Bedding The Baron (7 page)

Sweet, blissful heat flowed through her body as she instinctively parted her lips and allowed his tongue to explore ever deeper. Oh . . . God. Nothing in all her six and twenty years had ever felt like this.

Her hands fluttered before landing on the naked flesh of his chest. Another blaze of heat rocked through her, and barely aware of what she did, her fingers trailed a searching path over the warm skin, exploring the rigid muscles that flexed beneath her touch.

“Yes, poppet,” he groaned, his mouth searching and finding the sensitive pulse at the base of her throat. “Touch me. Please, touch me.”

She gave a low groan at the sound of his ragged voice. She wanted to touch him. Everywhere. From the thick, honey curls to the tip of his toes. She wanted to rub against him like a cat, heating her skin against his own.

As if sensing her shocking response, Fredrick allowed his slender, utterly clever fingers to slide down the curve of her neck and over the high neckline of her gown. Portia’s breath evaporated, her knees nearly buckling as those fingers at last cupped the aching fullness of her breasts.

Blessed heavens.

That was what she wanted. Needed. For one insane moment she arched her back to thrust herself toward his touch, her nipples hard beneath her corset.

Oh . . . to have her stupid wool and whalebone magically disappear. To feel those wondrous hands on her bare skin.

It did not take a great imagination to know that the sensations that Fredrick Smith could inspire would be a world away from her previous experience.

He was no callow youth, intent only on his own pleasure. Nor was he elderly enough to consider her more a daughter than lover.

No, he would be patient and tender and he would teach her all the delicious secrets that other women whispered of.

The sound of voices in the corridor at last jerked Portia out of her sensual haze. Dear God, she had left the door wide open. Anyone could have walked by and seen her acting as if this were some bawdy house rather than a respectable inn.

With a small gasp she stumbled away from the lingering touch, her hand pressed to her pounding heart.

Fredrick sat up on the bed, his hand stretched out. “Portia . . .”

“No,” she whispered, refusing to allow her gaze to lower to the vast amount of flesh exposed as his blanket tumbled to his waist. “I do not know why I did that. I cannot . . .” She gave a shake of her head and rushed toward the door. “Not again. Never again.”

Not again. Never again.

Portia’s tortured words haunted Fredrick as he forced himself to bathe and dress for the upcoming meeting with his father.

Dash it all. He hadn’t meant to startle her. In truth, he hadn’t expected her to give into his coaxing for a kiss.

But once she had . . .

His body shuddered at the memory of her hands moving over his chest with those soft, tentative strokes. In that moment he would have given his fortune to have tugged her onto the bed beside him and eased his smoldering frustration in the heat of her body.

Instead she had once again bolted, leaving him alone and aching, with no genuine hope of relief in sight.

Bloody hell. The woman was enough to drive the most sane man to Bedlam. One moment she was the cold, aloof general who commanded all those around her with crisp precision, and the next she was melting in his arms as if she were a sweet, vulnerable woman who was in dire need of a man’s touch.

No doubt if he had a lick of sense he would flee with all possible speed. For all Portia’s obvious skill as an innkeeper, he sensed that beneath her careful control she was still struggling to understand the meaning of being a woman.

How could she not be, with a father who abandoned her when she was a mere babe, and a husband who had clearly left her wounded?

And yet, a small voice whispered, she was also warm, and passionate, and so tender-hearted that it made him smile to think of the misfits she had gathered beneath her wings.

A rare, exquisite woman who would put up a struggle worthy of Napoleon for any man stupid enough to try and get close to her.

Gathering his horse from the stables, Fredrick headed for his father’s estate. Oh yes, she was an aggravating minx. And he was an idiot not to pack his bags and head for less dangerous grounds.

Idiot or not, however, he knew that he would not be packing any bags. At least not yet.

Mrs. Portia Walker might be the very definition of trouble, but she fascinated him like no other woman he had ever encountered. He would not be leaving until he managed to understand precisely what it was about her that entranced him.

Traveling up the tree-lined drive to the estate, Fredrick grudgingly put all thoughts of Portia aside and instead turned his attention to the upcoming meal with his father.

A far less fascinating subject, he acknowledged wryly. After the short, decidedly terse encounter only the day before he had never expected to hear from Lord Graystone again. Certainly he had not expected to receive a gracious invitation to dine at his home.

He could only suppose the old bugger had experienced a belated sense of guilt at greeting his son with all the pleasure of a tooth-drawer. Or, more likely, he wanted to make sure that Fredrick had no intention of lingering near Oak Manor for any extended length of time.

