Bedding The Baron (22 page)

Setting aside the empty glass, Fredrick gave a small shrug and began to pace the cramped room.

“Perhaps later.”

Portia watched his pacing in silence, waiting for him to confess what was troubling him. It was only when she feared that he might actually wear a hole in the carpet that she at last cleared her throat.

“Fredrick?”

Coming to a halt beside the window, Fredrick stared blindly at the stable yard where Quinn was diligently spreading the mixture that Fredrick insisted would combat the mud.

“You were not mistaken in your suspicion that there was more to my arrival at the Queen’s Arms than just business,” he admitted in abrupt tones. “I traveled to Wessex because I discovered my father was harboring a dark secret that I was determined to uncover.”

Portia slowly perched on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap as she studied his profile.

“What sort of secret?”

“A part of his past that he wished to keep hidden.”

She smiled wryly. There were few who did not possess at least a few skeletons they desired to keep buried.

Of course, she was fortunate that Fredrick had accepted her past with such ready sympathy. She was wise enough to know that it was a rare man who would be capable of such understanding.

Which made his obvious anger with his father all the more unexpected.

“If it is your father’s past then why are you so disturbed?” She considered a long moment. “Does it somehow concern you?”

“Oh, it most certainly concerns me.” Portia winced at his sharp laugh. “You see, I am not quite the bastard I have always been told that I am.”

She blinked, her brows drawing together in confusion at his abrupt words.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My father stood before a vicar and shared his wedding vows with my mother before I entered the world.”

Not even aware she was moving, Portia rose to her feet, a strange dread lodging in the pit of her stomach.

“You . . . you are the legitimate son of Lord Graystone?”

He turned to reveal his bitter expression. “Not only legitimate son, but legitimate heir.”

“Oh my God.” She gave a slow shake of her head. It was like something out of a children’s story, she thought in bemusement. The handsome prince who has his birthright stolen by an evil stepmother. “Are you certain? I mean, absolutely certain?”

The grey eyes were as dark as storm clouds with suppressed emotion. “Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“But why? Why would your father claim that you were a bastard?”

“It is a rather long and tedious story, but the end result was that my father was in need of a large fortune and Jacob Burke was in search of a title,” he drawled sardonically. “I was the only thing that stood in the path of each of them getting what they desired.”

Portia pressed her hands to her stomach, knowing that she should be delighted for Fredrick. For God’s sake, he had just been given a new life. A life that would offer him everything that had been denied as a bastard.

He could move among society, wed a proper debutante, and perhaps most importantly, he would never again have to endure the mocking contempt of frivolous dandies.

Stupidly, however, all she could feel was an emptiness that was spreading through her heart.

Almost as if she were losing something that she never truly possessed.

“This is unbelievable.” She grimly battled back the urge to cry. Her stupid feelings did not matter. In this moment the only thing important was Fredrick and how his father’s betrayal had clearly hurt him. “How did you learn the truth?”

With jerky motions, Fredrick moved to pour himself another shot of brandy. “It was Dunnington, the man who raised me, who set me on the path.” He swallowed the spirits in one gulp. “But the truth is to be found in a church in Winchester.”

“That is where your parents were wed?”

“Yes.”

His voice was low and clipped, but it did not disguise the edge of pain. Portia moved forward to lay her hand on his arm, offering an unspoken comfort.

“Do you intend to tell your father you have discovered the truth?” she asked softly.

The elegant features hardened at her question. “I have already confronted him.”

“So swiftly?”

“There seemed little point in delaying.”

“I suppose not.” She licked her dry lips, regarding him with a searching gaze. “And what did he say?”

The pale features were impossible to read. “He is prepared to admit to the world that I am not the bastard he has always claimed me to be. Indeed, he made it clear that he will do whatever necessary to make me his heir.”

Portia gave a shocked sound as she dropped her fingers and stepped from his lean form. Good God, he was a . . . nobleman. A dreaded beast she had sworn to hate.

Her smile felt stiff as she attempted to appear pleased at his astonishing elevation from bastard to heir.

“Congratulations, Fredrick. You must be very pleased.”

He did not return her smile. Instead, he regarded her with a brooding intensity.

“In truth, I do not know if I am pleased or not, poppet.”

“How could you not be? You are to become the heir of a title and a great estate.”

His lips twisted. It was not a smile of pleasure, but rather one of cynicism.

“Did you not just assure me that you would have no interest in having your destiny altered so you could take your rightful position in society?” he demanded.

“Yes, but you are a gentleman.”

His brows lifted at her obscure response. “That much I am certain of, although I do not entirely comprehend what it has to do with your argument.”

With a frustrated sigh, she wrapped her arms about her waist. Why did gentlemen never realize just how difficult it was to be a woman?

