The Making of Baron Haversmere

by Carol Arens

  ‘You will not succeed, then.’

  ‘Just tell me what to say. I know it’s not “Howdy, ma’am”.’

  ‘It is all very complicated, Joe. While you were learning to rope cows, other gentlemen of rank were learning manners.’

  ‘Not the fellow in the Duchess’s garden—Waverly—wasn’t that his name? Seems he was learning something else.’

  If Joe caught him even glancing at Roselina or Olivia, he would do worse than bloody his nose.

  ‘You know quite a lot considering the short time we’ve been here. Have you heard anything about him?’

  ‘He is a marquess. That’s one down from a duke, so folks act deferential to him. But they do talk.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Nothing pleasant. He’s married, his wife is expecting a child—their second. He is a wanton rake who preys on defenceless widows. He charms the bloomers off them and leaves them to their shame.’

  ‘I doubt if saying “charms the bloomers off them” is proper etiquette.’

  ‘Quite so, but I am speaking to you in the privacy of our rooms. What polite people do say is that he dallies with affections. You can tell by the whispers and frowns it’s worse than that.’

  ‘You must keep away from him.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve nothing to fear. I’m a virgin debutante. He would have no interest in me.’

  ‘Virgin debutante? Is that a respectable phrase? I doubt it.’

  ‘Again, it’s only us. In society I would be referred to as an innocent young lady.’

  ‘You are an innocent young lady.’

  ‘Who had the advantage of growing up on a ranch. I know what goes where and why. I’m quite safe. It’s our friend Lady Olivia he has his sights set on.’

  Not if Joe had a say in the matter.

  Blame it, he did not! Except that he was a gentleman, regardless of his clothing or speech. A gentleman protected a lady, belonging to him had nothing to do with the obligation.

  Roselina might consider herself safe. Joe did not. It was going to be a tough thing for him to agree to let her marry any man.

  ‘What do I say instead of “Howdy, ma’am”?’

  ‘Try this. “It’s a pleasure to see you again on this fine day, Lady Olivia.” And be sure and remove your hat when you say it.’

  He would if he could bring himself to put the blamed thing on.

  ‘It’s not a fine day. It’s raining.’

  ‘The weather has nothing to do with it. It is a fine day simply because you are in her company.’

  It would be fine for him. He was not certain Lady Olivia would feel the same way.

  The widow was grateful to him. He figured it was the only reason she agreed to help him—except, maybe gratitude was not all there was to it.

  There was something between them, shimmering under the surface of caution.

  They were wary of each other. And yet it was as if whatever that thing was, it was drawing them together. It wasn’t logical. They barely knew each other. Perhaps that was why the feeling was so downright bewildering and yet—compelling.

  He feared to discover what it was, but not as much as, maybe, he wanted to.

  Chapter Six

  Olivia walked into the garden room, plucking the curl bouncing at her temple. It felt unnatural, irritating.

  What had possessed her to ask her maid to create it? Fleeting madness was all she could think. A dash of insanity which she now regretted.

  No matter how she tried to tuck it away, it sprang back into place. No doubt Helmswaddle had been beyond pleased for the opportunity to try something creative with Olivia’s hair.

  Pleased and wondering why her mistress would ask for something so out of character.

  Indeed, why would she?

  ‘Mr Steton has arrived, my lady,’ Mr Ramsfield announced, standing in the doorway looking proud and refined as his position in the household indicated he should be. She was extremely grateful the butler had chosen not to visit America along with the family as some of the staff had done.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ramsfield. Please do show him in.’

  Moments later, she heard her visitor’s boots striding down the hallway. Mr Ramsfield’s steps tapped quickly, trying to lead the way.

  The door frame looked dwarfed with Mr Steton standing in it. Somehow he managed to appear a gentleman without losing that rugged presence he had about him.

  Oh, yes—she knew exactly why she had asked for the curl.

  She might not welcome the strange shiver under her skin at the sight of him, but it was there none the less. She was clearly in rebellion with good sense.

  What she needed to do was put up a more determined fight! Be strong, just as she had trained herself to be.

  Oh, but truly, watching him walk towards her in a well-turned-out suit, his Stetson dipped low on his forehead—well, the wonder was that she had not asked for two curls.

