Bedding The Baron (11 page)

“My mother lived here?”

Macky gave a lift of his hands. “She came to the Manor house as a companion to your grandmother after Lady Graystone was forced to her bed.”

“A companion?” Fredrick frowned, his hands clenching on the brass railing that ran the length of the bar. “That means she had to be from a respectable family. My grandmother would have accepted nothing less.”

“The daughter of a Scottish doctor, although I don’t recall her name. She had the sort of nursing skills that Lady Graystone needed to ease her discomfort.”

“Good God.” Fredrick’s shock was beginning to shift to smoldering anger. “My father seduced a gently bred female beneath his own roof?”

“Not seduced,” Macky hastily protested, a hint of concern tightening his heavy features. The man would drown himself in his own ale rather than to think ill of his powerful patron. “They fell in love.”

Fredrick gave a sound of disgust. “A gentleman in love does not abandon the woman he has impregnated.”

“Now you just mind you those unworthy thoughts, Freddie,” Macky warned, his faced flushed. “Your father did not abandon her. Although your grandmother was right set on turning the poor lass away without so much as a shilling, it was your father who stood by her side. He said if she were to be tossed from the house, then he would go as well. They left for Winchester just a few days later.”

Fredrick felt as if he had taken a blow to his stomach.

His father’s words echoed through his mind.

In truth, I was relieved when I was forced to leave. . . .

Christ, the reason he had left Oak Manor had not been for the mysterious scandal Fredrick had hoped to learn about. It had been because of him.

Even worse, he was forced to accept that his father was not the cold-hearted beast that he had always presumed him to be. Lord Graystone had not turned his back on his mother. Instead he had allowed himself to be thrown from his own home to be at her side.

Dash it all....

With an effort, Fredrick pushed the revelations to the back of his mind. He would consider what he had discovered later. When he could sort through them in a logical manner.

It seemed to be becoming a habit of his since arriving in Wessex, he acknowledged wryly.

Draining the last of his ale, Fredrick managed to clear his wits. At least enough to notice the belligerent glint in Macky’s eyes.

He had allowed himself to be distracted by the mention of his mother and had effectively ensured that Macky was in no humor to confess any of Lord Graystone’s past scandals.

Ah, well, it had been only a distant hope to begin with. The neighbors were far too dependent upon the goodwill of Lord Graystone to readily confess any hidden sin he might have committed.

“Thank you for telling me the truth, Macky,” he said, placing a coin on the counter before rising to his feet. “You are the first to do so.”

The older man’s expression eased at the soft words. “Perhaps it was not my place, but I cannot have you thinking ill of your father. He is a good man.”

A good man? That was debatable, Fredrick silently mused. After all, Lord Graystone had fostered a bastard on a well-bred lady and harbored some secret he was willing to pay a fortune to keep buried.

Still, he was proving that he was not quite the monster of Fredrick’s childish imagination.

“You are no doubt right, old friend.” On the point of retreat, Fredrick paused, suddenly struck by a new thought. “Oh, I wanted to ask you if you have ever heard of a gentleman by the name of Dunnington?”

Macky furrowed his brow. “Dunnington?”

“I believe he once worked as a tutor in the neighborhood.”

The man gave a shrug. “I can’t say as I have. Of course, I don’t rub elbows much with tutors.”

Fredrick smiled. “No, I suppose not.”

“What’s your interest in this Dunnington?”

“Business.”

“A pity.” Macky leaned his elbows on the counter of the bar. “You are old enough that you should be seeking out tutors for your own sons.”

Fredrick should have laughed at the gentle reprimand.

Although he was hardly in his dotage, it appeared that once a gentleman gathered a large enough fortune, society believed it was his duty to share it with a wife and horde of children.

It was not amusement, however, that made his stomach clench with a sudden longing.

Instead it was the uninvited image of a raven-haired angel round with his child.

Just for a moment his heart refused to beat. Why the devil would such a thought even enter his mind? It certainly had not with any other female.

Could it be that she was the one?

The woman he had been awaiting his entire life?

The answer seemed to tease at the edge of his mind, but noticing that Macky was regarding him with a quizzical glance, Fredrick forced a nonchalant smile to his lips.

“Perhaps you are right, Macky,” he murmured as he headed toward the door. “’Tis certainly a matter I intend to explore while I am in the neighborhood.”

When Portia left her restless bed, she fervently promised herself that she would do her best to avoid Mr. Fredrick Smith.

