Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Why? It was obvious that I made you miserable while I was here.”

  “It was my own shame that made me miserable, Fredrick,” Lord Graystone confessed. “I could not look at you and not know just how deeply I betrayed you. With every passing year the burden of my guilt has weighed more heavily upon my conscience. Still, I discovered . . .”

  Against his will Fredrick turned to meet his father’s darkened gaze. “Discovered what?”

  “I discovered that no matter how painful, I needed to have you near.” The lean features held a measure of sorrow as the older man regarded his son. “The past few years have been almost unbearable while I waited and hoped for some word from you.”

  Fredrick stiffened against the unwelcome flare of remorse. By God, he owed this man nothing. Certainly not guilt at having spared them both the awkward pain of his yearly visits.

  “And now you no doubt wish that I had chosen to remain in London rather than returning to Oak Manor,” he sneered.

  “No.” His father gave a shake of his head. “You may not believe me, Fredrick, but a part of me is relieved that you have discovered the truth.”

  Fredrick gave a humorless laugh. “You are right, Father, I do not believe you.” He took a step toward the slender gentleman who seemed to have aged a decade in the past minutes. “Not when you had eight and twenty years to do the honorable thing.”

  Lord Graystone tilted his chin, his eyes hardening with some inner determination.

  “I was too much a coward to face the consequences. Now that they are taken out of my hands I am prepared to face whatever may come.”

  Fredrick arched a brow. “Even if I choose to claim my birthright and destroy your family?”

  There was not the faintest pause. “Yes.”

  “And what of Simon?”

  “Simon has no genuine interest in Oak Manor or his responsibilities as a baron. To be honest, he would be far happier with a large allowance and the knowledge that he need never lift a finger to earn his keep.” Lord Graystone’s lips twisted. “And there is no denying that the estate would be better served in your hands. You have proven you possess the skill and intelligence necessary to keep the lands profitable, while the tenants would more readily respect a man of sense rather than an overdressed buffoon. I cannot tell you how often I have rued the knowledge that it was Simon who would follow in my footsteps rather than you.”

  Fredrick briefly recalled the strange sensations that had assaulted him as he had ridden toward the estate. There had been an undeniable moment when he had viewed the manor house and grounds with a measure of . . . rightness. As if he suddenly realized that Oak Manor should belong to him.

  With an unconscious shake of his head at his ridiculous thoughts, Fredrick sternly reminded himself that nothing had truly changed.

  At least not yet.

  “You are not so foolish as to believe that Simon will accept me as your heir, Father,” he retorted harshly.

  Lord Graystone merely shrugged. “You have the means to force him to accept.”

  Well, that was true enough, Fredrick acknowledged. Once he searched the church records there would be no one who could refuse his position as heir. Still, he could not deny a measure of surprise at his father’s lack of fear in having his lies exposed.

  “And your wife?”

  “She will be . . .” The older man searched for the proper word. “Displeased.”

  “I should say that she would be a good deal more than merely displeased. She might very well demand that her considerable dowry be returned since you failed to uphold your end of the bargain.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, his lean features unreadable. “Although with Jacob long dead there is little she could truly do beyond sue me for perjury, always presuming any judge would be willing to hear her case. Highly doubtful.”

  Fredrick regarded his father with a disbelieving frown. “You do not seem particularly bothered at the thought of causing your wife such distress,” he accused.

  Lord Graystone heaved a deep sigh. “I know that you consider me a man without a heart, Fredrick, but Wilhelmina has devoted every day of our marriage to reminding me that I have been bought and paid for by her ill-bred father.” His expression hardened with an age-old bitterness. “Even worse, she has indulged Simon past all bearing.”

  Fredrick shrugged. “In my experience most young bucks have been indulged beyond all bearing.”

  “Bah. She has spoiled the boy. And over the past few years I have come to the unshakable conclusion that the moment I am in my grave he will swiftly bring to ruin all that I have sacrificed to salvage.” His father gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Ironic, is it not? I bartered one son to save an estate that will be destroyed by another son.”

  Fredrick was not yet in a humor to appreciate the irony of the situation.

  “So if I choose to claim my rightful place you will not stand in my way?” he demanded.

  “Stand in your way?” His father met his gaze squarely. “No, Fredrick, I will not stand in your way. Indeed, I shall willingly stand at your side.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The treacherous spring weather had taken a turn for the worse when Portia awoke the next morning. Huddled beneath her blankets she could hear the sound of rain lashing against her windows.

  Just for a moment she considered the notion of remaining in the cocooned warmth of her bed rather than braving the inhospitable rain and wind.

  She was tired, she acknowledged with a deep sigh. The night had been long and restless as she had fretted over Fredrick’s abrupt departure.

  What if his friend convinced him to remain in Winchester? Or worse, what if his friend convinced him to return to London? Despite leaving his belongings at the inn, it would be a simple matter to send a servant to collect them.

  She might never see him again. And that would be...

