The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“Then this would be a marriage of convenience, all the convenience being for me?”

“No, it would also be immensely convenient for my family. We would be protecting George’s reputation, and thus the Carrington name. Don’t doubt that anyone with even the slightest suspicion would find out quickly enough that your marriage to George was a fraud. This fake preacher, Bligh McNally, is really very well known. No, this is the only solution. I protect George and thus the Carrington family reputation. And you become a real Carrington. Everything will be neat and tidy.”

He gave her a blazing smile. “And I get a daughter and a son, if you’re willing to oblige me, maybe even a half dozen of each.”

“Would you let me go?”

For a moment he thought she was referring to fifty years from now. But no. She was speaking of right now, of today, just walking out of his life. He released her, but didn’t move away from her. “No.”

She began to pace, just like his mother, her stride long and sure, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn’t have the immense beauty of his mother, but whatever quality she had, it was deep and mysterious and intense. What she was, was unique. What she was, was precious, at least to him. And who else mattered, for God’s sake? He wanted her, it was that simple. He thought a few fanciful thoughts of fate, then shook his head. Whatever she was, she fit with him. She was the woman God had fashioned for him and him alone.

He watched her, content for the moment. She continued to pace, pausing every few steps, obviously caught up in very profound thought, then shaking her head, clearing it, and pacing again. Good, it meant she was discarding arguments. All the better for him. He sat down, leaning back in his chair. He rested his head back against his folded arms. He watched her walk, move. She was very graceful. She would sweat nicely.

Suddenly she whirled about to face him. “I saw that. You are smiling. Why?”

“If I told you, you just might attack me. You might run into the library, grab that ugly Chinese vase, and throw it at my head.”

“It is probably a loathsome man-thought that made you smile.”

“Indeed.”

She sat down and arranged her skirts around her. He hadn’t noticed before, but he did now. She was wearing one of her three ugly gowns, this one a pale gray, nearly white from so many washings. The damned thing nearly touched her chin. It wasn’t cut properly either. It just went straight down from her breasts, not cupping in at all, no band to define her figure. She was wringing her hands. He raised an eyebrow at that.

“Talk to me, Susannah.”

“I am still thinking about this heir business. I would have to let you do those things to me—how many times?—in order to become with child.”

“It’s called making love, at least it would be called that between us. It’s a pity that you don’t believe that. But you will believe it. Trust me.”

Her voice was tart and quite cold. “Making love? Surely that is an invention of some man a very long time ago to draw women in.”

“No, actually I don’t believe so. But I am not an expert on the Egyptians, so my opinion isn’t altogether learned.”

If she’d had the Chinese vase nearby, she would have thrown it at his head. “And there would be no guarantee it would be a boy. I perhaps would have to submit to this for years before you got your heir.”

“All true.” His eyes nearly crossed again. “I rather like the thought of five girls before we make our boy. Don’t be melancholy, Susannah, it won’t take all that long, if you don’t wish it to. Not more than twenty years.”

She actually shuddered. What the devil had George done to her? But he knew, of course. Many men didn’t have any knowledge at all about women’s bodies. Many men did have knowledge, but they didn’t care. He personally thought that all men should have rigorous training in how to make love properly to a woman. His father had certainly seen to it that he’d gotten proper training.

He’d been fourteen when his sire had rubbed his hands together, slapped him on the back, and turned him over to his most skilled mistress, Mary Claire, a lass from Wexford, Ireland, who gave Rohan three lessons a week for six months. Actually, she’d confided to him some years later, he hadn’t needed any more lessons after three weeks, but she enjoyed him, and besides, she’d laughed then, his father had paid her handsomely for bringing his boy into proper shape. He tried now to remember if he’d ever felt embarrassment with Mary Claire. He didn’t think so.

He still occasionally saw Mary Claire. She was an excellent friend. She had been so distraught after his father’s death that his mother had gone to console her. In fact, the two women had been close ever since then.

As for George and Tibolt, they’d also had appropriate training. There’d been no reason for George to be a clod. He’d not been tutored by Mary Claire, but surely his father wouldn’t have had him placed with an inept woman. But he had proved himself a clod, obviously. Why? He must have been one of those men who didn’t give a good damn about a woman’s pleasure. Rohan couldn’t imagine such a thing.

Susannah was saying, “My mother was the daughter of a knight. He evidently did something in the Colonies to please George III and was thus rewarded. As for my father, he was a second son, half Irish, with not a sou to his name. Her father disowned her. So you see, my antecedents are on the very edge of acceptable.”

“Ah, so your family can’t trace itself back to the Conqueror?”

She frowned at that. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. I should know that, shouldn’t I? I could write to my grandfather. I’ve never met him, but perhaps he doesn’t wish to keep me disowned now that my mother has been dead so many years. My mother used to say that he wore the starchiest cravats of any gentleman she knew. She said he could scarce move his head. Thus it was impossible for him to look down and see his daughter. She said she doubted if he ever saw her except at a distance.”

“This sounds highly eccentric. Perhaps there are bats in your ancestral

belfry.” He raised his hands at her. “No, don’t think about throwing that vase at me again. Very well, here is what I will do so you will not feel guilty for your less-than-adequate birth. I will simply lower your quarterly allowance to compensate myself for your lacks.”

“I will write to my grandfather,” she said firmly. “Surely there must be something of note in the family tree, something salutary to make you commend my ancestors.” Then, to his absolute delight, she lowered her head, whispering, “I don’t want you to be ashamed of me.”

So she was coming around. More than that, she was very nearly there. Excellent. “Who is your grandfather?”