  Or perhaps three! Who would have imagined cowboy boots worn with tailored trousers would be so—well—it was more than appealing.

  The ensemble might seem foolish on another gentleman, but on Mr Steton, it looked outstanding.

  He stood in front of her, neither too close nor too far. He removed his hat, then, with a congenial smile, tucked it under his arm. He dipped his head in a greeting as refined as any born-and-bred gentleman’s.

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you on this lovely day, Lady Olivia.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr Steton.’ She nodded her head in approval. ‘But did you not notice it was raining?’

  ‘Oh, I noticed. I said so to Roselina, but she pointed out that it was the lady who made the day lovely, not the weather.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She glanced away because it was a charming thing to say. It would not do for him to see that she wished it was sincere.

  ‘My sister was correct.’

  Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear—why must he smile at her that way? He was clearly flirting with her. She was, to her distress—or her pleasure, she was not sure which—enjoying it.

  Oh, please let her outward expression not reveal it—whatever ‘it’ happened to be.

  ‘She did not accompany you?’

  He set his hat on the table, shook his head. His hair was a bit longer than gentlemen wore, but it shimmered in such a rich, lovely shade of chestnut brown she would not think of advising him to have it trimmed.

  ‘She might come over later. Just now she is writing a letter to Ma and Pa.’

  ‘Mother and Father.’ She felt something of a harpy, pointing it out. But she had committed to his transformation. Since she had decided not to comment on his hair, she could not let his language go uncorrected. ‘A gentleman would say Mother or Father.’

  ‘Seems awfully formal. They’d have a good laugh if they could hear it.’

  ‘Rather say, “It does seem awfully formal. They would laugh if they could hear me.”’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Yes, well, nearly.’ She was a shrew. The truth was that she was beginning to find she quite enjoyed the way he spoke. However, needs were what they were. ‘Gentlemen do not use contractions.’

  ‘I fear, Lady Olivia, that my instruction will be rather a challenge to you. Please, do not lose patience with this humble cowpoke.’

  If only patience was all she had to lose. Her fear was that she might lose something more costly. Such as her self-possession, her level-headedness—her very heart. Which she had no intention of giving away. There was her son’s heart to consider even more than her own. Victor would not suffer the loss of another man in his life.

  ‘Speaking of cowpokes, where is Victor this afternoon?’

  Had he read her mind? Surely not. Mental—or spiritual—connections were found in fairy tales. No woman with a grain of sense would entertain such a frivo
lous notion.

  Olivia Victoria Cavill Shaw was not frivolous. In spite of the ridiculous ringlet bobbing beside her eye she was as sensible as—as—she just was.

  ‘You look lovely today, Lady Olivia.’ He was gazing at the curl when he spoke. ‘I hope it is proper to say so.’

  ‘Oh.’ Well, what was she to say to that? His comment did not feel in the least offensive, yet had the Marquess stated it offended would not begin to describe how she felt.

  ‘That is difficult to determine. Some ladies will be highly complimented. Others will not. It would be safer to make a comment about, oh, perhaps the feather on her hat, or the colour of her gown. Once you are better acquainted with the lady you might say so, but feel your way in the situation.’

  ‘I’ll—I mean—I will—take that advice to heart.’

  She would have commended him on correcting the contraction, but he winked after he spoke.

  She sighed—but on the inside where no one was privy to it but her—and really, that was one person too many.

  Certainly she ought to say something. Rain pelting the glass only served to accentuate her silence.

  ‘Do you enjoy watching birds, Josiah?’ What an inane comment to make. Surely he would know that he’d left her disconcerted by the flirtatious gesture.

  With any luck he took her silence to mean she was thinking of a way to tell him that it was not quite polite to wink.

  He might have thought it had she not sidestepped and asked him about birds.

  ‘I enjoy birds.’

  ‘Come, then, we’ll have a look at the aviary.’

  ‘Is it permissible for ladies to use contractions, then?’

  The confounded cowboy had her tripping all over proper speech.

  ‘I think in private conversation it would be acceptable for either gentlemen or ladies. However, we are here this afternoon to teach you how to act in public.’ She led the way to the aviary.

