The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

He groaned, then rose and began to pace. The thick Axminster carpet beneath his booted feet silenced the sound. Fitz came and this time left the champagne. His mother said nothing more, merely watched him.

Finally he said, “I’m only twenty-five. I won’t be twenty-six anytime soon. Not for three more months. I’m not old enough. I will marry, I know that I must, but not this soon, Mama. Daphne? Please, not a Daphne. Tell me she lives in Italy somewhere.”

“No, she lives right here in England, actually in Kent. But she understands your nature and your reputation perfectly. Your life won’t have to change, dearest, not really. You can continue with your dissipations and your myriad other excesses. Daphne will provide you an heir and then she can begin her own pleasures.”

“Mama, I appreciate your concern, but I am too young to yet consider taking a wife. I particularly don’t want a wife named Daphne.”

His fond mama eyed him for a long time, then finally nodded. “Very well. I will write to Lord Bracken and inform him that you are ill-disposed toward matrimony. It is rather a horrid name, isn’t it? Ah, but she is a glorious creature. Perhaps we could convince her to change her name. Would you prefer Jane? Victoria?”

“Let’s just forget the glorious young lady, all right?” He grinned and raised his champagne glass to her.

“Speaking of glorious, what is that new footman’s name, Rohan? You know, the one with the deliciously wicked dark eyes? I do believe he has a Welsh look about him.”

“His name is Augustus. I rather thought you would find him to your liking.”

“You are a good son,” Charlotte said, rose, kissed him, and walked to the door. She said over her exquisite white shoulder, “What do you plan to do with Susannah? I don’t mean next week, I mean in the future.”

He looked down at his highly polished boots. He looked back at his mother. “I don’t know. But I’d best tell you about Aunt Mariam’s bequest to George.”

“I am gaining somewhat in years, dearest, but surely I would know about an Aunt Mariam if there were one in the family. Perhaps she’s one of your father’s early mistresses and she has the name ‘aunt’ because he considered her nearly one of the family?”

“No, there’s no Aunt Mariam that I know of, but that’s surely not a fact that Susannah need ever discover. I think you should come back, Mother, and let me tell you what I’ve done.”

9

SURELY SHE WAS MISTAKEN. SURELY THAT COULDN’T BE Baron Mountvale. No, impossible. Susannah drew closer. It was. He was on his knees planting a marigold with deep-golden flowers. She heard him humming.

The womanizing, utterly debauched baron was planting marigolds? And he w

as treating them tenderly, gently cleaning off the roots.

Susannah didn’t know what to think. He’d told her that he had designed the garden for his mother. He’d told her also that he had no interest in mucking about, and he’d arched a supercilious eyebrow when he said it. He most certainly wasn’t mucking about now, he was planting marigolds carefully and humming.

Then she realized that she wasn’t supposed to be here. Her mother-in-law had taken her, over her protests, in the carriage to Eastbourne to a seamstress whom she herself approved. The woman had taken ill, however, and they’d returned long before they were supposed to.

And here was Rohan planting marigolds in his garden. She quietly walked away. He’d given her food for thought. A lot of food.

When Rohan came into the drawing room before luncheon it was to see his lovely mama seated on the floor with Marianne, pouring her a cup of tea. Susannah was sitting in a chair in the corner of the large room. Sunlight poured in through the deep windows, making his mother’s hair look like spun silk. He wondered what the manly Augustus thought of Lady Mountvale. He was probably drooling.

Susannah found herself looking at the baron’s fingernails. No, they were very clean and well buffed. No dirt beneath them. He had very nice hands, she saw, then frowned a bit at herself.

“Ro-han!”

Marianne scrambled to her feet and ran to Rohan, her arms raised. He leaned down and picked her up, only to whirl her over his head in the next moment.

“Have you poured tea on your grandmama?”

She studiously traced the cleft in his chin with her finger, then smiled at him. “I want to look like Charlotte when I grow up.”

“Charlotte? You call your grandmama Charlotte?”

“Yes, dearest,” his mama said from the floor. “One must accept certain things that cannot be changed. However, there is no reason to rub salt in the wound, is there?”

“Absolutely no reason at all. So what have you been doing, little pumpkin, other than serving tea to Charlotte?”

“She told me about my grandpapa. He would have given me sweetmeats.”

“Yes, he would have,” Rohan said, and for the first time, he wished he had George in front of him. He would have slammed his fist into his jaw.