The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

Susannah could only stare at the glorious creature who was looking limpidly up at her from her position on the carpet. “I agree with everything you said, ma’am. But d

idn’t you hear him? Didn’t you hear the way he spoke to me? He ordered me. Surely you didn’t approve of that?”

Charlotte curled a blond curl around her finger even as she gently removed Marianne’s fingers from her mouth. She shrugged even as she eased Marianne onto her lap and leaned back against the settee. “My dear, he is my son, my eldest son. He never gave me a moment’s worry growing up. He accepted all his dear papa’s teachings and all of mine. He pleased both of us from his earliest years. He has gained a reputation that is formidable for one of such a young age. He has made me very proud. What is the mother of such a son to do?”

Susannah blinked once, twice, then drew a deep breath, but still it didn’t work and her mouth opened. “But, ma’am, he is a lecher, a—”

“I am not a damned lecher!”

“Yes, dearest, you are.” Charlotte paused and pursed her lips. “But I would never call you that. It is too blunt a word, too harsh. ‘Lecher.’ Goodness, it makes the wearer sound very unamiable, and all know that Baron Mountvale is the most charming of gentlemen. He is in demand. He is beloved. The ladies search him out. If there are excesses—which I pray there most assuredly are—it is the ladies who force them upon him. But not all of the time, I trust. Ro-han?”

“No, Mother, not all of the time.” There was, he saw, nothing for it. He threw up his hands and said, “Susannah, we are having a small soiree on Friday night. There will be at least a dozen of our neighbors. I would appreciate it if you would gown yourself appropriately—as George’s widow, not as my hostess. Now, I’m taking Toby riding. He should have returned from his lessons with Vicar Byam.”

“I thought you wanted me to buy him a pony out of my five hundred pounds.”

“You will. But I have decided that Toby is too old for a pony. It is Marianne who needs the pony. Toby will have a horse. I will even select the horse. Branderleigh Farm is not far from Mountvale. We will go there. Right now, though, I have several horses that will suit him.”

“Gentlemen,” he heard his mother say before he was out the door, “do not like to be contradicted to their faces, Susannah. You were married to George, surely you learned that.”

“No, ma’am. George wasn’t often at Mulberry House. I learned little or nothing.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte, wondering if George had lost his hot blood immediately upon begetting Marianne. It sounded, depressingly, as if he had. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

“So was I, ma’am.” Not entirely, Susannah thought as she carried Marianne upstairs for her nap. The last several years, she had rarely seen him. She doubted he would have known his own daughter if he’d stumbled over her in the street. But he had supported them until he had died.

Five hundred pounds. When she gained her bedchamber, she immediately sat down at the small writing desk, drew a piece of foolscap from a delicate drawer, and began to make a list.

She wanted to kick herself when she realized later upon review, that she’d written “clothing” at the very top.

The baron was a lecher who planted marigolds, with great care. It was all very strange. “Lecher.” Charlotte was right, it was an intolerable word. It didn’t suit him at all, which had to be odd as well, since he was a renowned womanizer.

Susannah was deeply asleep, alone for the first time. Marianne was sleeping in the Mountvale nursery with her new nursemaid, Lottie. Betty had left to tend to her ill mother. Susannah was dreaming about a man—a stranger to her—who was digging about in flower beds. He kept saying over his shoulder that he didn’t like bulbs, that they always rotted and he’d be damned if he’d plant any more of them.

He pulled out a grayish bulb, whirled about, and held it up to her nose. “Smell it,” he said.

She didn’t want to, but she breathed in deeply. She began to choke. The smell was sickly sweet. Then it was in her throat and it burned and she was choking.

She began to struggle. Suddenly she was awake and there was a man standing over her, holding a damp cloth over her nose and mouth.

She tried to rear up, to jerk away from that cloth, but his hand was on the back of her head, forcing her face into the cloth. She held her breath, striking out with her fists, but not for long. He hit her squarely between the shoulder blades, and her breath whooshed out.

She felt light-headed and dizzy, then she felt nothing at all.

“My lord, Mrs. Carrington is gone!”

It was Fitz, his face as white as his spiffy collar, panting in the open doorway of the baron’s bedchamber.

“What do you mean, gone?” Rohan shook his head to clear away the remnants of the strange dream he’d had. “It’s only seven o’clock in the morning, Fitz. Maybe she’s gone for an early-morning ride, perhaps she’s gone to play with Marianne, you know that little imp—”

“She’s gone, my lord. Gone! Elsie just happened to look in on her as she passed her room. Her bed was empty, the sheets tumbled and jerked about. Her bedchamber has also been ransacked.”

“Ransacked? You’re certain? You said that Elsie is flighty, loves drama. Have you checked this yourself?” But Rohan had already thrown back the covers. He was naked, and the wooden floor beneath his bare feet was colder than a patch of ice.

“Your dressing gown, my lord. That’s better. You can be seen now, although the maids would perhaps prefer you in a natural state. Yes, I verified that Elsie hadn’t been indulging in playacting. Mrs. Carrington is gone, my lord. Her bedchamber is a mess. Someone took her.”

Rohan cursed deeply and fluently. “All the doors were locked, we had men patrolling the grounds. What about the footmen guarding the doors?”

“I don’t know.” Fitz turned even whiter. “Oh, my goodness, I don’t know.” The old man nearly ran out of the room, the baron at his heels.