Bedding The Baron (15 page)

Laying her slender form onto the mattress, Fredrick moved to swiftly wash himself, then dampening a cloth he returned to the bed and stretched out beside her. With gentle strokes he began to clean her smooth ivory skin.

As she remained still beneath his ministrations, Fredrick lifted his gaze. A tiny shock raced through him at the sight of her pale features in the candlelight, her expression soft and sated, her eyes darkened and her curls tumbled across the pillow like a veil of ebony satin.

There was very little of the commanding general about her now. Instead she was all tempting female.

His body responded with a randy eagerness and swallowing a groan, Fredrick gently pulled her into his arms and eased her head onto his chest.

“You are being very quiet, poppet,” he murmured, his fingers absently running a path through her satin curls.

“I am not quite certain what to say,” she replied, her own fingers skating over his chest.

“Well, you could say that I am the most talented lover you have ever encountered.” He kissed her forehead. “And that you are utterly, completely, wholly enthralled.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And that you will adore and worship—”

“Worship?” she interrupted, giving his arm a small pinch. “Not bloody likely.”

He gave a chiding click of his tongue. “Such language, poppet. I am shocked.”

“I do not know why you should be. As the owner of an inn I am accustomed to hearing the sort of language that would make a sailor blush.”

Fredrick frowned at her light tone. Dammit, this woman should be draped in lace and jewels and surrounded by the most delicate of society. The men in her life had failed her miserably.

“Does it trouble you?”

“To hear foul language?”

“No, to be isolated at this inn when you should be gracing the drawing rooms of London.”

He felt her body stiffen beneath his hands, her head deliberately lowered to hide her expression.

“I have never possessed the desire to grace any drawing room.”

He slipped a finger beneath her chin and tugged her countenance up so he could examine her guarded expression.

“That cannot be entirely true, Portia. Every young girl dreams of her debut among society, surely you were no different?”

She was silent a long moment, as if debating whether to ignore his intimate prying.

“Perhaps when I was very young and very foolish,” she at last admitted with a faint sigh.

“Why was it foolish?”

“Because my father was never going to spend the money to offer me a proper season.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “More often than not I was forced to sew my own gowns if I desired to attend the local assemblies.”

Fredrick could not halt a low grunt of disgust. He already knew that Portia’s father was a jackass. Now it appeared that he was a lobcock as well.

“Damnation, was the man entirely daft?”

She met his glittering gaze with a hint of surprise. “He was often weak-willed and self-absorbed, but I am not certain he was actually daft.”

“He must have been daft or he would have devoted himself to making sure that you were placed on the Marriage Mart.” Fredrick allowed his finger to skim over the warm silk of her cheek. “My God, with your beauty you would have landed a husband that would have willingly supported your father for years to come.”

“My father believed that my prickly nature would frighten away most suitors,” she explained. “Especially those suitors who were in a position to choose a more amenable debutante.” Fredrick grimaced at the thought of Portia’s tender years in the care of the heartless bastard. Hell, it was a wonder the poor woman had not been crushed and dispirited beyond repair. Her own expression was one of resignation. “You cannot imagine his surprise when Edward actually proposed to me.”

Fredrick’s heart gave a small jerk as he realized that she had revealed far more than she had intended.

“Edward?” He kept his tone deliberately nonchalant, not yet willing to reveal he had already heard of her treacherous fiancé who had left her at the altar. “I thought your husband’s name was Thomas?”

He could hear her sharp breath. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

“Portia?” He shifted to lean on his elbow, studying her pale features. “Who was Edward?”

Her eyes darkened, a combination of anger and resentment and more disturbing, a lingering pain, smoldering in the cobalt depths.

“He was . . .” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “He was a mistake.”

“You were engaged to him?”

“For a brief time.”

“Why did you not wed?”

Her eyes narrowed, clearly unhappy at his probing. “Edward decided he preferred the life of a bachelor rather than becoming a husband. To the best of my knowledge he continues to enjoy his unfettered existence in London.”

“Did you love him?”

Her lashes lowered to hide her reaction to his blunt question. “It was all a very long time ago.”

“Did you love him, poppet?”

Without warning she lifted her hands to press them against his chest, her expression warning that she had reached the end of her patience.

“I will not discuss my past, Fredrick. It no longer matters.”

Fredrick smiled wryly. “If it no longer mattered then you would not allow the memory of your ex-fiancé to haunt you.”

