The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“It’s none of your business,” he said, set the teacup in its saucer with a snap, and rose. “Your father wrote specifically that George had ruined you. What did he mean? Did George seduce you? Relieve you of your precious virginity? Did he leave you in a ditch? What exactly did the poor boy do to you? You are not exactly a toothsome young maiden of seventeen.” Irritated, he slashed his hand through the air, then said, “At least you’re cleaner than you were when I first saw you. But there is still some dirt beneath your fingernails.”

“I know. I couldn’t find my gloves. I thought you wanted to know how I came to be acquainted with your brother. Well, no matter. We met and that was that. George didn’t do anything that I didn’t want him to. My father is mistaken. You may leave now, my lord.”

He said abruptly, “How old are you, Miss Hawlworth?”

“I am nearly twenty-one.”

“George was twenty-three when he died. I had thought you would be much older, an experienced woman to take advantage of a green young man.”

“George, green? Yes, I suppose he was. He was very shy, quiet, and he loved to read maps, any maps.” She paused a moment, frowning down at the lemon cake.

Rohan said, sitting forward on the settee, “It wasn’t that George was a prig, but he was a rather solitary young man, loved his studies, particularly maps, and I would have wagered that he was a virgin when he died even though I knew he wasn’t.”

“No, George was no prig. Nor was he a virgin. At least he told me he wasn’t. There is no way I would be able to tell is there?”

“No. Now, how old were you when you met George?”

“I don’t recall exactly.”

“You are being evasive. Tell me the bloody truth.”

“There is little enough to tell. And it makes no difference to anything.” She had the gall to shrug.

He was furious, but he wasn’t about to show her how very angry he really was. She believed that bedding more women than resided in an English village was his mission in life? A Carrington family tradition? In his damned blood? Damnation, it was supposed to be and at this moment, he hated it. He wanted to pick up the sofa with its ridiculous Egyptian feet and hurl it through the windows, except it wouldn’t fit. He drew a nice deep breath. “Then tell me more about George.”

“He was too handsome for his own good, just as you are,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice that robbed her words of any compliment “He was smart. But he sometimes seemed lost to me, as if he wanted to do something or be someone different from what he was, and he just didn’t know where to go or what to do. That sounds strange, I know, but it was often the impression he gave me. He was loyal, in his way.”

This was the George he knew. Quiet, studious George. “Loyal in his own way? What do you mean by that?”

“He did not abandon those whom he had taken in affection, those to whom he had made commitments.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. Would you care to be more specific?”

“No. I will also tell you that he drank too much. It worried me a great deal.”

“I never saw George take a drink of anything in his entire life. The George you described is my George, all right, except for this drinking. Are you certain it was George and not someone who used his name, someone who just happened to have looked a bit like him, a bit like me?”

She rose quickly. “Just a moment. I cannot believe that I actually understand what you mean.”

She left the drawing room. He heard her light footsteps on the stairs. When she returned just a few moments later, she was carrying a sketch pad. She rifled through the pages, then handed the pad to him. He saw a startling likeness of George. She was an excellent artist. The figure in the drawing looked shy and wistful, yet there was something yearning in that expression she’d captured. What was it? It was puzzling, but perhaps it was just that the artist had rendered that yearning look he didn’t recognize. He handed her back the sketch pad before he realized he wanted to look through the rest of the drawings.

“That is George.”

“Of course it is.”

“You do know how he died?”

“I know that he drowned. The Gazette gave no details. There was no way for me to find out more.”

“Of course there was. All you had to do was to write to me, but you didn’t. Very well, you’ve pursed your lips together so tightly your mouth has nearly disappeared. He and some of his friends were in small yachts, racing from Ventnor to Lucy Point. None of them knew that a freak storm was blowing up. It hit them hard, driving George’s yacht into the cliff just above Lucy Point. The boat splintered. The young man with George survived. George didn’t. His body was never recovered. If he had been drunk at the time I would have killed him if he hadn’t died. But of course he wasn’t drunk. George didn’t drink, I told you that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said, and nothing more. She didn’t cry, but she was remarkably pale. He held his peace and sipped more of his tea. Finally, after she’d eaten the last bite of a lemon cake, she said, “You’re right, they do taste quite sour. I must work on that recipe.”

“Ask Mrs. Timmons to teach you.”

“Yes, perhaps I will. Now, surely you have to leave, my lord.”

He shrugged. Why not? There was nothing for him here. Perhaps a bit of George he hadn’t known, but George was dead, and what did it matter now? The chit wasn’t going to say anything more about George and he couldn’t very well force her to. But the father—he really wanted to know what her damned father had to say. “Where is your father?”