“She is probably hungry, although I nursed her before I brought her in. I warn you, she eats all the time. Worse, she pisses as much as you do. The two of you should rub along well.” She opened the door, shooting him a disdainful look. “I also wish to say, I don’t think you should brag about your inability to lie, Mars. I believe you make the claim to hide that you are simply incapable of love.”
“That is a nasty barb.” He could love. He just hadn’t—yet.
Her expression said she thought he was fooling himself. “Goodbye, my lord.”
At that moment, a worried sound escaped from the bundle. The covers moved and a decidedly feminine head popped out. A baby. She was on her belly. She pushed herself up and looked around with large, searching eyes—and then focused on him.
Mars knew nothing of children. He stayed away from them. He even kept a respectable distance from Balfour’s baby and he’d been present when she’d been born.
This baby had hair as dark as Deb’s. Except, instead of the mother’s curls, her hair stood up like a hedgehog’s spines that pointed wherever they wanted.
She swiveled her head to look at the door where Gibson, Nelson, and the footmen peered in with what could only be described as fascinated horror—a look that was probably mirrored on Mars’s face.
And then the baby appeared to grasp that she had been left. Abandoned. With him.
A lip puckered and then she gave out a cry so loud and so heart-wrenching it could have summoned the troops for miles around, and she didn’t stop. Not even for breath.
The wailing sparked Mars into action. He went charging from the room, barefooted and half-naked. He shouldered aside Gibson and the others. Reaching the top of the stairs, he saw Deb almost at the foot of them. “You can’t leave,” he demanded. “You can’t just walk off.”
Glancing up at him, she coolly answered, “Yes, I can.”
“But that is a baby. Your baby.”
“No, your baby, my lord—”
“It couldn’t be. I take precautions. I’m always careful.” He’d never wanted to pepper the countryside with bastards.
“Not all the time, you didn’t. And to be perfectly honest, because I, too, am incapable of lying, I’m done staying up through the night with her, having her pull on my breasts like they are udders, and then spit up on my clothes. I can’t stand the smell of it. I’m not a good mother. I don’t want to be one. So, now it is your turn. Truth is, it will be easier for you—you have plenty of money, so hire someone to take care of Menadora. Or . . .” she paused self-righteously “. . . toss her aside the way you did me. She is no longer my concern.”
On that note, she sailed out the open front door to a waiting coach, a coach he had paid for. Meanwhile, that child with the ridiculous name was growing increasingly vocal. Her cries rang through the house.
And Deb didn’t care. Her step didn’t falter.
Mars did the only reasonable thing a man in his position could do—he ran down the stairs and out the door, thinking to stop his ex-mistress. She couldn’t leave a child with him.
Unfortunately, he was too late.
With impressive speed, Deb boarded her coach and, with a snap of the whip, her driver sent the horses racing down the drive.
Mars stood for a long moment in its wake as if he could will her back. The coach rounded a curve and disappeared from his view. “Damn her to hell,” he muttered. And then added, “That baby isn’t mine.” It couldn’t be. He and both of his parents had blond hair. Besides, he took precautions.
But had he always?
He could recall a time or two when he hadn’t been as disciplined as a wise man should be. Times when his vices had the better of him.
Dear God.
Mars turned toward the door to see that all his servants from the haughty Gibson to even the scullery lad stood on the step watching him with wide-eyed, concerned looks.
Nelson weaseled his way through the crowd with Mars’s dressing robe. “My lord,” he entreated, holding the garment up as if to preserve his master’s dignity—but a more pressing concern had claimed his lord’s attention.
From where Mars stood, he could still clearly hear a squalling baby.
“Who is with the child?” he demanded.
His servants, all male, all long in his family service, looked at each other as if they had expected the man standing to the left or right to be watching Menadora. Even the usually efficient Gibson.
Then he remembered Deb’s warnings. “Does anyone know about babies?”
Evans, one of the footmen, said, “My sister’s had one.”
The others were silent.
Could this day be worse? He really needed his tea and Port.
Swearing under his breath, Mars charged forward, bare feet flying over pavers. The servants parted as if he was Moses and they the Red Sea. He took the front stairs two at a time.
As he moved, a thousand thoughts ran through his head. Deb wouldn’t be the first mistress to lie. They were never reliable and she was obviously worse than others. She did like to gamble—so, what if she’d gambled she could latch on to him with a claim of a child?
What if she was at the end of the drive, waiting for him to call her back? It would work. He might be a rake and a bit of a rascal but he wasn’t completely irresponsible and Deb knew it.
He entered his bedroom. The crying baby was right where she’d been left, except she had rolled over and kicked off her blankets. She was obviously very angry at being left alone. Highly insulted even. Oh, yes, this was Deb’s child.
But was she his? Because he could tell. Eddingtons always knew their children, and that could be the hitch in Deb’s plans.
Nelson and Gibson had followed him up the stairs. He looked to his two most trusted servants. “What do I do to make her stop?”
“Pick her up, my lord?” Gibson suggested as if uncertain.
Yes, that was good advice. Mars approached the bed. He reached for the child and lifted her, his hands under her arms. Her weight surprised him. She was heavier than he had anticipated. She looked at him with an expression of outrage and possibly even hurt feelings, her mouth in the deepest frown he’d ever witnessed—but, blessedly, she stopped crying.
The two of them took each other’s measure.
Her long dress was a light green with lacy sleeves. Her feet in wee leather shoes dangled in the air. Her skin was hot and slightly sweaty from the exertion of her temper. The dark, spiky wisps of her hair were now plastered around her head. She reminded him of nothing more than a miniature Caesar in a gown.
She didn’t appear impressed with him either. Her brow furrowed in an expression as critical as that of any self-important dandy or discerning mother in Almack’s.
“Menadora,” he said, tasting the sounds.
Brown watery eyes considered him solemnly and it was as if he could read her mind and he nodded. “You believe it is a ridiculous name as well. Cheer up. She could have named you Nymphodora.”
Her whimper let him know this situation was as difficult for her as it was for him, and he understood. Uncaring mothers were the worst. They had at least that in common.
He walked into his dressing room. There was a full-length looking glass in the corner. Menadora’s head turned as she noticed the reflection of the glass. She was a bright and alert little thing. Holding her against his chest, he stood so that he could see both of them in the glass.