“Fredrick . . .” She gave another shove on his chest, arching backward as he firmly wrapped his arms around her to prevent her escape.

“Lay still, poppet, you can keep your secrets,” he murmured, tracing his lips over her troubled brow. “At least for now.”

“How very generous of you.” Her eyes narrowed, although she halted her struggles. “I suppose I should return the favor and assure you that you shall be allowed to keep your secrets as well, Mr. Smith. At least for now.”

Fredrick elevated a honey brow. “My secrets?”

A challenging smile touched her lips. “There is more to your journey to Wessex than just business, is there not?”

Portia watched the perfect, finely chiseled features for his reaction to her accusation. If Fredrick desired to poke and prod into matters that were none of his business, then why should she not return the favor?

Being the owner of an inn had taught her to keep a careful watch upon her guests. It was the only means of knowing which customers might be overly demanding upon her staff, which might create trouble with the other guests, and even which might attempt to slip out without paying their bill.

She had sensed from the beginning that there was more to Fredrick Smith’s arrival at the Queen’s Arms than mere business.

If she hoped to catch him off guard, however, she was doomed to disappointment. Instead of alarm, his expression was merely one of curiosity.

“Why do you believe there is more to my journey?” he demanded.

She met his gaze squarely. In some ways this man was as skilled as herself at keeping others at a distance when he desired. The only difference was that he was clever enough to use that heart-rending charm as a shield.

“There is a . . . distraction about you. Almost as if you are searching for something.”

His lips twitched, his eyes darkening with that ready passion. “That is hardly a secret, poppet,” he husked, his fingers creating chaos as they skimmed down her stomach. “I can promise you that I have never been quite so distracted in my entire life. Although I believe that my search is about over . . .”

“Fredrick,” Portia squeaked as his fingers brushed through her lower curls to the opening between her legs. “I am trying to have a conversation with you.”

He merely laughed as he tugged her legs wider, giving him even great access to her tender flesh.

“I am listening, poppet.” He gave her earlobe a nip before outlining the shell with his tongue. “What do you wish to say to me?”

The hands that had been pushing him away now rubbed over the satin heat of his chest.

“Are you attempting to divert me?” she demanded, not nearly as annoyed by his devious tactics as she should be.

His lips nuzzled the corner of her mouth. “I should think it was rather obvious what I am attempting to do, but if you would like a detailed explanation I would be happy to clarify as I go along.”

Her breath became lodged in her throat as his clever fingers stroked through her gathering dampness. Oh . . . mercy. The aggravating man was clearly attempting to avoid her questions. It was a blatant manipulation of her passions.

At the moment, however, she found that she did not particularly care why he was arousing her to a fever-pitch. Only that he not halt the sensual assault.

“Actually, I do not believe there is any need for explanations,” she murmured.

“Are you certain? I have a few deliciously wicked details that I could . . .”

“Fredrick, would you please just kiss me?” she demanded as her body shuddered in need.

Surprise, swiftly followed by stark desire, rippled over the golden countenance at her unexpected daring. Then, with a low groan he was kissing her with a fierce urgency.

“Is that what you want?” he whispered against her lips.

“Oh, yes.” Portia shivered as his hands were skimming up the curve of her waist and cupping the fullness of her breasts. “That is precisely what I want.”

She gave a small gasp that was swallowed by his devouring lips. His thumbs lightly encircled her nipples, teasing them into tight buds.

Sweet heavens. How had she never known that this wondrous bliss existed? How had she survived so long without the touch of this man?

Her eyes fluttered closed as he branded her face with restless kisses.

“I have never wanted a woman as I want you,” he rasped as he pressed his hard arousal against her hip. “You are more than a distraction. You are rapidly becoming an obsession.”

Her hands clutched at his arms as he gently nibbled his way down the curve of her neck. He paused at the pulse that beat wildly at the hollow of her throat, his tongue reaching out to taste of her skin.

Portia moaned at the heady sensations that poured through her body. She wanted to close her eyes and drown in the pleasure that his touch created, but just as insistent was the need to return his heated caresses. She wanted to hear his soft moans echoing her own.

Trailing her hand down his chest, she lingered on the carved muscles of his stomach, a faint smile touching her lips as Fredrick sucked in a sharp breath.

Portia skimmed her hand ever lower, at last encountering the strong thrust of his erection. Encircling him with her fingers, Portia gently stroked over the silky skin that covered the hard length.

