The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

Rohan just stared at her. George had said that? No, it wasn’t possible, it just wasn’t.

“Then he’d laugh and say that you were the best of brothers, despite all your secrets and your philandering. I never knew what he meant by that.

“But you don’t know anything, my lord. Also, since it’s obvious you don’t believe me, I will show you our papers. Not because I care what you think of me or Marianne, but because I care what you think of George. Then I want you to leave. You have never been a part of our lives. I decided long ago that George was never going to allow you to be part of our lives. I certainly don’t want you to be now.”

He was utterly baffled. None of this made any sense.

He had a niece named Marianne. He didn’t even know the mother’s name.

When she returned to the entryway where she’d left him waiting, she handed him an envelope. Inside was a parchment that looked very official. Sure enough, it was the marriage certificate. He recognized his brother’s signature. He read the preacher’s signature. Bligh McNally. There was no need for him to read more.

Very slowly he handed it back to her.

“Your father wrote me that letter because he wanted money. It’s obvious there isn’t much of that here at Mulberry House. You haven’t asked me for money, so either you don’t want any, or if you do, you’re playing the game with a strategy I have never before witnessed.”

“I don’t want your money. I never wanted your money. George expected to inherit some of his father’s money when he became twenty-five. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it.”

He looked off into the distance for just a moment, then smiled. He took the plunge. He said, “Ah, but you’re wrong. Didn’t he tell you? No, of course he didn’t. Aunt Mariam died after George did. He had no idea that she would leave him money, some twenty thousand pounds. That money came to me, since George was dead.” He drew a deep breath, aware that he was very possibly wading deeper into the River Styx. “It should now go to George’s daughter.”

Money, she thought, staring at the baron. George had actually left her money, all unknowingly. Well, no, actually the baron was offering her the money and he didn’t have to. Not just a shilling or two. No, real money—twenty thousand pounds. It was a v

ast sum. She doubted she’d ever seen more than twenty pounds at any one time in her entire twenty-one and a half years.

It was more than enough to live on very comfortably, forever. The good Lord knew she had ample experience living on a frayed string. Twenty thousand pounds—no frayed string anymore. She and Marianne would be safe. Toby too. All three of them would be safe.

She looked him straight in the eye. “That would support Marianne and me forever. Will you truly give us George’s inheritance?”

“There’s only one problem,” he said slowly, wondering how the devil these damnable words were seeping out of his own mouth, feeling himself sink deeper. Then he saw the little girl’s face, that small smile of hers, identical to George’s, and his heart contracted. George’s child. He couldn’t leave her here. He wouldn’t.

Now the ax would fall, she thought, watching him. Did he want to bed her? George had panted after her—no other way to put it—but she’d loved him and wanted him to marry her, and thus he’d had no choice if he wanted to bed her. He’d married her all right and proper and then almost immediately impregnated her.

She hadn’t blamed him overly when he’d left her once the morning illness had begun. Watching someone vomit wasn’t an elevating sight. And she’d been so tired and tiresome. She was glad when he left. She’d felt wretched and guilty, the two emotions nearly dragging her into the dirt. But then he’d come back. He always returned to her.

Still, the baron remained silent, just looking intently at her. “You want me to go to bed with you,” she said dully and looked past him out the open front door to where Jamie was still singing to Gulliver, the huge gray nodding his head. She wondered if his hooves were tapping a beat in the ground. “That is your only condition.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Surely not that. You’re not sufficient for me. You’re too thin, you have dirt beneath your fingernails, and I doubt your conversation goes much beyond what a three-year-old wants to hear. No, I think not. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that you’re ugly or even plain. You’re just not in my style. No, that’s not the problem.” He accepted what he was doing and why he was doing it. It was just that he’d never done anything like this before in his life. It would certainly confound his dear mama. On the other hand, he knew her face would be as radiant as a star when she met George’s daughter.

“What is the problem, then?” He’d insulted her from here to the garden and back. Wasn’t he a satyr? Didn’t he want every woman he saw? Even one with dirt under her fingernails? And she wasn’t all that thin.

He studied his own fingernails. They were well buffed and clean. He said without looking at her, “To inherit George’s money, you must come onto the stage, so to speak. You cannot remain here at Mulberry House. You must take your place as the widow of the late George Carrington. In short, you must come to my home and live the life you would have had if George had lived.”

He was mad, utterly and undeniably mad. No doubt about it, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, leave the little girl here to live with a grandfather who was probably also a drunk besides being a gambler. He would like to take just Marianne, but he knew her mother would never allow it.

“London?”

“I have a house there. You make it sound like one big fleshpot. It’s not, you know.”

She was shaking her head. “No, no, truly, everything is just as I like it. I wish to stay here. It’s true my father is in one of his rather low periods and I am never certain how long it will last. All I want is protection for Marianne. Please—”

“You will not beg again. It doesn’t suit you. Marianne is my niece. She is my flesh. She will live as a Carrington. If not London, then we will go to my estate in Sussex until you accustom yourself. She will not remain here.”

“You make Mulberry House sound like a pigsty. It isn’t. It’s just that Papa is on one of his lower swings and—”

“Papa can swing in any direction he pleases. My niece will not live well or hand-to-mouth according to his luck. Do you want her to grow up knowing her dear grandpapa tried to blackmail her uncle?”

That did revolt the senses, she thought, but things were moving too quickly. “Where do you live in Sussex?”

“Near Eastbourne. It’s but two miles from the coast. It’s beautiful country, all hilly, with ancient rocks that poke up here and there and quite take you by surprise. It’s near where the Battle of Hastings was fought. When you walk over that ground, you can practically hear the Normans and the Saxons axing away at each other. The weather is pleasant as it can be anywhere in England.”