Bedding The Baron Page 5

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.” Without hesitation Fredrick moved to pull the woman into a tight hug. Mrs. Shaw had been the one to comfort him when he cried as a mere tot, and baked him special treats to ease his loneliness. Stepping back, he took a deep sniff of the delicious smells filling the room. “Good God, do I smell plum pudding?”

  Fussing with her apron, Mrs. Shaw managed to hide the tears of pleasure that filled her eyes.

  “I have not forgotten your sweet tooth. There is also a tasty pheasant pie and green pea soup.”

  Fredrick promptly took his place on the sofa and filled a bowl with his favorite soup.

  “A magnificent feast.”

  Planting her hands on her ample hips, the cook appeared ready to hover over Fredrick until he had eaten every morsel on the tray.

  “Young gentlemen need plenty of plain, hearty food. Not that fancy stuff they serve in London. ’Tis no wonder that you are as thin as a reed.”

  He gave a small laugh at her obvious disdain for London chefs. “I assure you that I have yet to enjoy a meal equal to yours, no matter where I might travel.”

  A flush touched the round cheeks. “Such a flatterer.”

  “It is no more than the simple truth.” Fredrick sampled the soup, his mind searching for the best means of interrogating the woman. Unlike Morgan, Mrs. Shaw was always prepared to enjoy a nice chat. “Tell me, Mrs. Shaw, how long have you been at Oak Manor?”

  The woman blinked in surprise, but thankfully did not appear suspicious of his probing.

  “Good heavens, let me think.” She frowned as she pondered the question. “I was just turned twenty when I came as a scullery maid, so it must be near on twenty-seven years.”

  Twenty-seven years ago. The same time his father inherited the estate.

  “I suppose you must have been born and raised in the nearby village?”

  “No, indeed. The entire staff was hired in Winchester.”

  Fredrick narrowed his gaze. He had never realized that his father had hired an entirely new staff on his arrival to Oak Manor. It may be meaningless. In fact, it probably was. But it was the first odd detail he could jot into his notebook.

  “Surely not the entire staff?” he protested. “There must be a few old retainers rattling about?”

  “Nary a one.” Mrs. Shaw gave a lift of her hands. “When your father took over the estate he pensioned off what few staff still remained and brought in a whole new lot. I always thought that Lady Graystone was behind it all. She was eager to take her place as mistress of the manor and she didn’t want to be having anyone about who might compare her to the last mistress. After all, she was no more than a merchant’s daughter, and it was rumored that your grandmother was a great dragon of a lady who was the terror of the entire district, even after she had been confined to her bed.”

  “I would not doubt that for a moment. Just walking past her portrait made me break out in hives,” Fredrick retorted, recalling the painting of a silver-haired matron with a haughty expression and cold blue eyes. “Still, it is odd that even if Lady Graystone should desire a new staff she would not have hired a few from the local village. I believe that is the usual practice of large estates.”

  Mrs. Shaw shrugged, her expression revealing her less-than-complimentary opinion of Lady Graystone.

  “Perhaps she thought to impress her neighbors by hiring city folk. She is always trying to prove she is as good as the rest of the nobs.”

  “Perhaps.” Fredrick polished off his soup and reached for the plum pudding, his expression deliberately indifferent. “Are there any of the old servants still in the village?”

  “I don’t rightly know.” The woman regarded him with a frown. “Is there something you are wanting?”

  “I suppose that I am just curious. During my past visits I was too young to think about anyone but myself. Now I realize that I know precious little of those of you who helped to raise me, or even my own family.”

  “Is that why you have come back? To find your past?”

  Fredrick resisted a wry smile. As far as he was concerned his past could stay bloody well buried. He was far more interested in his beloved father’s past.

  “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I have business in Winchester and it seemed churlish to be so close and not stop by to at least see how you and Morgan go on.”

  The plump face lightened. “Then you’ll be staying?”