A low growl rumbled in Fredrick’s throat as his hands swept down her heated skin and he grasped her hips. Then, without warning, he was turning her over so that she faced the mattress.

Startled by his strange behavior, she turned her head to regard him over her shoulder. “Fredrick?”

“Do not fret, poppet,” he murmured as he shifted to press himself to her back. He gave her shoulder a small nip. “There is still an endless variety of pleasure to be discovered.”

“But, you cannot . . . oh.”

Her words came to a shocked halt as his fingers once again slid down the gentle swell of her stomach and then through her dark curls.

“Do I please you, my love?” He buried his face in the curve of her neck while his finger began to stroke with a slow insistence. “I need to hear the words from your sweet lips.”

Her eyes slid shut as his finger dipped into her damp heat. “Yes, you please me,” she sighed, a delicious pressure beginning to build within her. “Oh . . . yes. Yes.”

She felt his hard shaft pressing against the back of her thigh, his thrusts mirroring the stroke of his finger. Portia’s fingers dug into the pillows as her breath came in short, shallow pants. A part of her desperately longed to feel the hard length of him buried deep between her legs. To be so intimately connected to him would surely be paradise.

But even as she opened her lips to beg him to enter her, she was giving a startled moan. That sharp pleasure was racing out of control and before she could slow the building pressure a sharp explosion of bliss quaked through her body, stealing her breath and clearing her mind of everything but the delight of Fredrick’s touch.

It was no surprise that Fredrick awoke with a sense of utter contentment. Spending the night making love to a beautiful woman tended to improve the mood of the most surly gentleman.

Of course, he would have been a good deal more content if he had awoken with his arms still clutching her warm body close, he acknowledged as he forced himself to climb from the bed that still held her sweet scent and attired himself in a dove grey jacket and black breeches.

Obviously he would have to find some means of whisking the lovely Mrs. Portia Walker away from the Queen’s Arms, he abruptly decided.

Not only because he desired to spend a few days in her company without being forced to sneak about like a pair of naughty schoolchildren, but he was beginning to suspect Portia would never reveal her deepest self so long as she was constantly fretting over the local gossip of her servants and guests.

And he wanted to know all those secrets she kept hidden. Her every hope and dream and fear. All the bad and all the good.

He wanted to know her heart and soul.

A delightful notion. Unfortunately, he was wise enough to realize that dragging Portia from her beloved inn, even for a few days, would be akin to dragging a badger from its lair. And there was still the small matter of his father’s dark secret that needed to be uncovered.

A small smile touched his lips as he headed down the stairs and entered the public rooms. Whatever the difficulties in luring Portia into a clandestine journey, he would overcome them.

Overcoming difficulties, after all, was what he did best.

Taking a seat at a table near the door, Fredrick paid little heed to the three elegantly attired gentlemen who were gathered at the back of the room. A mere glance was enough to reveal that they were the usual pampered louts who possessed too much money and too much time. The sort who always had to be loud and flamboyant enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room.

Ridiculous twits.

Instead he trained his attention on the plump maid who scurried to his table with a welcome cup of tea.

“Good morning, Molly,” he murmured, the smile that had been curving his lips when he awoke this morning still clinging to his lips.

The woman gave a low, knowing chuckle as she caught sight of his expression. Despite her youth she possessed the sort of experience to recognize a well-satisfied gentleman.

“Aye, a very good morning, sir. At least for some of us. Will you be having yer usual breakfast?”

Fredrick’s stomach rumbled at the scent of baked ham that filled the air. “Yes, I believe I will. Is Mrs. Walker down yet?”

Expecting another one of those wicked chuckles, Fredrick found himself intrigued when instead the maid appeared almost flustered by his question.

“Oh aye. She was up at the crack of dawn.” Molly managed a thin smile. “She is never one to lie abed. Always busy doing something.”

“Is she in the kitchen?”

“I . . . I believe she is in the garden. Or perhaps it’s the stables.”

Fredrick resisted the fierce desire to grab the maid and shake her until she confessed the truth of Portia’s whereabouts. It was not the hapless servant’s fault that her employer was one of the most secretive, irksome, exasperating women ever to plague a man.

“If you happen to see her, will you tell her I would like to have a word with her?” His pleasant words came out between gritted teeth.

“Aye.” With a hasty dip the maid was charging back toward the kitchen and Fredrick was left alone to ponder the one woman in the world who could alter his joyous mood to one of brooding annoyance in a matter of seconds.