“As a female I would be expected to give up my freedom and put my fate into the hands of some man if I were to return to society,” she pointed out, her expression revealing what she thought of such a hideous fate. “You are a gentleman and therefore you have no need to give up anything, not even your business, when you become Lord Graystone.”

“I would, however, be burdened with responsibilities that I was never trained to shoulder. I haven’t the least notion of what it might entail to be in charge of a vast estate,” he said, his brows drawing together as Portia gave a sudden laugh. “Why do you find that amusing?”

She gave a shake of her head, unable to believe that he could doubt his overwhelming ability to master whatever task might be required of him.

“For God’s sake, Fredrick, you were not at this inn but a few moments before you were fussing and fretting and fixing everything in your path,” she said.

His lips twitched. “Tinkering with pulley systems and drainage ditches can hardly compare to being groomed from birth to become a nobleman.”

“It is far better,” she insisted, her expression unwittingly fierce with the pride she felt in this gentleman’s astonishing skills. “Any estate that you take under your wing will be the most profitable, the most well-run estate in all of England. It does not surprise me at all that your father would be anxious to make you his heir. Indeed, it only proves that he has at last come to his senses.”

The silver eyes darkened as Fredrick slowly stepped forward, his arms encircling her waist as he lowered his head and stroked his lips down the line of her nose.

“Do you know, Portia Walker, I suddenly have little interest in estates and inheritances.”

Portia gave a small squeak as she was swept off her feet and carried toward the nearby bed.

“Good heavens, Fredrick, what are you about?” she demanded.

He smiled tenderly as he lowered her onto the middle of the mattress and covered her with the welcome weight of his body.

“I have thought the truth would strike me like a bolt of lightning, poppet,” he murmured, his head lowering to bury his face in the curve of her neck. “But it was actually more a slow, relentless tidal wave.”

Portia shivered as he gave her skin a light nip, her blood already shimmering with heat. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of the faint noises that revealed the inn was stirring to life, but her usual sense of responsibility was being rapidly undermined by the gentle kisses he was pressing along the line of her bodice.

Besides, there was a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispering that this might be the very last occasion she would ever be held in Fredrick’s arms.

Once he was acknowledged as Lord Graystone’s heir he would be far beyond the touch of an aging innkeeper.

“The truth of your father?” she muttered, her thoughts already clouding with passion as her hands instinctively lifted to wrap around his neck.

He pulled back to smile deep into her eyes. “The truth of you.”

“Me?” She frowned. “And what truth is that?”

“That you are the woman I have been waiting for,” he said, his breath warm on her cheek. “The woman I was meant to love and keep at my side for all eternity.”

Hiding his decidedly smug smile at Portia’s shock, Fredrick returned his attention to spreading kisses down the curve of her neck even as his hands tugged at the fastenings of her thick gown.

Oddly, he did not feel nearly so disturbed as he perhaps should at the knowledge he had just pledged his undying love. It was, after all, nothing short of a declaration of his intention to make her his wife. Something no gentleman would offer lightly.

But as he tasted of her satin skin he felt nothing but absolute satisfaction. No doubt because he had accepted the truth of his feelings in his heart days ago, he acknowledged wryly.

“Fredrick?” Portia breathed, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he discovered the tender pulse at the base of her throat.

“Hmmm?”

“What did you say?”

Fredrick stripped away the heavy wool of her gown, revealing the lacy chemise beneath. He smiled as he outlined the pretty rose that had been embroidered upon the thin bodice. How could he not adore this woman?

So strong and commanding on the surface, and yet so soft and feminine beneath all that wool and starch.

A perfect combination that would fascinate him for all of eternity.

“I believe you heard me,” he said as he efficiently unraveled the satin ribbons and laid bare her beautiful breasts.

“But . . .” Portia sucked in a sharp breath as Fredrick teased the tip of her nipple to a hard bud. “Fredrick, halt that. I cannot think clearly when you are touching me.”

“We can think clearly later,” he breathed, stroking his hands over the pure silk of her skin. “Much, much later.”

She made a sound deep in her throat as his fingers skimmed through her lower curls.

“Yes, perhaps you are right,” she husked.

“You will discover that I am always right, poppet,” he teased. A groan wrenched from his throat as she awkwardly tugged off his cravat and struggled with the buttons of his jacket.

He had not been lying when he had assured Portia he only wished to converse when he invited her to his rooms. At the time his only thought had been confessing what he had discovered from his father and seeking her comfort.

But as she stood there fiercely defending his ability to become a nobleman, he had been overwhelmed with the need to prove to her just how much she had come to mean to him. How much he needed her in his life.

No matter what that life might be.

Adding his efforts to hers, they managed to divest him of his clothing, their movements growing ever more hasty as his mouth shifted to capture her lips in a searing kiss.

His troubled thoughts were drowned as bare skin encountered bare skin. A wave of heat and need and breathless pleasure charged through him and his hand trembled as he sought the dampness between her legs.

