Bedding The Baron (24 page)

Neither man noticed the pasty-faced Simon as he tottered forward and then, without warning, charged wildly at Fredrick’s exposed back.

“Nooooo . . .”

By the time Portia returned to her chambers to replace her damp clothing with a dry gown of dark grey wool, the rain had given way to a sullen fog. Still, as she headed down to the main floor, she discovered that despite the inhospitable weather, many of the guests were eager to be upon their way before the threatening rain returned.

For once, however, Portia did not rush to take command of the guests who were gathered near the foyer. Instead she paused long enough to watch Molly efficiently settling their accounts before she slipped from the inn and into the damp kitchen garden.

She had trained the maids, as well as Mrs. Cornell, on the necessary details in dealing with arriving and departing guests the previous year. The staff took shifts to ensure that there was always someone about to assist the guests if Portia was busy or asleep.

It was not until today, however, that she had willingly given over her duties during the bustling morning hours, and astonishingly, it felt . . . liberating to know that she could depend upon another.

An odd reaction, considering she had always assumed she would be terrified at the mere notion of sharing her control of the inn with anyone.

A tribute to Fredrick Smith, she acknowledged as she paced the damp garden. If he had not arrived at this tiny inn, she would still be clinging to her comfortable routines and refusing to acknowledge that there might be something missing from her life.

Now...

She gave a near hysterical laugh. Now everything was different. Everything from the manner in which she awoke in the morning, eager to face the day, to the vivid dreams that kept her warm during the long nights.

She felt alive, as if she had been slumbering for years and had been suddenly revived.

And he claimed to love her.

Violent, astonishing shivers of excitement raced through her body, nearly bringing her to her knees. Edward had once said those words. He had showered her in compliments and promised a life filled with everlasting happiness. But even as a giddy, naïve child, she had not felt those shivers.

In truth, there was nothing about her tepid feelings for her previous fiancé that could compare to those for Fredrick.

Still, the years had taught her a measure of caution. Love, even the everlasting sort of love, was not without its share of peril. There was far less danger in simply ignoring her emotions and remaining tidily settled in her safe and secure routine.

A sharp bark from Puck warned Portia that she was no longer alone, and, turning toward the nearby gate, she watched as Quinn crossed the muddy path to stand at her side.

“Tolly told me that I could find ye here.” He tilted his head to the side. “What is troubling you, luv?”

She smiled wryly. Quinn knew her far too well at times. “Why do you think something is troubling me?”

“There were half a dozen guests ready to depart and ye have allowed Molly to see to them all.”

“Did she need my assistance?”

“Nay, she has dealt with them just as ye taught her, but it is not like ye to leave yer business to others. So . . .” He lowered his shaggy brows in a warning gesture. “What is troubling ye?”

“Perhaps I have decided that it is time to give others more responsibilities,” Portia replied with a shrug. “You have chided me often enough that I should hand over my duties to the staff.”

Quinn gave a snort of disbelief. “And I might as well have been talking to me own foot for all the good it has ever done me. So why this morning?”

Wrapping her arms about her waist, Portia turned to regard the weathered but sturdy building that had been the center of her world for so long.

“Do you know, Quinn, after I married Thomas, I never considered a life beyond this place,” she said softly. “It seemed quite enough to have found a sanctuary where I would feel safe.”

She sensed as Quinn stepped behind her. “Feeling safe can be a fine thing, especially for a lass who has known little of it.”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath, for the first time in years considering the possibility of a different path. “So long as I felt I could rule over my small domain then nothing else mattered.”

“Until Mr. Fredrick Smith arrived at the inn?”

“Precisely.” An unwitting smile touched her lips. It was a tender, whimsical smile that thoughts of Fredrick Smith always managed to produce. “He has made me remember that I am still a young woman who once had dreams far beyond Wessex and the Queen’s Arms.”

“Thank the good Lord,” Quinn muttered, his hand reaching up to grasp her shoulder in a comforting grasp. “Ye have buried yerself here long enough. It is time that ye remember ye are a gentleman’s daughter and yer place is among society, not drudging like a common servant.”

She laughed at his fierce words. “You well know that I do not drudge, Quinn,” she chided, heaving a deep sigh as she turned to meet his hopeful gaze. “And I have yet to decide if I wish to return to society.”

“Ye needn’t fear they won’t accept ye, luv. Yer birth demands yer place among the upper orders.”