  “Not at Oak Manor,” he corrected gently. “But I intend to be in the area for several days. I hope to return as long as . . .” His words trailed away as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, his stomach knotting with the familiar sense of dread and frustrated yearning.

  Mrs. Shaw abruptly reached out to pat his shoulder. “He’ll be happy to have you home, my dear,” she whispered softly. “He may not ever admit it, but he’s missed you.”

  Chapter Four

  Portia was arranging a vase of flowers in the front salon when Molly abruptly burst through the door, her hand pressed to her heart.

  “Oh, come quick, mum,” she breathed.

  Puzzled, but not unduly alarmed, Portia set aside the flowers and wiped her hands on the apron that covered her sensible gown.

  “What is it? Is the coal wagon stuck again?”

  “Nay, it is Quinn and that London gent,” Molly said, tugging Portia through the door and toward a window that overlooked the yard. “It looks as if he were hurt.”

  “Good Lord, Quinn is hurt?” Portia demanded as she rushed to the window.

  “Not him, the other one. Looks like he busted his head.”

  Portia’s expression hardened as she caught sight of Quinn with his arm about the waist of her latest guest, assisting him toward the inn. It did not take a great deal of intelligence to realize Mr. Smith was deep in his cups and that he had somehow managed to take a blow to the head.

  “Typical,” she breathed in annoyance.

  At her side, the ever romantic Molly heaved a deep sigh. “Gawd, but he is a handsome one. Just like an angel fallen from heaven.”

  Of course he looked like an angel, Portia thought sourly. How could a devil possibly seduce the innocent unless he had tumbled honey curls and features that could make a woman’s knees feel weak?

  Even in the fading light and foxed to the gills his beauty made her breath catch and her heart lurch in response.

  “Heaven?” Her voice was sharp. “More like an imp from hell. Go to the kitchens and have clean towels and hot water sent to the blue chambers.”

  With a knowing glance, Molly bobbed a swift curtsy. “Aye, mum.”

  Giving a shake of her head, Portia moved to pull the door open and stood aside as Quinn managed to half carry the slender gentleman over the threshold.

  “Take him upstairs, Quinn, before he bleeds all over the floorboards.”

  With an effort Mr. Smith lifted his head to regard her with pain-dazed eyes.

  “Such sympathy, Mrs. Walker. You quite overwhelm me.”

  Turning away she led the way to the nearby stairs. “You do not need my sympathy, Mr. Smith. What you need is a thicker skull and the wits to stay off your horse when you are bosky.”

  “Now, Portia, the poor bloke was not bosky,” Quinn interrupted, his breathing heavy as he struggled to help his companion up the steep steps. “It was that damnable cur of yers that was the trouble. Raced right beneath Mr. Smith’s mount with his yipping and yapping. It’s a wonder the horse didn’t break a leg and Mr. Smith his neck.”

  Sharp, biting guilt made Portia stumble on the stairs and she was forced to grab the banister or fall flat on her face. Drat it all. She had known when she had discovered the pup half starved in the ditch that he was bound to be a bother, but she had never encountered a stray she could resist.

  Why else would her staff be made up of a collection of souls that had all been in the gutter at one time or another?

  Reaching the landing, she turned back to regard her injured guest with an expression of regret.

 
“I . . . see. Forgive me, Mr. Smith. I had no notion that Puck had escaped from the garden.”

  A crooked, boyish smile touched his lips. A smile that oddly made her tingle to the tips of her toes.

  “And it was much more fun to think that I had brought my own downfall upon my head, eh, poppet?”

  God, he was just so . . . achingly beautiful.

  Bewildered by her potent reaction to the man, Portia turned briskly on her heel and reached into her pocket.

  “Come along, Quinn, I will get the door.”

  She opened the door with her master key and stepped aside to allow Quinn to drag Mr. Smith over the threshold.

  “Ah, lovely Portia with her key to my room, and what of my heart?” the man crooned in a slurred voice. “Do you possess that key as well?”

  Portia frowned as Quinn settled his burden on the wide bed. “Perhaps I should send for Jameson. He is becoming delirious.”

