Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Exquisite,” he murmured. “Midnight roses.”

  A shudder wracked Portia’s body. “Fredrick.”

  Before she could even begin to struggle (always assuming that she had the strength or the will to struggle), he was pulling away to regard her with a searching gaze.

  “Shall I continue with my drainage ditches?”

  For a moment Portia fought to regain command of her scattered wits. She did not want to think of drainage ditches. Or the danger of letting down her guard in the presence of a heart-rendingly handsome gentleman. She wanted him to yank her into his arms and quench the ache that was becoming near unbearable.

  At last she gave a shake of her head and smoothed her trembling hands down the folds of her apron.

  If she were at all sensible she could command this man to leave her inn at once. He was worse than any mere rake.

  He was bossy and interfering and capable of turning her mind to mush with a single glance.

  Unfortunately, at the moment she was not feeling sensible. She was feeling as giddy and fluttery as the worse sort of henwit.

  Clearly a swift retreat was in order.

  “If you wish to play in the mud, then by all means enjoy yourself,” she muttered, turning toward the door and hopefully the sanity beyond. “I have learned to indulge my guests, no matter how strange or annoying they might be.”

  “If you truly wish to indulge me, poppet, I have a better means of . . .”

  Rushing out the door, Portia picked up her skirts and dashed across the muddy yard.

  The devil take Fredrick Smith.

  Portia tried any number of tricks to put thoughts of angelic features and wicked grey eyes from her mind.

  She assisted Mrs. Cornell in the kitchen, she took Puck for a long walk through the woods, she took a hot bath, and she even laid down for a short nap.

  Nothing, however, was effective in keeping her mind from dwelling on Fredrick Smith.

  Time after time she discovered herself drawn to a window simply to catch sight of him. There was such a confident assurance in his movements, such a natural ability to command those about him. It was not arrogance, but more the absolute knowledge that he knew precisely what needed to be done and how to accomplish the task.

  A part of her knew that she should have been furious at his outrageous interference. She had battled her entire life to at last acquire her sense of independence. He had no right to thrust himself into her business.

  But it was not fury that was plaguing her as she slowly left the inn and headed for the stables. Instead it was a confusing mixture of fear and bewilderment, and a treacherous excitement that refused to be squashed.

  Entering the stables, Portia moved past the stalls toward the back rooms that Quinn claimed as his own.

  “Quinn?” she called softly.

  A narrow door opened and the elderly servant appeared to regard her with a hint of surprise.

  “Aye?”

  Portia smiled as she moved to stand before him. She had known Quinn her entire life. He had been a groom for her father before Lord Melford had been forced to sell off his stables and turned his faithful servant away without so much as a reference. Not surprisingly, Quinn had been forced to survive by whatever means necessary and more than once he was punished for daring to poach for his food.

  When her father disappeared, Quinn returned to the estate and silently took command of keeping the roof from falling in upon her head and planting a small garden to provide a bit of food for the table.

  She would never forget his patient kindness toward the lonely, scared child she had once been.

  Certainly he was more a father to her than Lord Melford had ever been.

  “I wanted to assure myself that you did not overtax yourself today.”

  He gave a lift of his shaggy brows. “Nay, I can still handle a shovel if need be.”

  “Yes, I know, but you are bound to be sore in the morning.” She held up her hand to reveal the small ceramic pot she had brought with her. “I have brought you some of Mrs. Cornell’s ointment.”

  Quinn reached for the pot with a smile. They had all learned to depend upon Mrs. Cornell’s salve for their various aches and pains.

  “That was right thoughtful of you.”

  She smiled as she studied the weathered face. “You are important to me, Quinn. I think of you as part of my family.”

  His expression abruptly softened as he gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Aye, me dear, you have managed to cobble together a fine clan, even if we are a mixed lot.”

  Portia gave a laugh, thinking of the diverse staff she had managed to collect.

  “Definitely a mixed lot.” She gave a small shrug. “Still, there is something to be said for actually choosing your family members rather than simply inheriting them.”

  “Aye, that be true enough. No one would choose your rotter of a father.”

  “No.” Portia shuddered, firmly blocking the unpleasant memories of the weak, shallow fool who had fathered her.

  A small silence fell as Quinn regarded her with a narrowed gaze. “Is there something troubling you, Portia?”

  Her gaze dropped as she absently plucked at a thread that had frayed from the hem of her sleeve.

  “Why did you agree to assist Mr. Smith today?”

  “Because the yard was in need of work and he had the skills to make it the finest in the county.” Reaching into his pocket, Quinn pulled out a folded sheet of vellum. “Ye see, he has written a recipe for a mixture to spread over the ground to keep it dry. Soon enough travelers will know that they need never fear being stuck in the mud when they halt at the Queen’s Arms.”

  He had a point, of course. She had been in the business long enough to know that those who frequently traveled the roads were well aware of which yards could be depended upon not to mire them during a rain.

  And she did not doubt that Fredrick had ensured that her yard would be the best tended in the entire county. She might not know a great deal about Mr. Smith, but she did sense that he would demand nothing less than absolute perfection in anything that he attempted.