  With a groan Portia forced herself out of the bed and dressed in a heavy woolen gown. She covered it with an equally heavy woolen cape before she made her way through the stirring inn.

  No matter how uninviting the weather it was preferable to her dark, brooding thoughts.

  Intent upon slipping through the side door, Portia nearly missed the slender form that was pacing the shadows in the back parlor. With a sharp flare of relief she stepped through the open door and regarded the gentleman with a wide gaze.

  “Fredrick?” she breathed. “I thought you were staying in Winchester?”

  For a moment she thought he might actually ignore her as he continued his restless pacing then, halting beside the window, he at last turned to face her. Portia caught her breath at the sight of his ashen countenance and the deep shadows that lay like bruises beneath his eyes.

  “I returned last eve,” he said, his voice thick and raspy as if his throat were raw.

  She instinctively stepped forward, uncertain if he were ill or simply suffering from the aftereffects of a night of overindulgence.

  Goodness knew that her father often enough had come home in such a sickly condition.

  “It must have been very late,” she said, her tone instinctively softening. Her father disliked any loud noise after such a night.

  His hand lifted to scrub through his already tousled curls. “I suppose it was.”

  “You look weary.”

  “No doubt because I have yet to sleep.”

  She frowned, her concern deepening. He looked more than merely exhausted. He looked . . . cold. As if his emotions had been drained from him.

  “Why do you not return to your rooms and I shall have a tray sent up to you?”

  His eyes slowly narrowed, his gaze lowering to take in her heavy cloak.

  “Where are you going?”

  Despite her fierce relief at his return, Portia was swift to retreat behind her guarded composure. It was a hard-earned habit she did without thought.

  “I enjoy an early morning stroll,” she murmured.

  The smoky grey gaze shifted deliberately toward th
e window that rattled beneath the force of the wind.

  “It is hardly the sort of weather for a stroll.”

  “A little rain does not trouble me.”

  Not surprisingly his brows arched in disbelief. “It is more than a little rain, it is a bloody gale. You will be soaked through.”

  “My cloak will protect me from the worst of the rain.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Portia, what could possibly be so important to risk a lung infection?”

  Her practiced smile never faltered. Damn him, what right did he have to press her with these unwanted questions? Was she pestering him with details of his obviously eventful night?

  “I am never ill.” She pulled the cloak tighter. “If you will excuse me, I must return before breakfast.”

  She was turning away when Fredrick took a jerky step forward, his expression impossible to read.

  “Where are you going, Portia?”

  “I have told you—”

  “Lies,” he interrupted harshly. “You have told me lies. Just as everyone else in my life has done.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, caught off-guard by his unmistakable anger.

  “Fredrick, what has happened?”

  He offered a mocking laugh that flared painfully over her skin. “Oh no, poppet, you horde your secrets like some rare treasure. I shall do the same. Enjoy your stroll, Mrs. Walker.”

  With a deliberate motion he turned his back to her and glared out the rain-slick window. Portia did her own share of glaring, fiercely telling herself to walk away.

  He was behaving like a sulky child who was determined to pout if he could not have his way. The only mature way to respond was to ignore his tantrum.

  But Portia discovered her feet refusing to budge as her hands clutched the thick material of her cloak. This was not just about a male behaving in an unreasonable manner. After all, that was a common enough thing. Most men were unreasonable.

  This was about a lover who kept demanding more and more despite her obvious desire to keep him at a distance.

  “I do not have to share all my secrets with you,” she ridiculously charged.

  “Certainly not,” he drawled. “You have made it painfully clear that you are willing to share your passion, your body, and even a measure of your heart, but not your soul.”

  “And why would you care about my soul?”

  “I care about all of you.” He turned to regard her with a humorless smile, his eyes dark and haunted. “Foolish of me, eh, poppet?”

  Her teeth clenched as a shaft of guilt pierced her heart. A guilt that she had not earned, she told herself with a flare of annoyance.

  Why should she be expected to bare her soul to this man? He could claim to care all he wanted for her; in the end he would be leaving the Queen’s Arms.

  “I have asked nothing of you,” she charged.

  “Of course not.” He stabbed her with a narrow-eyed glare. “You ask for nothing because you have no wish to offer anything. You are impervious to the needs that plague us lesser mortals.”

  Her brows snapped together. Blast it all, how dare he lecture and chastise her in this fashion?

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  He regarded her defensive expression for a long moment, and then with a slow shake of his head, he folded his arms across his chest and turned back to the window.

  “It means nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing at all.”

  “Fredrick . . .” She heaved a loud sigh. “Damn you.”

  “Be on your way, Portia. My mood is far too foul to share with anyone.”

  She should be on her way. Mr. Fredrick Smith might have ample leisure time to pout in back parlors, but she was a busy woman with far too many responsibilities. Even now she could hear Mrs. Cornell commanding the kitchen staff to stoke the fires and gather the eggs.

  Once the guests began heading down for breakfast she would not have a moment to spare for herself.

  She did not go on her way, however. Instead she squared her shoulders and marched across the room to stand at the annoying man’s side.

