husband’s gregarious charm or years of experience, she had decided that she would use what few skills she did possess. And that was how to run an efficient household, and to ensure that her guests were made to feel as content as if they were at home.
Within a few months she had hired a cook who was nothing less than an artist in the kitchen. Her fare was simple, but mouthwateringly delicious, and carriages would readily travel miles out of their way to enjoy her creations. She had also hired on two extra maids to assist in keeping the rooms scrupulously clean.
Her inn might never be the largest, or the most elegant, but it had the reputation of always offering the best service for a reasonable cost. A combination that had kept business brisk.
And more importantly, it had offered Portia an independence she would never have dreamed possible. For the first time, she was in complete control of her life and she would not trade the wondrous knowledge for all the Crown jewels.
Feeling her odd tension slowly begin to fade, Portia smoothed her hands down the skirt of her plain gown and turned toward the back of the inn. The tap room was already filled with both locals and the guests who would be remaining for the night. She needed to make sure that Mrs. Cornell would have plenty of food.
Portia turned into the side passage used by the servants, nearly running down the short, plump maid who was rushing forward with a large stack of freshly laundered towels.
“Oh, forgive me, mum,” the girl breathed, her brown curls bouncing about her round face.
“Molly.” Portia halted the maid before she could rush away. The servants had learned that while Portia was always fair and willingly paid the highest wages, she demanded nothing short of perfection in their work.
“Aye, mum?”
“When Quinn comes in from the stables, would you have him take a bath to the blue chambers and see that a fire is lit?”
The girl blinked in confusion. “But that is my job.”
“Not for this particular guest,” she said, her voice hard. “And please inform the other maids that if our latest guest rings his bell no one is to attend him but Quinn or myself.”
Understanding dawned in the brown eyes. “Ah, a London gent, is he?”
Portia had never made a secret of her disdain for the worthless dandies that occasionally dribbled their way from London. Nor her determination to protect her maids from their lecherous advances. Beneath her roof such men swiftly learned that the females who crossed their paths were not there for their entertainment. Not unless they desired to be tossed out on their arrogant noses.
“The very worst sort,” she said. “Hopefully he will be on his way as soon as the sun rises. Until then I intend to protect my own.”
“Is he handsome?”
Portia frowned as the memory of elegant features and smoke grey eyes sent a rush of heat through the pit of her stomach.
Drat it all. Was she coming down with a fever?
“What does that matter?” she demanded.
Molly heaved a sigh. “It is just so rare to have a real gentleman in these parts.”
The brief warmth fled as a familiar chill spread through her body. Good Lord. Molly was no wide-eyed innocent and yet she continued to flutter and flirt whenever a nobleman crossed the threshold.
As if they were somehow superior to the more common male.
Portia knew the truth.
“Let me assure you that supposed gentlemen are vain, pompous peacocks who consider nothing and no one beyond their own pleasures.”
The brown eyes twinkled. “Aye, but is he handsome?”
Portia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Molly, he is obscenely handsome. Now return to your work and stay away from the blue chambers.”
Continuing down the hall, Portia gave a rueful shake of her head. Had there ever been a twenty-year-old girl who did not have her head stuffed with foolish fantasies of handsome princes come to sweep them off to their fairy tale castle?
Even she had harbored such dreams. At least until her prince had arrived and promptly turned into a worthless toad.
She shoved her foolish thoughts aside as she stepped into the kitchen, her expert eye skimming over the long wooden tables loaded with freshly baked bread, peeled vegetables, bundles of dried herbs, and baskets of strawberries.
The kitchen had been recently remodeled to incorporate the latest inventions, but the delicious scents that wafted through the air were a product of good old-fashioned talent.
A rather smug smile touched her lips. It had been a stroke of genius to lure the older woman to the inn. It did not
even matter that she was forced to pay nearly two hundred pounds a year to keep her. Her profits had nearly doubled since the woman’s arrival.
“Good evening, Mrs. Cornell,” she said as she crossed to where the silver-haired woman rolled out a lump of dough. “Is everything in order?”
The thin woman with a pinched face continued with her task. “The pies are in the oven as well as lovely stuffed mushrooms in cream sauce. I am just working on the strawberry tarts.”
“It all smells delicious.”
“I heard as we have another guest.”
Portia grimaced. “Yes.”
“Shall I have a tray fixed?”
“No, he wishes to eat in the public rooms.”
“Does he now? That is right decent of him.”
“The man would not know decency if it bit him on the arse,” she muttered before she could halt the words.
The cook glanced up in surprise. “Has he done something to offend you?”
“Not at all. I think I must be tired,” she admitted. “I will be in my rooms if you have need of me.”
“Aye.”
Assured that the inn would not tumble into oblivion, at least not within the next hour, Portia made her way back through the inn and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. With a stern effort she kept herself from glancing toward the door that led to the blue chambers, and moved to the end of the hall. She pulled her keys from her pocket and unlocked the door that led to the narrow stairs to the attic.
After the death of Thomas, Portia had sold their pretty cottage and used the money to keep the inn from plunging into disaster. Over the past two years, business had been good enough to finance a separate home, but Portia was in no hurry to quit her snug chambers. Not only was it convenient to be on hand to deal with the problems that occurred on a daily basis, but the tidy nest egg she was managing to acquire gave her a sense of security.
Never, ever again would she be alone and penniless.
She was a woman who had made her way in the world and no one could take that away from her.
Deborah Raleigh Page 3