It was not anger, or frustration, or even guilt that had brought on her decision. No, those emotions were far too familiar to trouble her. She had worn them like a threadbare gown since she was a child.

Instead it was the strange sense of anticipation that raced through her blood as she pulled on her clothes and smoothed her hair into a tidy braid. Almost as if for the first time in years she was eager to face the day.

And that was frightening, because she could not even pretend that her peculiar, almost giddy mood was not directly connected to Mr. Fredrick Smith.

She was precariously close to becoming obsessed with the wicked, fallen angel, she was forced to accept. And she knew that she had to make some decisions before she once again found herself caught in his potent spell.

There could be no doubt that Fredrick hoped to enjoy a brief affair during his visit to the inn. Or that he possessed the skills necessary to make such an affair a truly wondrous experience. Beyond wondrous, she acknowledged as she shivered from the memories of the previous night.

He was the first man to stir the sensuality in her nature that she had forgotten she even possessed.

A sensuality that she had buried years before.

But while it was an exhilarating experience, she was wise enough to hesitate before simply plunging headlong into desire. It was all very well for Fredrick to blithely claim they could conduct a private affair with no consequences, but she was far from convinced.

The complications of even a brief encounter were not easily overcome. And until she came to a decision of whether or not she intended to give into Fredrick’s seduction, it was unfair to continually place herself in his path.

He was no callow youth to be teased by her heated kisses one moment and then rebuffed by her panicked refusal the next.

No, he was a gentleman who had offered her nothing but respect, and he deserved her respect in return.

A mature and intelligent decision that proved to be quite easy to keep.

At least as long as Fredrick remained conveniently absent from the inn. It was an entirely different matter when he returned and promptly retreated to the back garden with a bottle of brandy.

For two hours she staunchly attempted to ignore the slender male who sat in such splendid solitude. He was obviously content to work his way through the bottle of brandy without interference.

But as the darkness began to descend and the breeze became chilled, she could no longer ignore the growing concern that gripped her.

Something had clearly occurred to trouble him.

And while her logic was steadfast, her heart was not nearly callous enough to leave him alone and cast to the wind in her garden.

Heaving a sigh at her own foolish weakness, Portia gathered her cloak before slipping out the kitchen door and entering the small garden.

With a sharp series of barks Puck rushed to greet her arrival. Oddly, however, the gentleman seated on the marble bench did not so much as turn his head. Instead he remained sprawled with negligent ease, his legs thrust out and the brandy bottle held precariously in his hand.

Offering the prancing spaniel a swift pat on the head, she shooed him away and moved to take a seat on the bench.

“Fredrick?” she murmured softly.

Still he continued to gaze at the distant sky, his elegant profile softly outlined by the light spilling from the inn.

Good God, but he was exquisite.

Such delicate features that still managed to be utterly male. Features that must have been crafted by the most skilled angels.

It was only with the greatest effort that she kept her fingers hidden beneath the fold of her cloak so they did not reach up to brush a stray honey curl from his forehead.

“Good evening, Portia,” he husked, speaking with that careful effort that revealed he had consumed a good deal of the brandy.

“Dinner is being served in the public rooms.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “No more private trays to my chambers?”

Her heart jerked sharply before she managed to give a small shrug. “I believe you have demonstrated you have recovered sufficient strength to make your way down the stairs.”

Slowly he turned his head to regard her with those far too perceptive grey eyes, although they were not quite so focused as usual.

“Perhaps, but my food never tastes quite so delicious as it does when it is being delivered by your sweet hands.”

His voice was lightly teasing, but Portia did not miss the grim set of his features.

“What is troubling you?”

“How do you know that anything is troubling me?”

“For such a successful businessman you do not hide your emotions particularly well.” She glanced around the empty garden. “Besides, you have been brooding out here with that bottle of brandy for the past two hours.”

He offered a boyish grin. “You noticed.”

“I was waiting for you to leave so that I could feed Puck.”

With a sharp laugh he lifted the bottle to his lips. “Of course.”

“Fredrick, did something happen today?”

“It is a . . . personal matter. Nothing that would be of interest to anyone.”

“Perhaps I should be allowed to decide whether or not it would be of interest.”

His smile faded as he held her gaze. “Why do you care, poppet?”

“Does it matter?” she demanded, her mind shying from the blunt question.

He studied her in silence for a long moment and Portia was prepared for a rebuff when he at last heaved a deep sigh.

“I had an intriguing conversation today with an old friend,” he said softly. “A conversation that included my mother.”

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.