Deborah Raleigh

by Bedding the Baron

  Before she could halt herself, Portia had settled her fingers on his rigid forearm. As if she could ease the darkness shrouded about him with a mere touch.

  “Is it painful to speak of her?”

  “Not so much painful as astonishing, since I never speak of her,” he confessed, his lips twisting. “In truth, there was nothing to speak of. I have never known anything of my mother other than the fact that she died at my birth.”

  “Your father never spoke to you about her?”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “My father never spoke to me about anything, at least nothing beyond the state of the weather and the progress of his harvest. He certainly never encouraged any intimate confidences.”

  Portia’s heart clenched at the thought of a young, vulnerable Fredrick being denied even the barest comfort at the loss of his mother. She at least had her mother’s belongings to give her a sense of the woman who had given her birth.

  “And so you have never known anything of her?”

  “Nothing.”

  She unconsciously gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “What did you discover today?”

  His gaze lowered to where her fingers lay on his arm. “That she was a true lady. She was the daughter of a doctor and she came to Oak Manor to be a companion to my grandmother.”

  Portia sensed his confusion at the discovery, but more than that, she sensed his pain. A pain, she realized, that she ached to take away.

  “You must resemble her,” she said softly.

  Fredrick lifted his gaze with a startled blink. “Why do you say that?”

  “You have implied that your father is a ... distant gentleman, while you are obviously a warm and caring person.”

  His hand shifted to cover her fingers that lingered on his arm, a wicked smile teasing at his lips.

  “Very warm, at least when I am in your presence.”

  Suddenly the night did not seem nearly so chilled. In fact, her entire body was tingling with a heat that nearly stole her breath.

  “Did you discover anything else?” she forced herself to demand, her voice not quite steady.

  “Yes.” Without warning, Fredrick was off the bench and pacing toward the low brick fence. “I discovered that my father did not abandon her as I always supposed he had. Indeed, he left Oak Manor to take my mother to Winchester when my grandmother discovered she was with child.”

  Even in the thickening shadows, Portia could make out the stiff set of his shoulders and the tension of his rigid back as he drained the last of the brandy and tossed aside the bottle. Rising from the bench, she moved to stand at his side before common sense could halt the urge to soothe his grief.

  “Then he must have loved her,” she said softly.

  “So it would seem.”

  She frowned at his clipped words. “Why does that trouble you?”

  There was a long silence. At last he gave a slow shake of his head. “I have always assumed that my father disliked me because he resented my mother becoming pregnant and forcing a bastard on him. Now ... now it appears he held at least some affection for my mother. So why did he never care for me?”

  Pain sliced through Portia’s heart and she knew with absolute certainty that if Lord Graystone ever dared enter her inn that she would take a horsewhip to him.

  Damn his worthless hide.

  With an effort she ignored the smoldering desire to punish Fredrick’s unworthy father and instead concentrated on the man standing stiffly at her side.

  “You said that your mother died during your birth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you were too distressing a reminder of what he had lost,” she suggested. “After all, he turned his back on his family to be with the woman he loved, only to lose her in a tragic manner. It is only natural that your presence would conjure memories he would prefer to put behind him.”

  He turned his head to regard her with a shimmering gaze. “Clearly you have never encountered Lord Graystone.”

  “It is possible, you know.”

  His lips twisted. “If you say.”

  Once again Portia felt compelled to reach out and touch his arm. “Whatever his reason for keeping you at a distance, it cannot be any worse than knowing that your father disliked you simply because you were not born the proper sex.”

  As Portia had hoped, Fredrick was distracted by her low words, his strained expression easing as he turned to regard her with a searching gaze.

  “Your father desired a son?”

  “Of course.” For once the memory of her feckless father did not bring with it the familiar jarring anger. Instead she was aware of nothing beyond the nearness of Fredrick’s lean body and the warm male scent that spiced the air. “A daughter could not join him in his hunting or gambling or whoring. And even worse, I possessed the audacity to lecture him on tossing away his fortune.”

  He reached out to cup her cheek. “He was a weak, cowardly idiot.”

  “Yes, he was,” she promptly agreed.

  “We are a fine pair, are we not, poppet?” he sighed.

  She shrugged. “It would seem to me that we have done well enough without the assistance of our families. In fact, I would say that we are far more successful for having been forced to make our way in the world. How many noblemen do you know that have become nothing more than worthless fribbles?”

  A chiseled brow arched. “You think I should be grateful to have been abandoned by my father?”

  “I think you should be grateful that you were born with the fortitude to overcome your past and the intelligence to create business that provides for you and for your employees. You could be living in the gutters and begging for a coin.”

  “You are right, of course.” The silver eyes slowly darkened to smoke as he deliberately lowered his gaze to her lips. Portia’s heart stuttered, but she made no move to pull away as his arms encircled her waist and he tugged her close. “And in truth, at this moment I have no wish to think of the past. I would much rather concentrate on the present.”

  A hint of panic fluttered through her mind. Not at his touch. But at the savage pang of longing that clutched at her lower stomach.

