Bedding The Baron (3 page)

“Most of my guests understand that my rules are made to ensure their comfort and the comfort of others.”

“Very well, then.” Taking a seat on the nearby bench he motioned for the nervous Tolly to deal with his boots, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Walker’s lovely countenance. “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Your groom did warn me that you were a bit of a tartar, although he failed to mention you were such a beautiful tartar.”

She did not so much as blink. “Do you wish a chamber for the night?”

Fredrick hastily grabbed the edge of the bench as the boy threatened to launch him onto the floor with his forceful tugs on his boots.

“That was my hope. Unless, of course, you have any other rules that I am currently abusing?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good. Then I do indeed wish a chamber for the night and a hot bath as soon as reasonably possible.”

“Of course.” Waiting until Tolly had painfully rid Fredrick of his boots, she offered a meaningless smile. “If you will follow me?”

Fredrick swallowed a groan as she turned on her heel and left the foyer with a gentle sway of her hips.

“Oh yes,” he muttered beneath his breath as he hurried to trail after her. “Yes, I will.”

Portia Walker had no fear that she appeared anything but cool and utterly serene as she made her way up the narrow flight of stairs. Her composure had been forged in the fires of hell, and there was nothing on this earth that could possible rattle her now.

Inwardly, however . . . well, that was an entirely different matter.

Never in her six and twenty years had she been so vibrantly aware of a man. From the moment she had entered the foyer to see him standing beside the door she had felt as if she had been struck by lightning.

A ridiculous notion.

It was not as if he were any way out of the ordinary, she tried to tell herself, knowing even as the thought crossed her mind that she was lying.

Granted the man was not the massive, intimidating sort that could fill a room with his presence. Instead he was only of medium height with the sleek muscles of a thoroughbred. But that face.

Dear God, it surely did not belong on a mere mortal.

It was not just handsome. That was too mundane a word. The delicately carved features, the shimmering grey eyes, and the lush lips were painfully beautiful. As if he were a creature of smoke and mist that might disappear at any moment.

And his hair . . . his thick curls were not just a predictable blond or brown, but a rich, aged gold with streaks of amber.

He was clearly created for the specific task of breaking poor women’s hearts.

Still, she was never susceptible to gentlemen. Especially not those disgusting, loathsome toads from London.

So why then was her back prickling with awareness as he moved to follow her far too closely? And why was her heart pounding against her chest with such force that it was a wonder the entire inn could not hear its frantic beat?

She was merely tired, she attempted to soothe her troubled heart. With the sudden storm her small inn was filled to the rafters. It was only because most of her guests could not afford her most elegant suite that she even had space for the obnoxious London fop.

A pity really. She would have loved to have turned him away at the door. Any fool who spent such an obvious fortune on something so ridiculous as his clothing deserved a good soaking. As it was, she could only hope his boots were smudged and scuffed beyond repair.

Yes. With all the extra work it was little wonder that her weary brain was imagining all sorts of nonsense.

That absolutely, positively had to be it.

At last reaching the rooms at the end of the long wing, Portia pulled her heavy ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door.

Stepping over the threshold, she cast a swift, critical glance about the bedchamber, careful to note that the windows framed by the blue velvet curtains had been recently washed and that the heavy mahogany furnishings glowed with a high polish.

She moved aside to allow her guest to enter the room, an unconscious hint of pride squaring her shoulders.

“Our rooms are not as large as some inns,” she said. “But the bedding is clean and the linens freshly washed. Through the far door you will find a small parlor that looks onto the woods.”

That smile that could charm the birds from the trees curved his mouth.

“Ah, a very nice port in the storm.”

“Indeed.” She shoved a key into his hands. Regardless of the reasons for her odd reaction to this man, she was anxious to be away from the room. The flutters in the pit of her stomach and the sensation that she could not quite catch her breath were not at all comfortable. “Here you are. If you have need of a servant you need only pull the bell rope.”

“And if I have need of you?”

She assumed her most distant expression. The one that could wither the pretensions of the most hardened rake.

“One of the servants will be up to light your fire and to bring your bath.” Her voice was coated with a thick layer of ice. “I assume you have luggage?”

The damnable man dared to give a low chuckle, as if he were actually amused by her obvious set-down.