Her expression hardened with remembered betrayal. “You cannot have forgotten how easily they turned their backs upon me, Quinn? It was only Thomas who cared enough to rescue me from utter destitution.”

Quinn gave a click of his tongue. “Ye are not the same innocent maid as ye were then, luv.”

Portia slowly nodded her head. “That is true enough.”

“Ye have grown into a lady who need never again fear others and their opinions,” Quinn continued to press. “Ye are more than strong enough to take on society and bend it to yer will.”

“A fine notion,” Portia said with a rueful chuckle.

“You know it is true, luv.”

She shivered again, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “At the moment all I know for certain is that I suddenly feel restless and not at all myself. It is a disturbing sensation that I blame entirely upon Mr. Smith.”

Quinn frowned as he glanced about the empty garden. “Where is the boy? I have not clapped eyes upon him the entire morning.”

Portia’s heart gave a sharp squeeze. Damn Lord Graystone and his black heart. As far as she was concerned, he should be rotting in hell, not standing in her inn causing his son even more pain and grief.

“His father arrived a short time ago wanting to speak with him,” she said, her clipped voice revealing her displeasure. “I presume that they are closeted in one of the parlors.”

“Ah.” Quinn scratched the stubble on his chin. “I thought I recognized the gent who came charging into the stable yard as if the devil were upon his heels. He seemed quite disturbed.”

“As well he should,” Portia retorted, her entire body rigid with disgust. “He destroyed Fredrick’s life and now seeks to gain his favor.”

Quinn gave a startled cough, his gaze straying toward the stables where Lord Graystone’s magnificent stallion was enjoying his morning oats.

“Did he now? Odd. I always thought Lord Graystone to be a decent sort of chap.”

Portia rolled her eyes at Quinn’s astonishment. The groom too often judged others by the care that they gave to their horses.

“It just proves that appearances are too often deceitful,” she muttered.

“Lordy, lass, you are too young and beautiful to be so cynical. I remember the days . . .” Quinn’s words broke off as the sound of breaking furniture echoed from the inn. “What the devil?”

Portia did not pause to wonder what could be causing such a disturbance. Her only thought was discovering the trouble and bringing it to a swift end.

“Go fetch Spenser,” she commanded as she hiked her skirts and dashed toward the nearby door.

“Aye, and me shotgun,” Quinn muttered as he turned toward the gate.

“No.”

“Just for protection.”

“No. No guns,” she warned, knowing that Quinn was quite capable of shooting anyone he thought a threat. “Lord have mercy,” she muttered as she continued through the door and into the kitchen.

Not surprisingly, Mrs. Cornell was stationed in the center of the room, her grim expression ensuring that her staff did not so much as hesitate in their duties despite the shouts and curses that filled the air. The forbidding woman would stand as guardian while the inn burned down around her.

At last reaching the foyer, Portia skidded to a halt as she watched Fredrick pull back his arm and with one efficient swing knock the short, rather plump gentleman onto the flagstones.

With a low groan the unknown man rolled onto his side and rubbed his battered chin, whimpering curses and ridiculous threats beneath his breath as Lord Graystone moved to kneel beside him.

With a frown of concern, Portia placed her hand on Fredrick’s stiff arm.

“What has happened?” she demanded softly.

With a wry smile, Fredrick covered her hand with his slender fingers.

“I fear that I have once again been involved in an ugly brawl at your fine establishment, poppet.”

Her gaze briefly flicked over the crumbled gentleman before returning to Fredrick’s beautiful countenance. There was a flush on his cheekbones and a hectic glitter in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat.

This was more than just another skirmish.

“Yes, well . . . you do seem to make a habit of it,” she said carefully. “Who is he?”

“My brother, Simon.”

“Oh.” She thinned her lips, just barely squashing the childish urge to give the pudgy backside a firm kick. “What is he doing here?”

Fredrick shrugged. “I believe he came to remind me that Lord Graystone owes nothing to a mere bastard. Imagine his surprise when he discovered that he is no longer the heir apparent.”

She sucked in a startled breath at his bland confession that he intended to take his rightful place. She had not been certain what he intended to do with his future. And in truth it did not matter to her.

The love that she felt for this man had nothing to do with his position in the world, or any estate he might or might not inherit.

She loved him because he was quite simply the finest man ever born.

A rather wonderful reason to love someone, she acknowledged as a warm glow flowed through her veins.

“I see.” A frown touched her brows as her gaze caught sight of his bloody knuckles. “Are you harmed?”