Where the devil had she gone at such an hour? And why was her staff so furtive about her disappearance?

A dozen different reasons, each more implausible than the last fluttered through his mind as he consumed the large breakfast that Molly delivered to his table.

Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice the gaggle of dandies who strolled from the back of the room to halt at his table. It was not until the tallest of the frivolous idiots deliberately jostled Fredrick’s elbow that he bothered to glance up.

“Well, well,” the gentleman with a weak chin and thinning brown hair sneered. “If it isn’t Graystone’s bastard. I heard the nasty rumors that you were skulking through our neighborhood.”

Fredrick leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. He was far too accustomed to the various snubs and insults he endured to react. If he allowed himself to be baited by every idiot who crossed his path he would never do anything but indulge in battles.

“Hardly skulking,” he drawled. “Have we been introduced?”

“Introduced?” The man glared down the length of his too-thin nose. “Not bloody likely. I do not associate with by-blows. Not even my own.”

“Charming. Is there some purpose for interrupting my breakfast?”

“I want you to leave here.”

Fredrick smiled. “And I want to build a machine that will allow me to fly, but I doubt that either of us will get what we desire. At least not today.”

The man appeared briefly caught off-guard by Fredrick’s casual indifference to his rude attack. With a glance toward his two portly friends for support, he stiffened his cowardly spine.

“Your presence is an insult to Simon.”

Ah. So that was the reason for this nasty little encounter, Fredrick acknowledged. Clearly the three buffoons were friends of his brother and having heard of his presence in the neighborhood had come to play the petty game of badger-the-bastard.

With an inward sigh, Fredrick rose to his feet. The intruders would not be satisfied with a few passing taunts. He wanted to be prepared in the event that the encounter came to blows.

“An insult to Simon?” He gave a genuinely amused laugh. “Now that is rare. From all I have heard, Simon manages to be an insult just by walking into a room.”

The dandy sucked in a sharp breath, his hand instinctively smoothing over his gaudy velvet coat with oversized buttons that appeared absurd among the common guests.

“How dare you?”

“Very easily.” Fredrick shrugged. “My beloved brother is nothing more than an insufferable coxcomb who is laughed at by the entire neighborhood. Would you like to know how they describe him and his friends?”

A hint of color touched the thin countenance. “Only a bastard would presume that a true gentleman gives a fig for the opinion of turnip-headed farmers.”

“No doubt he is satisfied with the opinion of his fellow coxcombs. Hardly surprising considering the lot of you possess the same appalling habit of attiring yourself like molting peacocks.”

The man’s countenance darkened to the same shade of cranberry as his velvet jacket. “Why, you worthless bastard . . .”

His arm pulled back, as if he were contemplating the perilous notion of taking a swing at Fredrick. At the same moment there was a stern, decidedly feminine voice slicing through the air.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

As one the gentlemen turned to regard the woman who stood like a diminutive general surveying her disorderly troops.

“Well, well.” The velvet-coated jackass smiled in a far too familiar manner as he took in the stunning beauty of Mrs. Portia Walker. “There is without a doubt any number of things you can do for me, my sweet. But for the moment I will settle for having this . . . piece of filth thrown into the nearest gutter.”

The magnificent blue eyes snapped with disapproval as Portia folded her arms and glared at the gentleman.

“Mr. Smith happens to be a guest in this inn and if anyone is to leave it will be you and your friends.”

The man gave a small jerk at the obvious rebuff. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do not, and in truth, I am not particularly interested.”

Fredrick would have been amused by Portia’s ready defense if he had not been acutely aware of the attention they were attracting. The last thing he desired was to have her business disturbed by an ugly brawl.

“We shall see about that,” the man growled as he stepped toward Portia.

With a swift motion, Fredrick had placed himself in front of the seething gentleman, his expression cold with warning.

“Portia, there is no need to trouble yourself,” he drawled. “I am certain that this can be resolved without creating a fuss.” His gaze narrowed as he studied the three intruders. “Perhaps we should step outside to finish our conversation?”

Typically, Portia was not satisfied to leave matters in his hands. She was a woman who very much preferred to be in command of every situation.

Grasping his sleeve she tugged at his jacket until he reluctantly turned to meet her glittering gaze.

“This is my inn, Mr. Smith. I will decide whether or not to trouble myself.”

He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I am accustomed to dealing with such arrogant pests, poppet. The more attention that the idiots draw to themselves, the more satisfied they will be. It is far better that I escort them from your establishment and sort this out in private.”