In either case it at least offered the opportunity to pursue his original goal in coming to Wessex.

Leaving his mount in the hands of a groom, Fredrick entered the manor house and allowed a subdued Morgan to lead him to the back parlor where he found his father standing beside a long row of windows surveying the garden below.

For a moment, Fredrick hovered uncertainly on the threshold. As always he felt that tense, slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when in the presence of his father. It was not that Lord Graystone was a frightening man. Like Fredrick he possessed a slender build and mild temperament.

But even as a young child Fredrick had been able to sense the terse discomfort that plagued Lord Graystone whenever he was in the company of his son.

As if it were only by grim determination that he could even bear a few moments in Fredrick’s presence.

With a shake of his head, Fredrick resisted the urge to turn on his heel and rush from the estate. He was no longer a child to be hurt by his father’s dislike. He was a man who had come on a mission.

One that he wanted done with so that he could return to London and his waiting business.

Perhaps sensing he was no longer alone, Lord Graystone slowly turned, his pale blue eyes briefly darkening with some indefinable emotion before he managed to paste a stiff smile to his lips.

“Fredrick, thank you for joining me.”

Refusing to appear a coward, Fredrick forced himself to cross the Persian carpet to stand in the center of the room.

“I must admit I was surprised to receive your invitation,” he said, his tone carefully bland. “Yesterday I sensed that you were not best pleased with my presence.”

The older man flinched, almost as if Fredrick had managed to strike a nerve. “It was not that. Never that. I was simply . . . caught off guard.”

Fredrick’s lips twisted. “Yes, of course. I should have sent a letter warning you that I would be in the neighborhood and awaited a proper invitation. But my business came up unexpectedly and it seemed—”

“Fredrick, you will always have an invitation to this house,” his father interrupted in a harsh voice. “If I have ever made you think otherwise then I am sorry.”

It was Fredrick’s turn to be caught off guard and he blinked in astonishment. It was the first time his father had ever indicated that he was anything more than an intruder that must be endured.

“Thank you, Father.”

An awkward silence descended as Lord Graystone seemed to battle within himself as to how to treat the stranger that was his son. With an obvious effort, he moved toward a satinwood sideboard and busied himself with pouring out two small measures from the crystal decanter.

“Will you join me in a sherry?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Handing Fredrick the small glass, Lord Graystone stepped back, his gaze running over Fredrick’s well-tailored grey jacket and black breeches.

“It is obvious that London agrees with you,” he murmured.

Fredrick gave a faint shrug, thrusting aside his simmering resentment that unlike his half-brother, his own success had been hard won.

If he were to discover anything of value he would have to somehow lure his father into a sense of comfort.

“I have managed to survive,” he said lightly.

“More than survive I should say.” A smile touched the older man’s lips. “I had always thought that engineers did no more than build bridges, but you seem to have a wide variety of interests.”

Fredrick hid his stab of surprise. He would have bet his last quid that his father did not know he had created his own business, let alone that he was an engineer.

“I have built my share of bridges as well as a number of roads, but it is true that my interests are widespread. Perhaps too widespread,” he admitted wryly. “I once had a very peaceful business with a handful of staff and now I seem to have acquired several warehouses and dozens of employees. They require an inordinate amount of attention.”

“These employees are inventors, are they not?” his father demanded, once again surprising him.

“For the most part they are only hopeful dreamers who someday might see their various ideas become a reality.”

“And you support them until that reality arrives?”

Fredrick nodded, not adding that he also assisted the inventors with his own skill when necessary. Dreamers, he had discovered, rarely possessed simple common sense. They might conjure the most fabulous inventions, but failed to realize that their design was far too complex to be replicated, or so ridiculously obscure there was no market for them.

“I consider them an investment, much like my investments in various patents.”

His father studied him intently, almost as if he were genuinely interested in Fredrick’s work.

“So you invest in dreams.”

Fredrick gave a startled laugh, discovering that he liked the notion. Most considered him a practical man. A man who lived by his lists and schedules and calculated logic. Few were ever allowed to know that deep in his heart a poet lurked.

“I suppose that is one way of putting it.” He allowed his gaze to study the features that were so painfully similar to his own. “May I inquire how you have come to know so much of my business?”

“Even so far from town the stories of your business genius manage to circulate,” his father said evasively. “It was written in the
Post
that you possess the Midas touch.”

Fredrick gave a short laugh, picturing the endless days of toil he had put in for his famous Midas touch.

“I could only wish it were that simple.”

“True.” The smile faded from the lean, elegant features. “There are too few who understand that success is the result of hard work, not just luck. And sacrifice.” His voice lowered, a tinge of sadness threaded through his words. “There is always sacrifice.”