  Quinn gave a short laugh. “There’s nothing the saw-bones can do for a bump on the head. All he needs is a bit of rest.”

  Quinn was no doubt right, Portia acknowledged as she hurried to the side of the bed and perched on the mattress. The local doctor would not be thankful to be dragged from his dinner for a mere bump. And in truth, Portia trusted her own skills at nursing far more than the pompous Jameson. The man might be a master at boasting of his skills, but he was remarkably reluctant to actually put those skills to use.

  “Take off his boots,” she commanded Quinn, her gaze shifting toward the door. “Oh, Molly, bring that tray here.”

  Waiting until the maid had placed the hot water and towels on the small table next to the bed, Portia returned her attention to the man stretched on the bed.

  He had closed his eyes, his brows furrowed in pain and his lovely curls tousled. Another wave of remorse raced through her, overcoming her instinctive distrust. The nasty gash on his forehead along with the rising lump was all her fault. The least she could do was attempt to soothe him to the best of her ability.

  Once Quinn had dealt with his boots and pulled a blanket over his legs, Portia reached to tug at the tightly tied cravat. He could not possibly be comfortable with the thing wrenched about his neck.

  Without realizing how close she had leaned toward his angelic countenance as she concentrated on her task, Portia was caught off guard when she felt the gentle warmth of his breath brush her cheek.

  “If you intend to undress me, Mrs. Walker, I would prefer that we not have an audience,” Mr. Smith whispered.

  Her gaze jerked upward to discover him regarding her beneath the thick tangle of his black lashes. In the muted light his grey eyes shimmered with a hint of pure silver. For a heartbeat she was mesmerized by the exotic gaze, forgetting even to breathe.

  It was only when Quinn roughly cleared his throat that Portia realized that she had been staring at the man like the verist pea-goose. With an effort she abruptly regained her scattered wits.

  “Just lay still, Mr. Smith,” she commanded sternly. “I fear your head has been rattled quite enough for one evening.”

  “I need to return to the stables and see to his horse,” Quinn abruptly announced, heading for the door.

  “Make sure you check for injuries,” Mr. Smith muttered.

  “Oh aye, yer horse is in good hands.” Quinn shot Portia a queer gaze as she dampened one of the cloths and began to gently dab at his wound. “As are ye.”

  Fredrick winced as she relentlessly continued her dabbing, determined to make sure there was not a speck of dust left in the wound.

  “Beautiful hands, most certainly, but bloody painful. Must you keep prodding at my poor, aching head?”

  She turned her head to send the hovering maid a wry smile. “Molly, would you find Spenser and ask him to unlock the cellars so you can retrieve a bottle of brandy? It seems as if Mr. Smith is one of those men who cannot bear a bit of pain.”

  “Aye, mum.”

  “A bit of pain?” the man protested as Molly scurried from the room. “My head has been cracked open.”

  “It is nothing more than a small gash.” She forced herself to meet the silver gaze, ignoring that stupid tingle that continued to plague her. “Your brains are in no danger of leaking out.”

  “No thanks to that bloody cur.”

  She stiffened at his words. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith. I will ensure that Puck is kept properly locked away from now on.”

  “No.” He reached up to lightly grasp her wrist, his thumb absently rubbing against the uneven pace of her pulse. “Do not imprison the dog on my account. At least Puck is honest in his dislike of my presence. I prefer that to spending an afternoon with a father who is forced to pretend that he does not consider me some loathsome creature that has crawled from beneath a rock.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Your family lives in the neighborhood?”

  “No, never my family.” His eyes slid closed, his voice thick and unsteady with pain. “A bastard has no family.”

  Portia studied the elegant, decidedly aristocratic features with a sense of confusion. With his expensive clothing and fashionable carriage, she had just assumed he was of the upper orders.

  She had wanted to assume that, a small voice whispered. If he were her enemy, then she had the means to keep him at a distance. God knew, she had years of experience at holding arrogant lechers at arm’s length.