He sensed it would take very little to tumble him over the edge and he wanted to make certain that he managed to give Portia pleasure before he was utterly lost.

A moan rumbled deep in his chest as his fingers sank deep into her honey-sweetness. Her desire flamed and within moments her hips were lifting to meet the thrust of his hand.

Pressing his erection against the curve of her hip, Fredrick was unprepared when Portia gave a sharp tug on his hair.

“Wait, Fredrick,” she muttered.

Wait? Fredrick swallowed a pained laugh at her innocence. She clearly did not realize that there came a point where it was no longer possible to wait.

“What is it, poppet?” he whispered in a strained voice.

“I want to have you within me.”

Fredrick pulled back to regard her with a wary gaze even as his body shuddered with an aching need to bury himself deep within her.

“You are certain, Portia?”

As if to prove her determination, the vixen reached down to grasp his arousal. “I am certain.”

“Christ . . .”

His breath was wrenched from his body as she firmly guided him between her legs and he at long last slid into the delectable heat of her body.

It was far from the first time he had made love to a woman, but as his climax clenched his body, Fredrick cried out, shaken by the sheer intensity of his pleasure.

Portia’s own release occurred a heartbeat later, and keeping her tightly wrapped in his arms, Fredrick settled at her side to keep from crushing her.

“I love you, poppet,” he whispered as he pressed his lips to the soft skin of her temple. “I will always love you.”

Surprisingly Portia lifted her hand and pressed her fingers to his mouth, her expression troubled.

“No, Fredrick, do not say such a thing,” she warned. “Not now.”

Fredrick frowned as his gaze skimmed over her flushed, slightly damp countenance. She looked like a woman who had just been well-satisfied by a man who adored her. So why would she flinch from his confession of love?

“Why not now?” he demanded.

Reaching down she tugged a blanket over their entwined bodies, whether out of modesty or the desire to gain a moment to consider her answer, he could not determine.

“You have enough upon your mind,” she at last said, settling her head upon his shoulder. “For now it is important that you consider what you have discovered of your birth and what it means for your future.”

Fredrick absently buried his face in her rose scented curls, only vaguely conscious of just how right she felt in his arms as he pondered her stilted words.

“What if I prefer to consider what
you
mean to my future?”

She stiffened, almost as if afraid of his soft words. “Please, Fredrick,” she pleaded huskily.

Fredrick frowned, puzzled by her wary reaction. Was she attempting to warn him that she could not return his feelings? Or was she protecting her own heart? Did she fear that he would prove to be as fickle and unreliable as her fiancé?

A glance at her stubborn expression was enough to assure him that whatever her reason for retreat, he was not about to discover the truth. At least not in this moment.

“I will agree to postpone our discussion, poppet,” he grudgingly conceded. “But do not believe for a moment that it is at an end.”

Her eyes narrowed but she was wise enough not to argue. Instead she smoothly turned the conversation in the one direction certain to distract him.

“What will you do with the information you have discovered?”

Fredrick absently ran his fingers down the bare skin of her arm, taking comfort in the warm feel of her snuggled so close.

“I am not entirely certain.”

“Do you wish to be acknowledged as your father’s legitimate son?”

He gave a short, strained laugh. “That is the question, is it not?”

She tilted back her head to regard him with undisguised confusion. “I should think that you would be anxious to claim your rightful place.”

Fredrick did not blame Portia for her confusion. What gentleman with the smallest measure of sense would not be anxious to shed the ugly embarrassment of being a bastard to become a respected nobleman?

He, however, had long ago discovered that nothing came without a sacrifice. Especially something that would so drastically alter his life. He would make no decisions until he was convinced that he was ready to make that sacrifice.

“Certainly, it is tempting to demand my birthright,” he slowly admitted. “After all, my mother deserves to have her reputation restored, even if I am the only one to appreciate the gesture. She . . .” He was startled to discover his voice becoming thick with emotion. “I believe she would have wanted that.”

The beautiful blue eyes darkened with a shared understanding. “I think she would have as well.”

His arms tightened. “And there is no doubt that becoming a legitimate nobleman as opposed to a bastard would open doors that have long been closed to me.”

“They would be more than opened,” she retorted with a dry smile. “A handsome, intelligent gentleman who also happens to be fabulously wealthy? Lud, society would trip over themselves in a rush to welcome you. Especially those matrons with debutantes they hope to wed this Season.”

Fredrick did not bother to deny her charge. It was not that he considered himself such a fine catch. Quite the opposite. But there was no denying that the wealth he had managed to accumulate over the years would impress even the highest sticklers. Soon enough any memory that he had once been branded a bastard would be conveniently forgotten.

“There is also something very enticing at the thought of knowing Oak Manor could someday be mine,” he continued, his lips twisting at the peculiar warmth that entered his heart at the thought of the rambling old manor house. “Rather strange considering I have spent my entire life in London and have no practical experience with the responsibilities that come with farming and tenants and cows.”