  She gave a faint shake of her head. “That is all very well, but you know how I feel about others interfering with my inn. Especially strangers,” she said.

  Quinn shrugged. “Yer a fine woman, Portia, but ye can be a mite too stubborn. We needed the work done and Smith gave us the direction we was needing. I saw no purpose in cutting off me nose to spite me face.”

  Was that what she was doing? Had she become so isolated that she could no longer determine the difference between a simple act of kindness and meddling in her affairs?

  Gads, she did not know what to think.

  “Where is Mr. Smith now?”

  “He said something of a hot bath and a tray in his room.” Quinn grimaced. “I fear he is still suffering from the blow he took to his noodle. Not that he would admit as much. In some ways he is as stubborn as ye.”

  Her brows lowered. She had nearly forgotten that he was still recovering from a dangerous blow to his head. Drat, the infernal man. He could have made himself seriously ill spending hours shoveling and hauling that mud about.

  “I will see to Mr. Smith,” she promised before pointing a finger toward Quinn’s beak of a nose. “You are to have an early night and do not forget to put the ointment on before you go to bed. It will do no good if it is left in the pot.”

  Chapter Seven

  Fredrick felt considerably better after his bath, but there remained a dull ache in his temple.

  What a blasted fool, he chided himself as he pulled on a brocade robe and ran a comb through his damp curls. He possessed his fair share of intelligence. Some might claim that he possessed more than his fair share. So why had he blithely pressed himself to continue even when his head began to throb and his muscles shake with weakness?

  Because he was so bloody eager to impress a woman who did not possess the least interest in being impressed.

  Quinn had been quite
forthcoming during their afternoon together. He had not only revealed that while Fredrick was attempting to display his skills in her yard the aggravating woman was napping in her room, but that the only reason she had so often appeared in his chambers was because she did not want her maids left alone with him.

  She felt it her duty to attend to Fredrick to protect the hapless maids from his ungovernable lust.

  Fool, indeed.

  Moving toward the window, Fredrick watched as the sun set behind the line of trees just beyond the inn.

  His only consolation was that Ian and Raoul were far away in London. The last thing he needed was to have his friends witness his rather pathetic attempts to capture the interest of a reluctant lady. He doubted that either of them had ever encountered a female who did not leap into their bed with eager anticipation. Hellfire, the two probably had to lock their doors to keep them out.

  Certainly they had no need to flaunt themselves like a shameless popinjay.

  A soft knock on the door thankfully interrupted his uncharacteristic broodings and, turning from the window, he called for the servant to enter.

  Expecting Quinn with his evening dinner tray, Fredrick felt his chest tighten and his blood heat at the sight of Portia Walker sweeping over the threshold.

  She was tiny enough to fit into his pocket, and yet, she managed to fill the room with her feminine power and the sweet scent of midnight roses.

  Momentarily captivated by her unexpected arrival, Fredrick watched in silence as she glided across the room. Dash it all, she was a beautiful wench. Even in the ugly grey gown that was fit for nothing better than the rubbish heap, she managed to appear exotically beautiful with her raven dark hair and porcelain skin.

  That now familiar fire stirred in his groin as she neared the bed. Oh yes. That was where she belonged. All he need do was take a few steps forward and he could scoop her off her feet and . . .

  The heated fantasy was destroyed as Fredrick belatedly noted the heavy tray she was setting on a low table.

  By gads, he disliked the notion of her waiting on him as if she were a mere servant. And more, he disliked the notion that she attended upon him because she feared he was some sort of animal that was just waiting for the opportunity to rape some poor maid who happened across his path.

  At the time Quinn had confessed the truth, Fredrick had been rather startled to think he could be mistaken for a lecher. God knew, it did not often happen.

  But now, with his head aching and his body tormented with frustrated need, he discovered his usually placid temper distinctly on edge.

  “Portia, what are you doing?”

  She straightened to regard him with a faint surprise at his sharp tone.

  “You did request a tray in your room, did you not?”

  “Yes, but I presumed that you had staff to deal with such requests.”

  She faced him squarely, her arms folded. The army general quite prepared to quash a renegade subordinate.

  “They have duties to attend to.”

  “And you fear I might force myself upon any poor maid who might stray into my lair?”

  Her aloof expression faltered at his blunt accusation.

  “What?”

  “Quinn told me that you had warned the maids to avoid my presence.”

  A sudden color stained her cheeks. “Quinn should learn to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I . . . I will admit that I often protect my maids from those gentlemen I fear might be a danger to them.”

  He gave a short laugh as he turned back to gaze blindly out the window. “Charming.”

  There was a rustle of wool before Fredrick was enveloped in the warm scent of roses. Not that he needed the tantalizing scent to inform him that Portia had halted close behind him. The flames licking through his body were warning enough.

  “But that does not include you, Fredrick,” she said softly. “Never you. I do not believe you would harm any woman.”