“Your groom promised to attend to it,” he assured her.

“Good.” She abruptly turned toward the door, not caring if it appeared she was in full retreat. The chamber suddenly seemed far too small. “If that will be all . . .”

“What of dinner?”

With an effort she forced herself to pause, although she refused to turn around. “The cook has prepared shepherd’s pie. I will have it served in your private parlor.”

“Actually, I would prefer to eat in the public rooms,” he announced, being deliberately contrary. “There is nothing quite so refreshing as rubbing elbows with the natives on occasion.”

“Condescending ass,” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Excuse me, did you say something?”

“Enjoy your stay,” she managed to choke out before heading firmly out the door and down the hall.

Halting her hasty flight at the bottom of the stairs, Portia took several deep breaths. She was behaving like a nitwit.

So, the man . . . disturbed her. What did it matter?

He was just another guest in a long line of guests who had passed through her inn. After tonight he would fade from her mind and be forgotten.

Yes, there was nothing at all to trouble her.

Sucking in yet another breath, Portia took a moment to allow her gaze to drift over the dark paneling and open timbered ceiling of the wide lobby. She had inherited the inn upon the death of her elderly husband, Thomas Walker. It had been a profitable establishment from the time its doors had opened near a hundred years before, and even more profitable since her husband had possessed the good sense to add an extra wing to accommodate the numerous carriages headed to Winchester.

It had been Portia, however, who had made the Queen’s Arms famous throughout the district. With her husband dead, and the entire staff depending upon her to keep the inn afloat, she had no choice but rely upon her female instincts. Without her husband’s gregarious charm or years of experience, she had decided that she would use what few skills she did possess. And that was how to run an efficient household, and to ensure that her guests were made to feel as content as if they were at home.

Within a few months she had hired a cook who was nothing less than an artist in the kitchen. Her fare was simple, but mouthwateringly delicious, and carriages would readily travel miles out of their way to enjoy her creations. She had also hired on two extra maids to assist in keeping the rooms scrupulously clean.

Her inn might never be the largest, or the most elegant, but it had the reputation of always offering the best service for a reasonable cost. A combination that had kept business brisk.

And more importantly, it had offered Portia an independence she would never have dreamed possible. For the first time, she was in complete control of her life and she would not trade the wondrous knowledge for all the Crown jewels.

Feeling her odd tension slowly begin to fade, Portia smoothed her hands down the skirt of her plain gown and turned toward the back of the inn. The tap room was already filled with both locals and the guests who would be remaining for the night. She needed to make sure that Mrs. Cornell would have plenty of food.

Portia turned into the side passage used by the servants, nearly running down the short, plump maid who was rushing forward with a large stack of freshly laundered towels.

“Oh, forgive me, mum,” the girl breathed, her brown curls bouncing about her round face.

“Molly.” Portia halted the maid before she could rush away. The servants had learned that while Portia was always fair and willingly paid the highest wages, she demanded nothing short of perfection in their work.

“Aye, mum?”

“When Quinn comes in from the stables, would you have him take a bath to the blue chambers and see that a fire is lit?”

The girl blinked in confusion. “But that is my job.”

“Not for this particular guest,” she said, her voice hard. “And please inform the other maids that if our latest guest rings his bell no one is to attend him but Quinn or myself.”

Understanding dawned in the brown eyes. “Ah, a London gent, is he?”

Portia had never made a secret of her disdain for the worthless dandies that occasionally dribbled their way from London. Nor her determination to protect her maids from their lecherous advances. Beneath her roof such men swiftly learned that the females who crossed their paths were not there for their entertainment. Not unless they desired to be tossed out on their arrogant noses.

“The very worst sort,” she said. “Hopefully he will be on his way as soon as the sun rises. Until then I intend to protect my own.”

“Is he handsome?”

Portia frowned as the memory of elegant features and smoke grey eyes sent a rush of heat through the pit of her stomach.

Drat it all. Was she coming down with a fever?

“What does that matter?” she demanded.

Molly heaved a sigh. “It is just so rare to have a real gentleman in these parts.”

The brief warmth fled as a familiar chill spread through her body. Good Lord. Molly was no wide-eyed innocent and yet she continued to flutter and flirt whenever a nobleman crossed the threshold.

