The Making of Baron Haversmere

by Carol Arens

  Had it? Joe could not recall what ominous thing the Duchess might be referring to.

  ‘However, the mess can be salvaged. When all is said and done you will be sought after by every eligible young man.’

  ‘Am I correct in assuming you have a plan, Your Grace?’ There was the faintest crease to Mrs Shaw’s lips, an ever-so-slight narrowing of her eyes that warned him she suspected something might be amiss.

  ‘Naturally. I always have a plan. This one is particularly good.’

  Did everyone fall into step with the Duchess’s ‘plans’?

  Joe cringed, wondering how much was he going to end up paying for the night’s events.

  ‘First we will correct the impression that Roselina is less than refined. You, Josiah, will see to it.’

  He nodded cautiously, not at all sure how he was to go about it. The fine hairs on the back of his neck went to attention because it was apparent that the Duchess did know how. He had a suspicion he might not like it.

  ‘Beginning tomorrow, you will learn to present yourself as a gentleman. You will dress the part, speak it and act it.’

  Not if it meant putting on the tall shiny hat.

  ‘Olivia, you will be his instructor.’

  * * *

  Pushing open the nursery door, the phrase pounced upon her again—for perhaps the hundredth time since it had been uttered.

  ‘Olivia, you will be his instructor.’

  Everything since the moment of decree had been a something of a blur. Had it been in her best interests to do so, she would have come home from the ball at once.

  As it was, she remained for another three hours, chatting and making it appear as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Or if it had, it was nothing to do with her.

  Had she fled for home, people would remember there had been three of them in the garden when Lord Waverly injured his nose. They would wonder, they would speculate, they would gossip.

  Her dearest hope was to have a quiet life, a modest existence where she would not be the object of idle tongues.

  Being lashed by idle tongues clearly didn’t bother Mr Steton. He had not felt it expedient to remain behind and keep up appearances.

  Oh, no! Upon exiting the library, he had caught his sister’s arm, whistled for his one-quarter wolf and, quite without a thought for what anyone might think, gone home.

  Was that what America was like? A country of people doing what they pleased without a thought for social consequence? Would her family adopt that attitude and return home to toss propriety to the wind?

  It was true that society was changing, one saw it every day. In some ways for the better, but in other ways—well, things were not as they had always been.

  Ah, but here she was, home at last and gazing at the face of her sleeping angel. Miss Hopp looked rather like an angel as well.

  A weary young angel, asleep in a chair beside the bed, her feet propped upon a stool and a storybook open on her lap.

  Olivia did not need to look to know the book would be the one about Cowboy Earl—‘the surest-shootin’, fastest-ridin’, damsel-rescuin’ hero of the West’.

  It spoke well of the new governess that she had not simply put Oliver in the nursery and left him to his own devices at bedtime. Seeing her exhausted devotion, Olivia found it easier to overlook the girl’s tendency to be tardy on occasion.

  ‘Miss Hopp,’ she whispered.

  The girl jolted upright in the chair. The book hit the floor and what was left of her coiffure plopped in a brown wave across her face.

  ‘Oh, dearie me. I did not intend to fall asleep, my lady.’

  ‘It is quite all right, Miss Hopp. I will take over from here. You may retire to your quarters.’

  Miss Hopp stood, curtsied and, while in a bent-kneed position, snatched up the book. She placed it on the bedside table, then hurried towards the door.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hopp. I appreciate coming home and finding Victor well tended.’

  Until Clementine came into her life, Olivia could not recall having thanked a servant for doing what they were paid for.

  Now, it only felt right and proper. Treating servants with deference was one change she felt had been too long in coming—if not to society at large—to Olivia Victoria Cavill Shaw.

  ‘Oh, but truly, he is a delightful little boy. Good night, Lady Olivia.’

  After kissing Victor’s slightly damp curls, Olivia proceeded to her chambers.

  Since Miss Hopp would by needs use the bedroom next to the nursery, Olivia had moved into the chambers Clementine had briefly occupied before she moved into the master’s chamber with Heath.

  Before Clementine, the quarters had belonged to Olivia’s mother, although that had been many years ago. Even though Olivia had redecorated the room for her new sister-in-law, she kept her mother’s chair where it had always been beside the large bay window.

  It was late so, rather than waking her maid, she undressed herself, donned her sleeping gown, then fell into the chair.

  Looking out the window at the garden cast her back in time to when she and Oliver sat on Mama’s lap while listening to her tell stories. Tonight, just as it had then, moonlight sparkled on the water fountain. Trees and shrubs seemed streaked with fairy dust. She could all but hear Mama’s voice speaking of beautiful princesses and their handsome princes.

  When she was five years old fairy tales had been lovely. In fairy tales a prince would permit himself to be trampled by a herd of rats before he stole a princess’s joy.

  She drew her knees up to her chest, pulled a soft blanket over her shoulders.

  ‘Olivia, you will be his instructor,’ she mimicked the Duchess’s autocratic voice.

  Would she be, when it came down to it?