  His hands clenched with the effort not to turn around and jerk her into his arms.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I am here because Quinn is concerned that you have not entirely recovered from your fall.”

  He gave a short laugh. He supposed pity was marginally better than viewing him as a potential rapist.

  “Do not fear, poppet, I have no intention of cocking up my toes anytime soon.”

  “Good, I am far too busy to bother with your funeral,” she said briskly. “Now come and eat your meal while it is still warm. I hope that you like roasted venison and potatoes in rosemary?”

  Fredrick heaved a sigh as he slowly turned to meet her searching gaze. His frustration remained, but the need to keep her here in his rooms, to keep her where he could at least gaze at the perfect Madonna face and hear her sweet voice, was overwhelming.

  Pathetic.

  But what was a man caught in the throes of such an irresistible fascination to do?

  “You know, you should be careful, poppet, I might just steal your cook when I return to London,” he said in deliberately light tones.

  Her own expression eased and a hint of curiosity sparkled in those magnificent blue eyes.

  “You do not have a cook in your home?”

  “I have a housekeeper who is capable of producing a meal, but I am so rarely at home the effort of hiring a full staff seems a waste.”

  Clearly unaware that her proximity was causing his body to stir and harden beneath his robe, Portia tilted her head to one side.

  “You work so many hours?”

  “A great number.” Fredrick struggled to keep his mind on something other than soft curve of her breasts. “And I also travel.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Traveling?”

  “Yes.”

  Fredrick searched the delicate features that appeared genuinely interested before giving a slow nod of his head.

  “I enjoy exploring places that I have never been and meeting people that intrigue me. I have increased my business substantially and more importantly discovered friends that I would never have met if I had remained in London.” He felt an odd sense of melancholy as he thought of his empty townhouse. For all his pride in having achieved such a status of success, he had become increasingly aware of a haunting loneliness when he walked into the house. “Still, as I grow older I have discovered a growing desire to create a home of my own and put down roots.”

  She gave a startled blink, as if caught off guard by his words. “You intend to wed?”

  “Most certainly.” He wondered why she seemed so surprised. Did not most men marry and produce families? “Ever since I was a young boy I have dreamed of possessing a family I could claim as my own.”

  “If it is so important to you then I am surprised that you are not already wed.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Not surprising at all.”

  “And why is that?” The blue eyes hardened. “Because you have enjoyed your life as a bachelor too much?”

  Fredrick narrowed his gaze, sensing that she was thinking back to the man who had abandoned her at the altar. Of course, was there ever a moment that she was not comparing him to some man or another that had disappointed her?

  “Because I have not yet met her,” he said simply.

  “Her?”

  “The woman who is meant for me.”

  He once again managed to surprise her. The blue eyes widened as she studied him with a bemused expression.

  “You believe there is one true woman for you?”

  Fredrick shrugged, only vaguely shocked that he would reveal such an intimate secret to this woman. Why would he start behaving as a rational man at this point?

  “What can I say? Beneath all my logic beats the heart of a romantic.”

  She gave an unsteady laugh. “Astonishing.”

  “And what of you, Portia?” he demanded. “Are you a romantic?”

  Her lashes lowered to effectively shield her emotions. “I
believe that people wed for all sorts of reasons and that it is only for the fortunate few that love is actually involved.”

  Although Fredrick was forbidden from reading her inner thoughts, Portia could not entirely hide the edge of haunting pain in her voice.

  Taking care not to startle her, he stroked his hands lightly up her arms to rest upon her shoulders.

  “Did you love your husband?”

  Portia sucked in a sharp breath at his touch, but thankfully she did not pull away.

  “I cared for him, but as I am sure you have already discovered, he was a number of years older than me.”

  “Was he good to you?”

  Her gaze abruptly lifted. “Thomas was very good to me. Without him . . . I do not know what I would have done.”

  Fredrick frowned at her obvious sincerity. “And yet, you have not married again.”

  Something that might have been panic at the mere thought of marriage flashed through the blue eyes. Peculiar.

  “I have not been asked.”

  “Oh come, poppet.” Fredrick smiled wryly. “I do not doubt with very little effort you could have any number of gentlemen anxious to kneel at your feet.”

  “Very pretty, but I am no longer a young maiden with stars in my eyes. I have no interest in flirtations.”

  “Now, that I do not believe for a moment.”

  “Why?” She tilted her chin. “Cannot a woman be more interested in her business than chasing after some man or another?”

  Fredrick allowed his fingers to drift down her back in a gentle caress.

  “There are none of us that enjoy being alone, even when it is by choice. We all have the need to feel the warmth of another, to share our most intimate selves.”

  Just for a moment her eyes darkened with the same heat that pulsed through his body. Then, with a choked sound she took an abrupt step backward to break his hold.

  “It is a simple matter for a man to share his intimate self. He pays no consequences for his pleasure. A woman is not so fortunate.”

  Fredrick frowned. “Consequences?”

  She made an impatient sound. “If a woman weds then she is under the complete authority of her husband. If she takes a lover she risks her reputation and the very real possibility of getting with child.”