As if they were somehow superior to the more common male.

Portia knew the truth.

“Let me assure you that supposed gentlemen are vain, pompous peacocks who consider nothing and no one beyond their own pleasures.”

The brown eyes twinkled. “Aye, but is he handsome?”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Molly, he is obscenely handsome. Now return to your work and stay away from the blue chambers.”

Continuing down the hall, Portia gave a rueful shake of her head. Had there ever been a twenty-year-old girl who did not have her head stuffed with foolish fantasies of handsome princes come to sweep them off to their fairy tale castle?

Even she had harbored such dreams. At least until her prince had arrived and promptly turned into a worthless toad.

She shoved her foolish thoughts aside as she stepped into the kitchen, her expert eye skimming over the long wooden tables loaded with freshly baked bread, peeled vegetables, bundles of dried herbs, and baskets of strawberries.

The kitchen had been recently remodeled to incorporate the latest inventions, but the delicious scents that wafted through the air were a product of good old-fashioned talent.

A rather smug smile touched her lips. It had been a stroke of genius to lure the older woman to the inn. It did not even matter that she was forced to pay nearly two hundred pounds a year to keep her. Her profits had nearly doubled since the woman’s arrival.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cornell,” she said as she crossed to where the silver-haired woman rolled out a lump of dough. “Is everything in order?”

The thin woman with a pinched face continued with her task. “The pies are in the oven as well as lovely stuffed mushrooms in cream sauce. I am just working on the strawberry tarts.”

“It all smells delicious.”

“I heard as we have another guest.”

Portia grimaced. “Yes.”

“Shall I have a tray fixed?”

“No, he wishes to eat in the public rooms.”

“Does he now? That is right decent of him.”

“The man would not know decency if it bit him on the arse,” she muttered before she could halt the words.

The cook glanced up in surprise. “Has he done something to offend you?”

“Not at all. I think I must be tired,” she admitted. “I will be in my rooms if you have need of me.”

“ Aye.”

Assured that the inn would not tumble into oblivion, at least not within the next hour, Portia made her way back through the inn and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. With a stern effort she kept herself from glancing toward the door that led to the blue chambers, and moved to the end of the hall. She pulled her keys from her pocket and unlocked the door that led to the narrow stairs to the attic.

After the death of Thomas, Portia had sold their pretty cottage and used the money to keep the inn from plunging into disaster. Over the past two years, business had been good enough to finance a separate home, but Portia was in no hurry to quit her snug chambers. Not only was it convenient to be on hand to deal with the problems that occurred on a daily basis, but the tidy nest egg she was managing to acquire gave her a sense of security.

Never, ever again would she be alone and penniless.

She was a woman who had made her way in the world and no one could take that away from her.

Freshly scrubbed and attired in dry clothing, Fredrick realized that he was starving. With a last glance in the mirror to check that his cravat was precisely knotted and his curls tamed, he left the room.

He closed the door behind him, his heart giving a sudden leap as he watched Mrs. Walker marching down the hallway.

For some unfathomable reason, he had been unable to thrust the thought of the woman from his mind. Strange, considering he was a man who never allowed himself to be distracted. How could he have possibly made such a success of his business if he could not concentrate fully on his goals?

On this evening, however, it did not matter how often he sternly turned his thoughts to his upcoming confrontation with his father, his mind refused to cooperate. Instead of plotting out a strategy, he had brooded upon the perfection of a sweet Madonna countenance and tender curves hidden beneath layers of ugly wool.

Mrs. Walker was not the first woman he had ever desired, but she was by far the most intriguing.

That aloof disdain. The air of unshakable command. The delicious femininity disguised beneath a layer of ice.

It was a challenge that no man could resist. Especially a man who preferred to earn his rewards rather than having them handed to him on a silver platter.

Unfortunately, his first attempt to discover the means of slipping beneath her fierce composure had accomplished nothing. Rather than the maid he had been expecting to tend to his needs, it was the surly Quinn who had brought up his bath and stoked the fire. The elderly man had made it clear that he had no intention of gossiping about his employer, at least nothing beyond confirming to Fredrick that the woman held men in contempt, and most particularly those from London.

It seemed, however, that his luck was just about to take a turn for the better, he told himself as he deliberately moved to block the narrow corridor.