Sacrifice? An odd choice of words.

What had he been forced to sacrifice?

“You seem to understand hard work well enough.” Fredrick waved a hand around the recently refurbished room. “The estate appears quite profitable.”

“It was not always so.” Lord Graystone drained his sherry and set aside his glass. “Before I inherited the title my father had managed to run the estate into dun territory and my brother promised to follow in his footsteps. They both believed that they could continue to take from the estate without ever bothering to reinvest in the land or the people.”

“Having traveled a good deal throughout England I must say that it is not at all an uncommon practice among landowners,” Fredrick could not resist pointing out.

Being a bastard was at times awkward, but it was nothing compared to the lives of too many tenants.

“You are right,” his father readily agreed. “I attempted to be the voice of reason upon occasion, but as the younger son my opinions were not requested, nor were they at all welcomed. My brother accused me of attempting to undermine his authority with the tenants and forbade me even to speak with them.”

It was the first true insight his father had ever given into his life and Fredrick discovered himself grudgingly intrigued.

“That must have been a difficult position.”

“It was damn well impossible.” Lord Graystone smiled wryly. “In truth I was relieved when I was forced to leave . . .”

The words were broken off sharply as Lord Graystone abruptly turned to pace toward the windows. It was obvious that he had revealed far more than he had intended and Fredrick was careful to keep his manner casual.

“That I can well imagine,” he said, setting aside his own glass. “It would be frustrating for anyone to be forced to stand aside and watch his home being ruined.” He paused, knowing better than to blatantly demand why his father was forced to leave Oak Manor. He was a fool, not a stupid fool. “Did you go to London?”

“Winchester,” his father retorted in clipped tones.

“Of course. That is where Lady Graystone comes from, is it not?”

“Yes.” Turning, Lord Graystone regarded his son with the guarded, closed expression that Fredrick had become all too accustomed to. The brief few moments of intimacy were at an end. “I believe luncheon should be ready. Shall we?”

“Of course.”

In awkward silence they moved through the hushed corridors to the dining room. Despite the long, polished table that could easily seat twenty guests, there was a cozy warmth to the darkly paneled room with its vast fireplace and towering windows that provided a fine view of the rose garden.

The silence remained as they were seated and the footmen arrived with trays of turtle soup, stewed trout, and Fredrick’s favorite lobster curry.

It was not until his father had waved the servants from the room that the older man made a visible effort to lower the stiff guard he had built around himself.

“Are you comfortable at your inn?” he demanded as he poured them both a glass of wine.

Fredrick hid his startled expression. What the devil was his father up to? He never made personal inquiries of his bastard son. Not even bothering to ask after his health.

Savoring the lobster curry, Fredrick gave an inward shrug. Whatever odd compulsion had come over Lord Graystone, it suited Fredrick’s purpose.

The man had already revealed that he had been forced to leave Oak Manor when he was young. And that after his inheritance he had made some painful sacrifice. Vague clues that might lead to precisely nothing, but still it was more than he had before he arrived.

Besides, his father’s past sins were not the only puzzle currently plaguing him.

Perhaps Lord Graystone could assist with unraveling the mystery of Mrs. Portia Walker.

“I am quite comfortable,” he said with a faint smile. “I do not believe I have ever rented rooms that are quite so ruthlessly clean or enjoyed meals so exquisitely prepared. Mrs. Walker possesses a true talent in running a first-rate establishment.”

“Walker?” His father frowned as if the name were somehow familiar. “Of course. Melford’s daughter.”

“You know her?”

“I know
of
her,” his father corrected. “Her father was a friend to my brother. As I recall they shared many interests, including their addiction to expensive courtesans and the gaming tables.”

Which meant that Portia’s father was definitely an aristocrat. The Graystones did not rub elbows with the unwashed masses.

“It is rather odd that a woman of her obvious social standing would become a proprietress of an isolated inn.”

His father shrugged. “I seem to recall there was some scandal attached to the woman.”

Fredrick reached for his wine. “I did happen to learn that her father disappeared to India when his debts became too great.”

Lord Graystone frowned, as if scouring his mind for memories of the long ago gossip.

“Yes, it had something to do with that . . . ah, now I recall. The daughter was engaged to some minor nobleman or another, not a local man, and he turned out to be a true bounder.”

Fredrick stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“The cad left her standing at the altar. It was only a few days later that her father fled from his creditors.” Lord Graystone gave a wave of his hand. “I suppose he had hoped his new son-in-law would settle his accounts and when that did not come to pass he was forced to flee.”