“You do realize that there are more livestock upon the estate than just cows, do you not?” she teased.

“Ah, that would explain the eggs.”

“Yes.” The brief amusement drained away as she regarded him with a searching gaze. “Fredrick?” Her hand lifted to press against his chest, as if something upon his countenance troubled her. “Tell me what is upon your mind.”

Damnation. She was as annoyingly perceptive as Ian and Raoul, he ruefully acknowledged.

“I have a townhouse, but it has never truly been more than a place to sleep when I am in London. It certainly has never offered a sense of... home.”

“Oak Manor has been in your family for some time?”

“For centuries, I believe, although I know little of the actual history beyond the fact that a distant Graystone did a favor for one king or another.” He gave a small shake of his head. “I suppose it never seemed necessary for my father to reveal the history of his ancestors to his bastard son, and, to be honest, I never questioned him. I always assumed that they were a scurrilous lot who were best left shrouded in mystery.”

“We all possess one or two scurrilous ancestors,” she muttered, her expression revealing that her thoughts had turned to her father. Hardly surprising. It would be difficult to discover a more scurrilous relative. “They are all part of having a family.”

A home.

A family.

The breath was jerked from his lungs. To his mind, Dunnington would always be the father he had never had, and Ian and Raoul his brothers. But what would it be to know he could trace his blood back through the centuries? To possess an absolute sense of belonging at Oak Manor? To be assured that his own son would follow in his footsteps, and his son’s son . . .

“Yes, I suppose they would be,” he muttered absently, his thoughts consumed with the lingering image of Oak Manor slumbering beneath the spring sunlight.

Able to sense the longing he had never allowed himself to acknowledge, Portia lifted herself to a seated position, careful to keep the blanket tucked around her as she glanced down at him with a faint frown.

“So why do you hesitate, Fredrick?”

He grimaced as the cold air struck his naked skin, and with a sigh he slid from the bed and wrapped a robe about his chilled body.

“Because the decision I make will affect more than just my own life.”

“You speak of your brother?”

“I have never truly thought of Simon as my brother, but yes . . .” With a shrug he moved to pour himself a shot of brandy. Speaking of Simon nearly always called for a large amount of spirits. “If I claim my place as the eldest son, then he will have his own inheritance stolen from him. It hardly seems an honorable path to choose.”

“It was never his inheritance, Fredrick. It has always been yours,” she countered, shocking him with her vehemence. “And if your brother is anything like those buffoons who came to the inn, Oak Manor will be in far better hands if you are to become the next Lord Graystone.”

Fredrick slowly smiled, his heart filled with love. “You know, poppet, if I do accept my position as heir . . .” A sharp knock interrupted his words, and with a glance toward the suddenly pale Portia he moved to stand next to the door. “Yes?”

“There is a gent here to see you, Mr. Smith,” Molly called through the heavy wood. “A Lord Graystone.”

Fredrick’s teeth snapped together. Damnation. What the blazes was his father doing here?

Did he think to pressure Fredrick into accepting his place as his legitimate heir? Or worse, had he reconsidered and come to plead for Fredrick to remain the bastard he had named him?

Just for a moment, he considered the notion of refusing to see the elder nobleman.

This entire mess was Lord Graystone’s fault, by God. And now that Fredrick was forced to confront the crossroads that lay before him, he was not about to be bullied or cajoled.

Then, grudgingly, common sense came to his rescue.

It was only natural that his father would be anxious to know what decision Fredrick intended to make. It did, after all, affect him deeply.

“Tell him I shall join him in a few moments,” he commanded.

“Aye, sir.”

Listening to the maid’s footsteps echo down the corridor, Fredrick at last turned to meet Portia’s worried gaze.

“One of these days, poppet, I intend to sweep you off to a place where no one will dare to interrupt us.”

With a faint smile she shoved aside the blankets, and, catching Fredrick off-guard, she rose from the bed and strolled across the floor, completely and gloriously naked.

“One of these days I might just agree to go with you.”

It took Fredrick less than a quarter of an hour to attire himself in casual buff breeches, a blue jacket, and a loosely tied cravat that was more comfortable than fashionable.

A glance in the mirror revealed a golden stubble on his chin and shadows beneath his eyes, but with a shrug he left his chambers and forced his feet to carry him down the narrow staircase. What did he care if he appeared like he had slept in the hedgerow?

The only opinion he truly cared about was Portia’s, and she had already seen him at his worst.

At the thought of Portia a bittersweet ache clutched at his stomach. Christ, he was a fool not to still be in bed, holding her slender form in his arms. It was only the suspicion that she would continue to evade his discussion of their future together until his own future was settled that had made him reluctantly loosen his hold upon her so that she could flee to her chambers.