His hand lifted to trace over her cheek, the grey eyes darkening with a familiar heat.

“Nothing that a kiss will not cure,” he murmured, his husky voice bringing a blush to her cheeks.

“Fredrick, people are watching us,” she chided, vividly aware of Lord Graystone’s curious gaze.

Indifferent to his father and even his brother, who had rolled onto his back to glare at the two of them with a feral hatred, Fredrick wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“You do know that once you are my wife I will no longer give a damn who might watch me kissing you?” he warned.

Her heart skipped several beats before rushing into a frantic pace.

Wife.

Good heavens, she had never thought to wed again. Certainly not to a nobleman who was destined to thrust her back into the society she had once fled. But just meeting that steady silver gaze was enough to melt away any doubts that might have lingered.

Of course, she had no intention of making matters too easy. She rather enjoyed the thought of being seduced into wedded bliss. So long as it were Fredrick doing the seducing.

“I have not yet agreed to wed you, you know,” she teased with a small smile.

“Not yet, but you will.” His fingers shifted to outline her lips. “I may not be the most intelligent or most skilled gentleman, but I am by far the most patient. There is not a goal that I have desired that I did not eventually conquer with enough hard work and patience.”

She lifted her brows at his deliberately arrogant tone. “I am now a goal to be conquered?”

His expression softened with a love that Portia could feel to her very soul.

“One that I desire above all others, poppet,” he husked. “Whatever my future might hold, the only thing that truly matters is whether or not you are standing at my side.”

“But your future does hold Oak Manor in it as well, does it not?” Lord Graystone demanded anxiously, still kneeling beside his youngest son.

Fredrick gave a slow nod. “In the distant future. The very distant future, I hope.” Turning back to Portia, Fredrick missed the profound relief that eased the older gentleman’s lean countenance. Instead, he gently cupped Portia’s face in his hands. “Does that trouble you, my love?”

“Not nearly so much as I thought it would,” she admitted with a smile. “You know, Fredrick, I have loved this inn and the independence that it has offered me, but in some ways it has too easily allowed me to hide from the world.”

“You were a mere child when you were betrayed by everyone you depended upon, Portia. No one would blame you for wishing to find a safe haven to heal your wounds.”

She heaved a faint sigh. “My wounds healed some time ago, it was my fear that kept me here.”

“Actually, I prefer to think of it as fate,” he breathed, his head lowering to brush a light kiss over her lips. “Just as the rainstorm was fate. We were destined to meet, poppet.”

She shuddered as a swift, potent desire clutched at her body. Mercy, just having Fredrick near was enough to make her tremble with need.

“Do you truly believe that?”

“With all my heart.” He folded her tightly in his arms, his lips moving against her temple. “Say you will marry me.”

Breathing deeply of his delicious scent, Portia lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck.

“Have you not had enough excitement for one day, Fredrick Smith?”

With a low chuckle he abruptly scooped her off her feet and brazenly headed for the nearby stairs, utterly indifferent to the gathering crowd that watched them with wide eyes.

“Actually, Portia Walker, I predict that the excitement is just about to begin . . .”

The wedding took place two weeks later in the formal drawing room of Oak Manor.

It was a simple ceremony with only a handful of guests, but any of those fortunate enough to receive an invitation could not help but be moved by the unmistakable love that shimmered between the bride and groom.

Even the cynical Ian Breckford could not deny a secret pang of envy as he watched Fredrick bend his head to place a tender kiss upon Portia’s willing lips.

It was not the typical jealousy at seeing a beautiful woman in the arms of another man. That was familiar enough. He was an undoubted connoisseur of the fairer sex, and Portia Walker was a fine specimen. Instead, it was a disturbing ache that had more to do with the unfettered joy that glowed upon Fredrick’s countenance.

Bloody hell. It was enough to make the most jaded of men believe in love.

Giving a small snort of disgust at his maudlin thoughts, Ian swiftly made his way to the wide balcony and lit a slender cheroot.

A bit of fresh air and some fine tobacco, and he would be back to his usual sardonic self.

Leaning against the balustrade, Ian listened to the approaching footsteps, not at all surprised that Raoul had followed him from the house. The elegant gentleman had been hovering about him like a mother hen since he had arrived in Wessex the previous evening.

Not that Ian disliked Raoul’s fussing nearly as much as he pretended to. There was something comforting in Fredrick’s gentle teasing and Raoul’s incessant chiding.

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.”