  “Well, you have now managed to ruin my own mood, so we might as well be foul together,” she said in grim tones. “Come along.”

  With a wary frown, he slowly turned to meet her fierce glare. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you wish to know my secrets then come with me,” she said, marching back across the carpet to await him at the door.

  Still he hesitated, clearly wise enough to sense her dangerous mood.

  “Portia . . .”

  She pointed a finger toward his pale countenance. “Fredrick, you desired the truth and you shall have it. Are you coming or not?”

  “Very well,” he slowly agreed, crossing the room to join her.

  In silence, Portia led her suspicious companion from the inn, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head as the heavy rain hit them with startling force. A part of her could not believe that she was doing anything so foolish. She had carefully harbored her secret for years.

  And with good reason.

  Why would she share it with this gentleman who would soon be leaving Wessex and her behind?

  A larger part of her, however, was content with the thought of sharing her deepest self. At least with Fredrick. He was the one man who would understand. The one man who would never judge or condemn her for her choices.

  The silence remained until they entered the protection of the copse of trees that surrounded the inn. In the same moment they both slowed their steps and Fredrick gave a shake of his head to rid his curls of the clinging dampness.

  “This land is connected to the inn?” he inquired.

  Portia flashed him a surprised glance. It was not what she had been expecting.

  “Yes.” She turned toward a barely discernable path that led toward a nearby stream. “When Thomas was younger he was able to provide enough meat and fish for most of the kitchen’s needs.” She gave a faint grimace. “Unfortunately Quinn and Spenser are now too old to hunt, which means that the game is left for the poachers and I am forced to wrangle with a butcher who is convinced that it is perfectly acceptable to take advantage of a woman who dares to be in charge of her own business.”

  A hint of his customary humor glittered in the grey eyes. A welcome relief to Portia.

  “Do you know, poppet, I feel sympathy for that ridiculous butcher,” he teased. “I do not doubt that you have managed to harangue the poor man until he is practically giving you his meat.”

  “I do not harangue,” she protested.

  “No?”

  “No, I . . .” She briefly considered the best word to describe her rather forcible bargaining skills. “Barter.”

  His lips twitched, but there was a strange expression on his handsome features as he studied her damp features.

  “As you will,” he murmured.

  “Why are you looking at me so oddly?”

  “I was just struck with the absurdity of you bartering with the local butcher. You were born for a life far different from this, Portia.” His voice deepened, that edge of bitterness returning. “Your father ruined your prospects and forced you to travel a path that was far beneath you.”

  She frowned, not at all certain what the devil was the matter with the man. Something had clearly happened last eve. Something that was troubling him intensely.

  “My path is what it is, Fredrick,” she said with a shrug. “No amount of wishing can make it otherwise.”

  Without warning he reached out to grasp her arm, swinging her about to meet the hectic glitter of his gaze.

  “What if you could have what was stolen from you? What if you could have your place as a leader of society?”

  She gave a shake of her head. Why was he so determined to dwell in the past? They had both managed to overcome the obstacles in their lives. Surely it was best to concentrate on the future?

  “It is an impossible dream, Fredrick.”

  “Indulge me, poppet.” His hand shifted
to grasp her fingers in a tight grip. “What if you could be whisked to London and offered entrée into the most exclusive drawing rooms?”

  When she had been seventeen nothing had seemed more rewarding than dancing about the ballroom in the arms of a handsome partner. Now she merely gave a shake of her head at such foolish dreams.

  “We both know that will never happen.”

  “But what if it could?”

  She swallowed her flippant retort. For whatever reason, her response was important to Fredrick.

  Profoundly important.

  “Do you mean if I had a fairy godmother complete with a magical wand?” she asked, choosing her words with care.

  “Something of the sort.”

  Ignoring the danger to her cloak, Portia leaned against a moss-slick tree and regarded her companion with a searching gaze. As always her heart gave a small flip at the astonishing beauty of his pale features. Surely even the gods must envy such perfection? But it was the troubled shadows that lurked in the depths of his eyes that forced her to answer his question.

  “I might occasionally wish that I possessed enough wealth that I need never again worry about my finances and, of course, that I could hire all those who come to me in need of employment, but overall I would not change my life.” She tilted her chin with a measure of pride. And why not? She had earned it. “If I had not endured the hardships life has given me, then I should never have realized just how much strength and courage I possess. I would have been no more than another bored matron, at the utter mercy of my husband and in constant fear of fickle society.”

  He leaned forward, studying her features as if attempting to determine the depth of her sincerity.

  “You truly prefer the life as an innkeeper to that of a wife of a nobleman?”

  “Why does that shock you?”

  “I should think anyone would prefer a life of leisure to toiling day and night to see to the comfort of others,” he said, his tone almost accusing.

  She paused, beginning to suspect whatever was troubling Fredrick had something to do with his past.

  Had his father said or done something? Or had he endured another unpleasant confrontation with those stupid dandies who were determined to punish him for being a bastard?