  She wanted to lean into that hard body. To slide her fingers into the silk of his honey hair. To tug his lips down to cover hers in a deep, hungry kiss.

  “Your dinner ...” she breathed.

  “Portia, just let me hold you for a moment,” he commanded as he lowered his head to touch his lips to the sensitive skin of her temple. “I need to feel you in my arms.”

  “Someone might see us.”

  “I do not intend to ravish you in the garden.” His fingers flexed against her lower back. “Not that I would mind, but I am not quite lost to all reason.” He breathed deeply of her curls. “God, it feels so right to hold you.”

  It did feel right. Perfect, in fact.

  Portia allowed her eyes to slide shut as she savored the feeling of being wrapped in Fredrick’s arms. Oh, mercy. It was more than the aching desire that she had come to expect.

  Standing in the chilled garden she felt warm and safe and ... and cherished.

  Sensations she had never thought to experience with any man.

  Sensations that were far more perilous than mere desire.

  With a dangerous ease she allowed herself to soak in the heat of him, arching as his palm inched up her spine to cup her nape in a possessive grip. Even when he stroked soft kisses down the curve of her cheek, she made no effort to pull away.

  “Portia,” he murmured just before his lips captured her mouth in a startling fierce kiss.

  She made a low sound in her throat. He tasted of brandy and male desire, his masterful touch sending jolts of excitement through her body. Her fingers clutched at his coat as his hand cupped her bottom to haul her firmly against the straining muscles of his groin.

  Muttering beneath his breath, Fredrick thrust his tongue into her mouth, plundering her with a restless hunger that caught her off guard. Tonight he was not the tender, careful
lover she had come to expect. Instead he was urgent and demanding, as if his control had been shattered.

  Perhaps Portia should have been shocked by his brazen need. She had, after all, put considerable effort into becoming a rigidly respectable lady. The sort of lady who could run her own business without lifting a brow among the highest sticklers.

  But far from shocked she was instead shuddering beneath a blast of passion that nearly sent her to her knees. This was what the poets wrote of and what prompted sane women to toss aside everything they held dear.

  His mouth shifted to plant hot, damp kisses down the curve of her neck. Portia readily tilted back her head, her heart thundering and her breath coming in small gasps as Fredrick tucked her more firmly between his spread legs and rocked the length of his arousal against her.

  A moan was wrenched from her throat as a frustrated need speared through her lower body. She wanted to be far away from the garden. Far away from the inn with its prying eyes.

  Someplace where she could be utterly alone with this beautiful man.

  It was the sound of a carriage entering the yard that managed to recall Fredrick to the fact they were standing within easy sight of the inn. With a low groan, he reluctantly lifted his head to regard her with dazed eyes.

  “Bloody hell,” he at last breathed, his voice unsteady as he lowered his arms and stepped from her. “I never thought to say this, but I fear I am not at all trustworthy to be alone with you on this night.”

  Still caught in the throes of passion she swayed toward him. “Fredrick?”

  “No, poppet.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, as if he were waging a war within himself. “The brandy has stolen more than my wits, and I am not certain I possess the power to halt myself from taking more than you wish to offer. You should return to the inn.”

  Portia bit back the urge to protest that in this moment there was nothing that he could take that she would not willingly offer.

  If she did give herself to him it would not be when he was aching from the pain of his bitter youth and befuddled with strong spirits.

  The man was just foolish enough to awaken in the morning and presume it had been nothing more than sympathy that had led to her capitulation. That she would not allow.

  Stepping back she wrapped the cloak more tightly about her shivering body.

  “Will you be well?” she demanded, disliking the thought of leaving him alone with his haunting memories.

  As if he could not halt himself, Fredrick reached out to lightly touch her hair, his expression impossible to read in the shadows.

  “Do not fret, poppet, I intend nothing more than to wallow for a while longer in my self-pity before seeking my bed,” he said wryly. “In the morning I shall have returned to my interfering, arrogant, annoying self.”

  A smile twitched at her lips. “Along with a painfully thick head.”

  “No doubt.” With obvious care, Fredrick leaned down to brush his lips over her forehead. “Run along, poppet, before my good intentions disappear entirely.”

  It took far more effort than it should have for Portia to turn about and make her way through the dark garden. She desperately wanted to remain and offer him the comfort that he needed. Thankfully, she possessed enough wits to realize that if she lingered comfort was not all she would be offering.

  Entering the bustling kitchen, Portia ignored the raised brows and hidden smiles from her staff.

  She knew that she looked flushed and mussed and thoroughly kissed.

  Even worse, she knew that she looked as if she had enjoyed being thoroughly kissed.

  With an inward shrug she slipped off her cloak and headed toward the front of the inn. Despite her distraction with Mr. Fredrick Smith, there were guests arriving.

  Business was business, she reminded herself sternly.

  Portia’s prediction of a thick-head proved all too accurate when Fredrick awoke the next morning.

  A thick-head that was not improved by the crack to his skull that had not yet fully healed.

  Cursing his stupidity, Fredrick resisted the urge to linger in his bed and made his way down to the public rooms for an early cup of tea.

