The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“The only available Carrington. No, there is also my mother. She enjoys traveling a great deal and doesn’t spend all that much time in England. But when she comes for a visit, perhaps she will look at her granddaughter, sigh with grandmotherly delight, and decide to sink roots.” He frowned over that. “However, I wouldn’t count on that happening. In fact, I have a very difficult time picturing such a thing. My mother is fancy-free, you know.”

She laughed at that, throwing up her hands. “Your mother, sir, sounds like an original.”

“Oh, she is. I am quite fond of her. Now, about some new gowns for you—”

“No, I don’t believe so. When will you give me my allowance? I plan to save it.”

How the devil could a will forbid saving the wretched inheritance? All Rohan knew was that he wasn’t about to let her leave Mountvale. Why? Common sense didn’t matter in this case. She wasn’t leaving.

“You could save a bit, I suppose. But you know, I plan to do a bit of entertaining. You will act as my hostess. You cannot be a Carrington hostess in any of the gowns I’ve seen.”

She concentrated on the small pile of eggs at the edge of her plate. “I will think about it,” she said finally, not looking at him.

It was a dark, stormy night, the kind of night that made Rohan itchy and restless. He was pacing his library. He stopped and drank the tea in the bottom of his cup. It was cold.

“My lord.”

He nearly tripped, he turned about so quickly at the sound of her voice. Susannah was standing in the doorway, her rich hair long and loose down her back, wearing a faded light blue nightgown and a dark blue dressing gown, both suitable for a maiden lady of indeterminate years. It had probably belonged to her mother, or to her grandmother. It didn’t matter. She looked altogether delicious. He hadn’t thought she looked delicious at all yesterday or the day before, but he did now. It made no sense. He wouldn’t put up with this. She was a mother, for God’s sake. She was also delicious—no, that was absurd.

He meant his voice to sound unfeeling, and it did. “It is after midnight. What do you want?”

“I remembered something that perhaps could be helpful to us. I saw the candlelight from beneath the d

oor and thought to tell you.”

He pointed to a chair. As she walked in front of the fireplace toward him, the embers suddenly spurted into flame. He saw clearly through the dressing gown, through the nightgown.

He swallowed. He needed to go to London. He needed distance from her. Just a bit of distance and she would return to normal and so would he. Why hadn’t he doused the embers in the fireplace?

He swallowed again. “Sit down,” he said, this time louder. If she didn’t move out of that blasted light, he would find himself in the situation of having to sit quickly behind his desk. Surely she would realize what that meant, particularly if his eyes were glazed over at the same time, he was staring at her breasts, and he had difficulty speaking plainly and clearly.

She moved to stand behind a wing chair, leaning slightly forward. It brought more hair over her shoulder to cascade over her left breast. It was a very seductive pose. Didn’t she realize that? Was she doing this on purpose?

“What did you think might be important?”

She cocked her head at him. His voice was harsh and he wasn’t smiling. “You are in a strange mood tonight, my lord.”

“I am not in any kind of mood and I forbid you to speak of it.”

She grinned at him, unable not to. He was being perverse and, oddly, it was quite charming. He looked harassed. Her smile fell away. It was because she’d brought all this trouble to his door. It was all because of her father’s letter. She prayed that Mrs. Heron was skinning her father at cards, winning every groat he got his hands on. At least if he had nothing to bet with, he would have to remain at Mulberry House. Even now the baron must be cursing both her and her father for the predicament he was in. She looked down at her clasped hands and sighed.

“I’m sorry I have brought you all this misery. It’s all my fault, I well realize it.”

“But you knew the thief just might come here along with you, did you not?”

“Yes, but not really. Well, I hoped he would give up once he saw where we were coming. After all, this is a real house, not like Mulberry House.” She looked down at the soft brocade on the chair and began to pet it as though it were a cat. The material was soft and warm, and he suddenly imagined her hands on him, petting him. He snarled. He would shortly be a candidate for Bedlam. He heard her say, her voice filled with even more misery, even more apology, “It was possible and I knew it. I suppose that means, despite any excuses, that I’m not a very good person.”

“Yes, that is what it would mean.”

The hurt was unexpected. She looked up then. “It’s the children. I couldn’t leave the children in danger.”

“It appears they are still in danger.”

He was right and she felt flattened by his words. She tried to straighten her shoulders, but it was difficult. She said very quietly, “Is this quarterly allowance enough for me to afford a small cottage near Mountvale, since I must be your responsibility and must stay near you? I will take the children and leave. Your life can become again what it was.”

He gave her a mean look. “Just what do you mean by that? ‘Your life can become again what it was.” ’ He mimicked the condemnation in her voice, the sarcasm.

Her chin went up. She hadn’t really meant that, even though it was true. He was looking at her as if he’d like to throw her out the library window. They were large windows—she’d remarked upon them earlier. He could do it.