was to survive.
Which in some ways only made it worse, she acknowledged. If he would just primp and prance and flutter about like any decent dandy she could freeze him with one slaying glare.
But a kindred spirit?
That she did not know how to battle.
Portia wrapped her arms about her waist as she regarded him with a wary frown.
“If you understand, then why are you so determined to meddle where you do not belong?”
The grey eyes became misty as he allowed pleasant memories to overtake him.
“Because I was fortunate enough to be given into the care of a very wise man who taught me that being strong and independent did not mean a person cannot appreciate the kindness offered by others. In fact, it is in sharing our lives with others that brings a richness to our days.”
“I share my life with many people,” she protested. “The people who work for me are more than mere servants, they are my family.”
“And dependent on you for their livelihood.”
Portia stiffened, oddly stung by his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Slowly he stepped toward her, his gaze deliberately lowering to her mouth.
“They are no threat to you, poppet,” he whispered.
“And you are?”
A wicked fire abruptly sparked to life in the silver eyes. “Perhaps.”
She resisted the urge to lick her lips. That breathless tension was swirling between them. A near tangible heat that brushed over her skin and made her breath unsteady. The slightest movement and she would be in his arms.
Where she wanted to be.
“I need to return to the inn,” she husked.
He gave a soft chuckle, as if amused by her less-than-subtle need to flee. Then he slowly bent his head toward her.
Portia instinctively prepared herself to battle his kiss, but she was unprepared when he tilted his head and pressed his face in the curve of her neck. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her scent.
“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
Which in some ways only made it worse, she acknowledged. If he would just primp and prance and flutter about like any decent dandy she could freeze him with one slaying glare.
But a kindred spirit?
That she did not know how to battle.
Portia wrapped her arms about her waist as she regarded him with a wary frown.
“If you understand, then why are you so determined to meddle where you do not belong?”
The grey eyes became misty as he allowed pleasant memories to overtake him.
“Because I was fortunate enough to be given into the care of a very wise man who taught me that being strong and independent did not mean a person cannot appreciate the kindness offered by others. In fact, it is in sharing our lives with others that brings a richness to our days.”
“I share my life with many people,” she protested. “The people who work for me are more than mere servants, they are my family.”
“And dependent on you for their livelihood.”
Portia stiffened, oddly stung by his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Slowly he stepped toward her, his gaze deliberately lowering to her mouth.
“They are no threat to you, poppet,” he whispered.
“And you are?”
A wicked fire abruptly sparked to life in the silver eyes. “Perhaps.”
She resisted the urge to lick her lips. That breathless tension was swirling between them. A near tangible heat that brushed over her skin and made her breath unsteady. The slightest movement and she would be in his arms.
Where she wanted to be.
“I need to return to the inn,” she husked.
He gave a soft chuckle, as if amused by her less-than-subtle need to flee. Then he slowly bent his head toward her.
Portia instinctively prepared herself to battle his kiss, but she was unprepared when he tilted his head and pressed his face in the curve of her neck. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her scent.
“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
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