  Dash it all, he never drank to excess. At least not since his younger years when Ian and Raoul would occasionally lure him into Dunnington’s attics to share a bottle of blue ruin.

  Of course, his day had been the sort to drive any gentleman to drink, he acknowledged wryly.

  And perhaps he had needed a few hours to adjust to the revelations that Macky had revealed. His only true regret was that he had held a warm and willing Portia in his arms and had been forced to send her away.

  With a sigh, Fredrick reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his small notebook.

  He had wasted yet another day without being one step closer to completing his task in Wessex.

  Today he was determined to accomplish something, anything.

  The question was where to begin.

  There were perhaps a few in the neighborhood that might have some knowledge of his father’s past. But would any of them be willing to reveal any sordid secrets?

  And more importantly, could he be certain that his father’s secret sin had occurred while he lived here?

  After all, Dunnington had managed to uncover the truth. And there was no indication that the tutor had ever been near Oak Manor. God knew that if he had ever resided in the neighborhood Macky would have full and complete knowledge of him. The taproom gossip flowed with the same liberal excess as the ale, and even the most obscure resident would have been fully debated and dissected by the locals.

  Perhaps it was time that he turned his attention to Winchester, he told himself, scribbling notes on the paper. He might not have much information to discover where his father had lived while he was in the city, but he was well enough acquainted with Dunnington to know precisely where to begin.

  If his beloved tutor had one weakness it was for books. The tutor could not possibly have lived anywhere without having haunted every bookstore and circulating library in the area.

  Pleased to have at least decided on a direction to continue his search, Fredrick abruptly stilled as a tingle of pleasure spread over his skin.

  There was only one thing, or rather one person, who could make his entire body shiver with awareness by simply entering the room.

  Lifting his head he watched as Portia moved in his direction, a glass of some mysterious substance in her hand.

  He hid a smile at the God-awful beige gown that hung loosely on her slender form. He could only suppose that her tender heart had led her to hire a blind dressmaker.

  Nothing that ugly could have been deliberately created.

  Of course, the hideous gown could not disguise the luminous beauty that shimmered in the early morning sunlight. His heart slammed against his chest as the world melted away to leave only the sight of pale, delicate features and cobalt eyes.

  He might not yet be utterly certain that this was the woman of his dreams, but he could not deny that he had never before been so wholly captivated.

  Rising to his feet, Fredrick gave a shallow bow as she halted at his table.

  “Good morning, Portia,” he murmured, his voice soft enough it would not travel to the handful of guests scattered about the various tables.

  “Good morning.” Her expression was carefully composed as if aware of watching eyes, but there was a warmth in her gaze that eased his lingering fear he might have frightened her with his stark hunger in the garden. “I am surprised to discover you up and about at such an early hour.”

  Fredrick grimaced, knowing his lingering pain was etched on his wan countenance. “I did consider nursing a sore head in the hopes you might take pity upon me and bring a tray to my room.”

  “Actually, I have indeed chosen to take pity upon you.”

  “Ah.” He allowed his gaze to slide to her soft lips. “Shall I return to my rooms?”

  The faintest hint of color touched her cheeks as she thrust the gla
ss she was holding into his hand.

  “Only if you wish to enjoy Mrs. Cornell’s cure in privacy.”

  “Cure?” Fredrick tentatively sniffed at the strange brown brew. “Good God, it smells vile.”

  “No matter what the smell, I assure you that it will ease your aches,” she said.

  “If I am forced to drink this swill then the least you can do is have a seat and keep me company,” he cunningly negotiated. He would drink a dose of arsenic to have a few moments with this woman. “I might very well need someone to bury my remains.”

  She gave a sniff at his teasing, but with a brisk motion she took her seat opposite the table.

  “I will have you know that Mrs. Cornell’s potions and ointments are renowned throughout the county.”

  Fredrick took his own seat as he studied the disgusting mixture. “Really? Perhaps I should speak with her about bottling them,” he murmured before forcing himself to take a swallow of the potion. A shudder wracked his body, his stomach revolting at the disgusting concoction. Christ. It was worse than drinking sludge. “Then again, perhaps not,” he groaned. “No matter how effective they might be, I do not believe that many will be eager to lay down good coin to drink something that tastes as if it came from the gutter.”

  “I shall expect a full apology once you begin feeling better,” she informed him, indifferent to his battle to keep from casting up his accounts. Callous wench.

  Ah, well. It was no less than he deserved after becoming bosky in her garden.

  “Actually, you shall have my apology long before I begin to feel better,” he said softly.

  Her brows lifted in confusion. “And why is that?”

  “I was not at my finest last eve—”

  “No, Fredrick, do not apologize,” she interrupted with that edge of command in her voice. “There is no need.”

  Fredrick resisted the urge to snap a salute. “At least allow me to assure you that I am not a gentleman who makes a habit of being deep in his cups.”

  “I did not believe that you were.” With an obvious attempt to change the subject, Portia pointed a finger toward the notebook still clutched in his hand. “What are you working upon?”