With a scowl Mrs. Walker came to a reluctant halt, her expression revealing she was not nearly so pleased as himself with the stroke of fortune.

“Ah, Mrs. Walker.”

He slowly smiled, his gaze dipping down to discover she had changed her gown to one of a pale grey. Unfortunately, it was even less flattering than the brown monstrosity. The woman might be an extraordinary businesswoman, but her taste in clothing could leave a man limp at a hundred paces. Which was no doubt the object of the hideous gowns.

Thankfully, it took a great deal more to make Fredrick limp. Instead his cock hardened as lurid images of stripping off the thick wool to discover the satin beneath danced through his head.

“Good evening, sir.”

“There was no need to escort me to dinner. Not that I am complaining, mind you. I appreciate any opportunity to be in the company of a beautiful woman. Still, it does seem we should at least be properly introduced before we proceed any further.” He performed his most elegant bow. “Fredrick Smith at your service. And you, I presume, must be Mrs. Walker, the proprietress of this fine establishment?”

The blue eyes glittered with an artic chill. “I am. And as proprietress I have a number of duties awaiting my attention. So if you will kindly move aside?”

“I will just as soon as you answer a simple question for me.”

“What question?”

Fredrick took a step forward, startled to discover that beneath the scent of starch and wax was a lovely hint of roses.

A startling new piece to add to the puzzle of Mrs. Walker.

“To my knowledge we have never encountered one another before today. So precisely why have you taken me in such great dislike?”

The cool dignity never faltered. “You are mistaken, Mr. Smith. I do not like or dislike you. You are merely a guest at my inn who will soon be on your way.”

Fredrick swallowed a hasty laugh. Either she did not know much about men, or else the men she had dealt with were spineless creatures. Otherwise she would have known better than to blatantly toss down the gauntlet.

“Perhaps not so soon,” he said before he could even consider the words.

The frost briefly flickered. “What do you mean?”

Fredrick slowly smiled. Why not stay at the inn? It was less than twenty miles to his father’s estate. Close enough to conduct his investigation, but not so close as to cause his father alarm. This was as good a place to remain as any.

Indeed, it was far better than most.

What other place in all of England could include an exquisite widow just ripe for the plucking?

“I intend to remain in this area for the next few days, and, as you pointed out, your inn is clean, and if your food is as good as the smells coming from the kitchen, I shall be perfectly satisfied.” He gave a challenging lift of one golden brow. “That is, unless you have some objection?”

Less than half a beat passed before she tilted her chin to a militant angle.

“Certainly not. We can always use the business.”

“Then we shall have plenty of opportunity to discover precisely what you find so offensive about my presence,” he murmured smoothly.

“Oh, I doubt you will be staying that long, Mr. Smith.”

Ah, she was good, he acknowledged with a flare of anticipation. It had been a very long time since he had crossed swords with a woman with such swift wits.

“Perhaps it is only fair to warn you, poppet, that while I may not be the smartest, or wealthiest, or even the most talented of gentlemen, I am without a doubt exceedingly patient. When I set myself a task I do not waver until it is completed.”

The blue eyes hardened to chips of sapphire. “Let me return the favor, Mr. Smith . . .”

“Fredrick,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Mr. Smith,” she retorted, her voice dripping with ice. “I am not one of your frivolous London socialites. I have struggled and sacrificed more than you can imagine to reach my current position. Never again will I ever be forced or bullied or coerced against my will. If you become a bother I will have you escorted from my property.”

Fredrick felt his chest squeeze at the stoic dignity etched into every inch of her tiny body. Christ, what had she suffered to give her such a deep distrust for men?

Had it been the heavy hand of oppression, or had she suffered physical abuse?

The thought sent a startling fury through his heart. To think anyone could harm such a tiny and fragile creature . . . well, if he knew where to find the bastard, or bastards, he would rip them apart limb by limb.

Suddenly the fierce desire to have her in his bed, her slender legs wrapped about his waist, was overshadowed by a need to melt that frigid wariness she wore as a shield to protect her vulnerable heart. He wanted to see a genuine smile touch those lush, perfect lips. He wanted her to discover that for all the rakes, and lechers, and tyrants in the world, there were also decent men. Men who could offer more than pain and oppression.