  Now . . . now she did not know what to think.

  “Oh.”

  He managed to lift his heavy lids and regard her wary expression. “Does that shock you?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “What?” His lips twisted. “That I was just another cork-brained, frivolous dandy from London?”

  “You have the appearance of a man of society.”

  “Not every man needs to inherit his place in the world. There are those of us who actually earn success.”

  “And a few women,” she said tartly.

  “Ah yes, you are a remarkable woman, Portia.”

  She battled the most ridiculous urge to blush at his soft words, suddenly aware that they were alone in the bedchamber.

  “Hardly remarkable.”

  The silver in his eyes slowly darkened to smoke, his fingers easing their grip on her wrist to stroke up the length of her arm.

  “Do not argue with a wounded man, poppet.” His hand curled about the back of her neck. “You are remarkable, and so exquisitely beautiful.”

  “Mr. Smith . . .” Her words broke off in a gasp as he began tugging her head downward.

  “Fredrick,” he corrected.

  “Halt this at once.” She planted her hands on his chest, reluctant to struggle against his hold. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

  “You have been hurting me from the moment I caught sight of you,” he breathed, his words still slurred enough to reveal he was not entirely in his right mind. “I have ached for this.”

  “Mr. Smith . . .”

  “Fredrick.”

  The grey eyes flared with heat a heartbeat before he gave a firm tug on her nape and Portia discovered their lips clashing together.

  Her first reaction was one of shock. After the death of Thomas it was not often she allowed herself to be touched, not by anyone. And most certainly not by a London gentleman.

  But as his hand tugged her even closer, and his head angled to deepen the kiss, she realized that her shock was not one of disgust. Or even outrage at his daring.

  Instead, all those strange tingles and flares of awareness she had felt since the man had arrived at her inn tangled together in the pit of her stomach. With a shocking force they all coalesced into a ball of searing excitement.

  Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket as tiny shock waves raced through her body. His grip eased, his fingers lightly playing with the sensitive skin of her nape.

  His lips also eased, teasing over her mouth with feather-light caresses and urging her lips to part for the thrust of his tongue.

  Deep, soul-stirring del
ight raced through Portia’s body like a sinful drug. She had never known a kiss could be so poignant, so affecting. As if she were being molded and changed by his light touch.

  Against her will, Portia felt her muscles melting as she leaned more heavily against his chest, her breasts tight and aching beneath her heavy wool gown.

  He gave a low growl as he nipped at her lips, outlining her trembling mouth with the tip of his tongue. His fingers flexed restlessly against her nape, his lips shifting to trail down the length of her jaw before nuzzling a path down the curve of her throat.

  Portia unwittingly tilted back her head to give him greater access. With seductive cunning he discovered the pulse hammering in the base of her throat, wetting it lightly with his tongue before blowing his breath gently over the sensitive skin.

  Heaven help her. She shivered beneath his touch. Had there ever been such exquisite pleasure?

  She wanted to feel his clever fingers stroking down her body. She wanted to crawl on top of him and feel the heat of his body melt the bitter cold that had encased her for so long.

  It was the sheer power of her need that at last jolted her out of the strange fog of bliss.

  With a small moan of protest she lifted her head, her throbbing lips still parted as she regarded the man who had just revealed the true meaning of passion.

  A shudder wracked Fredrick as he forced back the desire that pulsed through his body.

  He had not actually intended to kiss Portia. Not when she was determined to brand him as a worthless lecher. But, whether it was the blow to his head, or the sheer potency of having her near, he had been unable to resist temptation.

  And despite his aching arousal (and the knowledge it was not going to be eased any time soon) he was not a bit sorry he had tasted her sweetness.

  Hell’s bells but she was even more delectable than he had dreamed possible. He had done nothing more than kiss her, but his entire body was on fire. Suddenly he understood how Ian and Raoul could so easily toss aside all sense in the need to bed a particular woman.

  He would never have thought himself susceptible to the demands of his body. At least not until he had tasted of Portia Walker.