  She did owe him a favour. Two favours, in fact. All things considered she was in rather large debt to the cowboy.

  If only he were not a cowboy it would make the decision easier—because she did believe she had one—in spite of the edict.

  Had Mr Steton been a sea captain or a chimney sweep, Victor would not be so enamoured of him. The very last thing she was going to allow to happen was for his young heart to be broken—by anyone.

  As far as broken things went, there was Roselina to be considered. Through no fault of her own, the girl’s hopes of a successful marriage were endangered. The happenings of the night were no doubt being discussed even now by husbands and wives in their beds, by other young ladies riding home in their carriages—by just about everyone who was still awake.

  And by tomorrow the story of the cowboy, his sister and their marauding wolf would become even more embellished.

  With any luck Lord Waverly and his bleeding nose would be mostly overlooked.

  What could not be overlooked was the fact that when she had been desperate with fear because Victor was missing in the cemetery, Mr Steton had walked out of the mist and delivered him safely to her. Nor could she overlook the fact that she had been quite defenceless against the advances of the Marquess until Mr Steton had punched him in the nose.

  Oh, indeed, she did owe him a debt. Unless she wished to remain beholden to him, she would need to repay it.

  A lamp flickered on, illuminating a window on a second-floor room across the garden.

  Someone stood at the window, looking down. Olivia was not able to see features from where she sat, only the dark silhouette of a petite woman.

  The lady appeared to be plaiting her hair while gazing at the garden in serene contemplation—of course it might just as well be silent worry.

  Certainly worry if she happened to be Roselina Steton.

  All of a sudden a hairy creature bounded into the room, reared up and placed his great paws on her shoulders. He licked her face.

  It appeared that she laughed, then ruffled his ears.

  Anoth
er figure strode into view. Tall, muscular, his strides long and with purpose even in the small space of what must be the parlour.

  Mr Steton. It could be no one else.

  Gazing at him now, laughing with his sister and plucking the dog’s paws from her shoulders, she felt ashamed.

  She had judged them both quite wrongly. She was no better than the people who were, even this minute, judging Roselina for the appearance and manners of her brother.

  Really, Olivia had no choice but to help her.

  Yet it was the appearance and the manners of the man which made the decision difficult. He was far too handsome for her peace of mind. Why, his smile alone would bring any female to her knees, that was, if she was not already there by having looked too deeply into his rugged, greenish-brownish eyes.

  Olivia Steton was one woman who had no wish to brought to her knees by a man. No—never again.

  Roselina said something to him. She reached for an item on the table beside her. Olivia could not tell what it was until she plunked it down on her brother’s head.

  A top hat, clearly that was what it was. He shook his head. Roselina nodded, her hands fisted on her hips.

  He plucked the hat from his head and tossed it over his shoulder. Roselina made a frustrated gesture with her hands and then walked out of the room, the dog trotting loyally behind her.

  Mr Steton was left alone to stare down at the garden.

  If watching Mr Steton’s silhouette in a window made her heart beat faster, if seeing him lift his hand and yank it through his hair made her insides quiver, how would she manage spending time with him in the flesh?

  What a poor choice of words! Flesh? Even if she did not utter it aloud, those five letters made her blush.

  Spending time with him instructor to student, yes, that was far more fitting.

  Flesh! Why ever had she thought it?

  All of a sudden she had the distinct feeling that he could see her, was looking directly at her.

  He could not possibly be. Her lamp was out, she was under a blanket.

  And yet she felt him—his gaze settled upon her. No matter that she was hidden by a blanket and completely concealed from his gaze, she shivered in a disquieting way.

  She had spent years sequestering her heart from such temptation. The only sensible thing to do was refuse the Duchess’s dictate. The risk was too great. Not only for herself but for Victor.

  What a shame that the sensible thing was not also the honourable thing, the compassionate thing.

  But perhaps the appointed hour for his first lesson would come and go without him. What was to say he was willing to become a gentleman? He might not want it. There was every chance that he was content as he was.

  If noon came and he did not come knocking, she would be greatly relieved. Indeed she would. But what if she was disappointed?

  The thought did not bear thinking about, so she would not. Instead she would—

  She tossed the blanket over her, huffed.

  Under the dark privacy of the wool, she sensed that whatever happened tomorrow would change her. And perhaps not for the better.

  Chapter Five

  Joe’s gut felt as sour as a tub of lemons until he heard Roselina laughing from the parlour. The sound had a way of setting things right inside him. It had ever since the first time she’d smiled at him while he held her and tickled her fat baby feet.

  ‘That’s a mighty fine fur coat you have on, Little Sister,’ he said, coming into the parlour and seeing Sir Bristle express his adoration by reaching for her face with his great pink tongue.

  ‘Help me take it off!’

  He lifted the dog’s paws off her shoulders, then ordered him to sit.

  ‘What made him come charging into the party like he did, do you think?’ Roselina petted the wide head, gazing into the dog’s amber-brown eyes as if she might find an answer.