“No, Fredrick,” she hissed. “There are three of them. You will be hurt.”

“Good God, has no one taught you not to question a man’s fighting prowess?” he demanded with a low laugh. “You might as well question my very manhood.”

She pulled back to stab him with an annoyed frown. “This is not the time for jests, Fredrick.”

There was a rude sound from behind him as the dandy gave his shoulder a slight shove.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a bastard is hiding behind the skirts of his trollop . . .”

The word “trollop” was still hanging on his lips when Fredrick spun about and connected his fist with the man’s weak chin.

There was a low grunt and then the peacock tumbled backward to land on the flagstone floor with a pleasing thud. Fredrick peered down at the fool, a violent flare of satisfaction racing through him.

He would endure any number of insults with a smile on his face if it would avoid unpleasantness in the middle of the public rooms. But he would be damned if he would endure one insult directed toward Portia.

With a rather childish spite, Fredrick prodded the unconscious lump with the tip of his boot, fully appreciating the sight of his handiwork. His moment of distraction, however, nearly proved to be disastrous as the injured man’s friends managed to gather enough courage to rush him.

More concerned with making sure that Portia was kept safely out of the fray than the bumbling attack of the pathetic fribbles, Fredrick was preparing to shove the two backward when a dark, well-built gentleman stepped through the doorway and grasped the two charging men by the scruffs of their collars.

“Bloody hell,” Ian Breckford drawled. “I never expected to find such good sport when I came in search of you, Freddie boy.”

Perfectly stunned by the unexpected arrival of his friend, Fredrick could do no more than gape at him in shock.

“Ian? What the blazes are you doing here?”

Oblivious to his astonishment, Portia grasped his hand and lightly touched his knuckles that were scraped and bleeding.

“Fredrick, you have been hurt,” she exclaimed.

“It is nothing,” he muttered absently.

Ian lifted his brows, the eyes the exact shade of antique gold shimmering with a dangerous fire.

“You allowed these slow-tops to hurt you?”

Recognizing that expression, Fredrick stepped forward. “Ian . . . no,” he commanded, but too late.

With one smooth motion Ian had managed to jerk his two captives toward one another, cracking their heads with a sickening thud. The sharp blow managed to knock both of them unconscious and with a pleased smile Ian dropped them onto the floor and calmly dusted his hands together.

There was a loud round of applause for Ian’s theatrics, but Fredrick was far from pleased. Stepping forward, he grasped his friend by the arm and dragged him out of the room.

“Damn you, Ian.”

“Fredrick, have you lost what few wits you once possessed?” Ian protested as Fredrick tugged him ruthlessly down the corridor.

“Very likely,” Fredrick readily agreed.

“Bloody hell, do you know how many hours I spent at the gaming tables to pay for this jacket you are determined to ruin?”

“We both know that you now have an ample amount of money to pay for any number of jackets.”

Ian made a rude noise. “That is not the point.”

Reaching a private salon, Fredrick pulled Ian into the empty room and closed the door. He ignored the recently refurbished sofa and overstuffed chairs that Portia had taken such care to choose for the darkly paneled room. All that mattered was that they were away from the curious onlookers.

“We should not be interrupted here,” he muttered.

Wrenching his arm from Fredrick’s grasp, Ian smoothed his hand over the fabric of his champagne superfine jacket.

“Really, Fredrick, is this any way to treat an old friend who has not only traveled a considerable distance to be with you, but also just managed to vanquish your enemies with a single blow?”

“I did not ask that you vanquish my enemies, Ian.”

“Ah, so that is the trouble.” A sudden smile lightened the dark features, revealing a straight row of startling white teeth. “You were hoping to impress that raven-haired beauty I glimpsed at your side by slaying a few dragons. Forgive me, I did not intend to steal your glory.”

Fredrick swallowed a sigh. “I was hoping to deal with the ridiculous buffoons without creating a disturbance that will be the talk of the neighborhood.”

“What does it matter?” Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian pulled out a silver flask that was always filled with top-notch whiskey. “It seemed to me that the neighbors were pleased enough to watch the mincing peacocks knocked onto their backsides.”

Fredrick winced at the memory of the smattering of applause as Ian had tidily dealt with pinks of the
ton.
It was all very amusing for the guests, but it was not their livelihood that was being threatened by the unpleasant encounter.

“Those peacocks have powerful families who might very well cause trouble for Portia,” he said with an edge in his voice.