deliberately obtuse. And worse, she did not know if she wanted to throttle him or rip off that shirt and kiss her way down his gorgeous chest.
Portia sucked in a deep breath, deliberately jutting out her chin. “And you have no right to make decisions here.”
“Even if they are good decisions?” he demanded.
“They are mine to make,” she gritted.
Without warning he had reached out to grasp her hand and tugged her into the nearby stables. Portia stumbled behind, too startled to put up a proper fight.
Or at least that was what she told herself. Otherwise it would mean a secret part of her actually wanted to be alone with the man in the shadowed stables.
Pulling until they were out of sight of the servants, Fredrick at last halted and regarded her with a narrowed gaze.
“I admire your independence, poppet, but surely a gentleman can offer you a gift without threatening it?”
She gave a jerk on her hand, attempting to free herself from his grasp. When it was obvious he would not loosen his grip without a futile struggle, Portia was forced to content herself with an aloof expression.
“You consider this a gift?”
That charming grin curved his lips. “You did not seem the sort of woman who desired the traditional posies or pretty trinkets.”
Her heart slammed against her chest as she felt his thumb lightly caress the skin of her inner wrist. Her eyes widened as they clashed with the shimmering gray gaze.
Oh . . . mercy.
Concentrate, Portia. Just . . . concentrate.
“Why would you offer me any gifts?”
“To please you, of course.”
A sharp fear arrowed down her spine. “No, Fredrick, do not . . .”
Her words stuttered to a halt as he stepped closer, his hands lightly running up her arms to grasp her shoulders. His touch was soft, but it sent a shock of heat to the tips of her toes.
“I am asking nothing of you, Portia,” he said, his tone low and as smooth as honey. “And I do have an ulterior motive.”
“What is that?” The words came out strangely hoarse.
“I have already ruined one pair of boots.” The silver eyes danced with amusement. “If I ruin my last pair I shall be forced to go about in my stockings.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to think clearly when he was so near. “Please do not jest.”
“Portia—”
“This is not just a business to me,” she interrupted, far too conscious of his proximity. It would be so easy to reach out and touch that beautiful face. To run her fingers through his tangled curls. Gads, it was actually painful to resist. “This inn is my . . . security. So long as it is in my charge I know that I need never fear for my future.”
“I understand, poppet,” he murmured. “I truly do.”
With a sharp movement she had pulled from his distracting touch. “You could not possibly understand.”
The elegant features hardened as he caught and held her wary gaze. “Portia, I was born a bastard. There is no one in the world who better understands what it is to be completely alone in the world. My mother died when I was born, and until the age of eight, I was forced to live with an elderly widow in Winchester who took great delight in beating me with her cane. I had no friends, no one who cared if I cried myself to sleep at night.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Not even my beloved father who did not even acknowledge me as his bastard until I was sent to school in London.”
She bit her bottom lip, touched in spite of herself by his stark words. “I am sorry.”
“I did not reveal my sordid past for your pity,” his features softened. “I only want you to know that I understand your need to feel that you are in control of your life. When one is forced to endure uncertainty and constant upheaval, it is inevitable to crave a need for security.”
He did understand. Perhaps more than she wanted.
This man had felt the terror of being helpless against the whimsy of fate. Of knowing that he had no one but himself to depend on if he
Portia sucked in a deep breath, deliberately jutting out her chin. “And you have no right to make decisions here.”
“Even if they are good decisions?” he demanded.
“They are mine to make,” she gritted.
Without warning he had reached out to grasp her hand and tugged her into the nearby stables. Portia stumbled behind, too startled to put up a proper fight.
Or at least that was what she told herself. Otherwise it would mean a secret part of her actually wanted to be alone with the man in the shadowed stables.
Pulling until they were out of sight of the servants, Fredrick at last halted and regarded her with a narrowed gaze.
“I admire your independence, poppet, but surely a gentleman can offer you a gift without threatening it?”
She gave a jerk on her hand, attempting to free herself from his grasp. When it was obvious he would not loosen his grip without a futile struggle, Portia was forced to content herself with an aloof expression.
“You consider this a gift?”
That charming grin curved his lips. “You did not seem the sort of woman who desired the traditional posies or pretty trinkets.”
Her heart slammed against her chest as she felt his thumb lightly caress the skin of her inner wrist. Her eyes widened as they clashed with the shimmering gray gaze.
Oh . . . mercy.
Concentrate, Portia. Just . . . concentrate.
“Why would you offer me any gifts?”
“To please you, of course.”
A sharp fear arrowed down her spine. “No, Fredrick, do not . . .”
Her words stuttered to a halt as he stepped closer, his hands lightly running up her arms to grasp her shoulders. His touch was soft, but it sent a shock of heat to the tips of her toes.
“I am asking nothing of you, Portia,” he said, his tone low and as smooth as honey. “And I do have an ulterior motive.”
“What is that?” The words came out strangely hoarse.
“I have already ruined one pair of boots.” The silver eyes danced with amusement. “If I ruin my last pair I shall be forced to go about in my stockings.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to think clearly when he was so near. “Please do not jest.”
“Portia—”
“This is not just a business to me,” she interrupted, far too conscious of his proximity. It would be so easy to reach out and touch that beautiful face. To run her fingers through his tangled curls. Gads, it was actually painful to resist. “This inn is my . . . security. So long as it is in my charge I know that I need never fear for my future.”
“I understand, poppet,” he murmured. “I truly do.”
With a sharp movement she had pulled from his distracting touch. “You could not possibly understand.”
The elegant features hardened as he caught and held her wary gaze. “Portia, I was born a bastard. There is no one in the world who better understands what it is to be completely alone in the world. My mother died when I was born, and until the age of eight, I was forced to live with an elderly widow in Winchester who took great delight in beating me with her cane. I had no friends, no one who cared if I cried myself to sleep at night.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Not even my beloved father who did not even acknowledge me as his bastard until I was sent to school in London.”
She bit her bottom lip, touched in spite of herself by his stark words. “I am sorry.”
“I did not reveal my sordid past for your pity,” his features softened. “I only want you to know that I understand your need to feel that you are in control of your life. When one is forced to endure uncertainty and constant upheaval, it is inevitable to crave a need for security.”
He did understand. Perhaps more than she wanted.
This man had felt the terror of being helpless against the whimsy of fate. Of knowing that he had no one but himself to depend on if he
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