  ‘He’s got a sense for trouble and Mrs Shaw was in it.’ He shrugged.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. And she is not Mrs Shaw. She is Lady Olivia. Her father was the Earl of Fencroft—it’s her brother, Heath Cavill, who is now, though. They live in the big house on the other side of the garden.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’

  ‘It is important to know and so I do.’ She reached for the table beside her, plucked up the blamed fancy hat. She set it on his head, then gave it a tug. ‘Honestly, Joe, did you not wonder why our appointment for noon tomorrow is at Fencroft House?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to figure a way out of it more than where to go.’

  He snatched the hat off his head and tossed it over his shoulder. Let Sir Bristle chew it to threads was how he felt about the thing.

  Roselina glowered at him. She curled her hands into fists, slammed them on her hips when he knew full well where she would rather slam them.

  She’d been brought up a lady and so contented herself with a glower.

  ‘Don’t act a beast, Joe.’ With that she spun about and flounced from the parlour, her half-plaited braid swinging.

  A beast? Just because he didn’t wear fancy shoes and walk with a dapper cane did not mean he was a beast.

  There was the bit about punching a man in the face. If that made him a beast, he’d do it again.

  He only hoped that Lady Olivia—not Mrs Shaw, but Lady Olivia—was recovered from the ordeal. No woman ought to go through what she had.

  Yet he sensed she had been through worse. It seemed to him the looks folks gave her after the Sir Bristle episode went deeper than the situation called for.

  As if perhaps she had been at the heart of something unfortunate in the past.

  He could ask Roselina, she claimed to know so much.

  Perhaps not, though. Lady Olivia’s secrets were hers to share or not.

  If they met again, which was likely since she had been ordered to be his instructor in all things restrictive, she might confide in him.

  Once he agreed to be tutored in the art of looking like a gentleman, camaraderie might strike between them.

  The problem was, he didn’t think there was a blamed thing wrong with who he was. Putting on satin breeches would not change him.

  By sugar, if it wouldn’t change him, why was he fighting the idea?

  He had promised Ma and Pa that he would find Roselina a husband. Not just any fellow either. One who deserved her and would make her happy.

  It was not as if Pa hadn’t warned him to purchase clothing more appropriate for a London drawing room. He just hadn’t figured it would be so all-fired necessary.

  In spite of his sister’s warnings, he’d marched into that ball all pride and bluster, feeling that who he was inside was who folks would see.

  He sure hadn’t expected to feel every eye judge him before he had even said howdy.

  Even now he felt looked at. Which was odd since the sensation of feeling watched was immediate, not a memory.

  He glanced at the garden. A pair of cats frolicked in and out of the bushes, but that wasn’t the cause of it.

  No lamps glowed in the windows over at Fencroft House, which did not mean he was not being watched from a dark one.

  He looked from one to the next, studying shadows.

  Ah, just there!

  Something shimmered in a shaft of moonlight. He squinted, saw a skein of fair hair catching the light. Someone was sitting in a chair beside the window, but it was too dark to make out who it might be.

  A chill skittered over his skin. Since it was a pleasant chill, not one warning of danger, he suspected it might be Lady Olivia.

  When he thought about it, though, just because a sensation was pleasant did not make it less dangerous. Could be it was more so.

  He liked the woman. Liked her child, too.

  It would be prudent to keep in mind that he was only here until his busin
ess was completed. After that he was going home. The last thing he wanted was to tow a broken heart across the ocean. Most especially Lady Olivia’s broken heart.

  There was something about her that drew him. And it was not only the fact that she seemed vulnerable—a pretty widow in need of someone to watch out for her. No, it was more the ‘pretty’ part that tugged at him. And yet, it was more than that even. He had met many pretty women in his life, had been in love with one of them even. Whatever drew him to the widow was more than her lovely frown, the slant of her sky-blue eyes.

  He did not know her well enough to know precisely what quality about her tickled his attention but, by sugar, he felt it.

  The fact that he could not quite get her out of his mind did not change his feelings about leaving heartache in his wake. There was a time and a place for romance and this was neither of those.

  If he decided to keep tomorrow’s appointment, and he was beginning to think it was the right thing to do, he would have to keep close rein on his heart.

  It wasn’t so hard to imagine the pretty widow lassoing it and holding it captive.

  * * *

  The fellow who admitted them into Fencroft House looked more of a gentleman than Joe did.

  When a servant appeared more dapper than the son of a baron, challenging times lay ahead.

  Hopefully Lady Olivia was up to the chore of transforming this tumbleweed into a pruned hedge. A hedge that would just as soon present thorns as a willing stem.

  ‘What are you thinking, Josiah? I don’t like the look of it,’ Roselina whispered while they followed the butler past an open set of doors that looked as though it ought to be a drawing room.

  The house was huge, every inch of it elegant.

  ‘That I do not want to be addressed as Josiah.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but remember, Lady Olivia is not likely to be any happier about having to train you than you are to be trained.’ A twittering of birds ushered out of an open door up ahead. ‘But trained you will be. Once you go home you can be as thorny as a bramble, but just for a while, please Joe, learn to act a gentleman.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said because promising was more than he could manage.