  They watched dozens of small, colourful birds flit about, listened to them chirp.

  ‘I would greatly enjoy a private conversation with you.’ He turned his attention away from a yellow finch, settled those greenish-brownish eyes on her.

  Oh, my. The birds were not the only ones fluttering. Something was very wrong here. She did not feel at all herself.

  She felt better.

  The thought insinuated itself into her brain before she could think more wisely of it. But there it was and it was not untrue.

  What was she to do with that? Embrace the lovely sensation and risk her heart being broken, or snuff it out and go on as she had, bitter and lonely?

  Humph! Until this moment she had not considered herself to be lonely. The lovely sensation twinkling within her neatly pointed out that she was.

  It would still be some time before tea was served and she did not intend to spend it staring into his eyes.

  ‘Would you enjoy a walk in the rain?’ She indicated the umbrellas that were kept at the ready beside the garden door.

  Snatching his hat from the table, he put it on his head, then, walking over, plucked a pair out of the stand.

  He nodded, held the door open for her. Even though he did not wink, his smile alone left her muddle-brained.

  Once outside, rain hit the umbrellas with a steady thrum. Water sluiced off edges but not so loudly that they could not hear each other.

  ‘On the subject of propriety, tell me, when is it appropriate for a gentleman and a lady to address each other by their given names?’

  ‘Whenever it suits the gentleman and the lady involved.’ She suspected he was asking for more a reason than vague enquiry. Presently the only man who called her anything other than Lady Olivia was Heath. Oh, and Clementine’s grandfather. James Macooish called her ‘my dear’ or ‘my girl’.

  ‘Would it suit for me to call you Olivia?’

  She would be a complete fool to allow it. She could not possibly.

  ‘Yes, Josiah. I would enjoy that.’

  There were many ways to be a fool. One of them was to lie to one’s self.

  ‘Thank you, Olivia, for letting me and for—’ he glanced down at his clothing ‘—all of it.’

  ‘We both know it is what the Duchess assigned me to do. But I would have tutored you, regardless. Victor and I do owe you a great deal.’

  ‘It was simple luck that I happened to be in the cemetery. As for the Duchess’s garden? Again, I was lucky enough to be there. Any man would have come to your aid.’

  ‘Not according to my son. No matter how I try, I cannot convince him that you are not a gift from his late uncle.’

  ‘A kid can imagine all sorts of things. I did. When my stepmother used to hold me on her lap and read to me, I always thought I heard two voices. I have impressions of my mother, but no memories. When I was little I felt the loss keenly. But the first time Esmeralda smiled at me, called me son, I forgot I’d ever felt it.’

  Cold wind came up, pitching raindrops under the umbrellas. Dots of water speckled Josiah’s face. The moisture did nothing to discourage her curl. It held as steadfastly as when it came out of the iron. No doubt Helmswaddle would crow about it for weeks.

  ‘I’m sorry for all the adoration my baby heaps upon you, but he feels the loss of a father, just as you did a mother. It is why he has taken it in his mind that you belong to him.’

  ‘How would you like for me to deal with his affections? I wouldn’t—would not—want to wound him.’

  How indeed? One way would be to marry her and become her son’s father.

  Sometimes, lately, her mind conjured the most ludicrous thoughts. It was unsettling to know they mostly had to do with this American.

  ‘I wish I knew. The last thing I want is for him to have a broken heart. I fear it cannot be avoided, though.’

  Josiah nodded, gazing through the rain at the fountain. Its spray mingled with raindrops, making one indistinguishable from the other.

  ‘If I encourage his friendship, well, I’ll be going home. If I do not encourage it, he might feel that I do not care. But I do care. I can’t think which course of action would be worse and I am sorry for it.’

  ‘Do not be. This is not your fault in any way. If his own father had been—’

  It occurred to her that she was in danger of facing the same heartache as Victor did.

  She could encourage friendship with this man. But if she did it would not be confined to simple camaraderie. There was an indefinable energy that quivered between them. Should she allow the spark to ignite, she would get burned.

  Even if the man did not leave her for another woman’s bed, he would, understandably, leave her to return home to his home in America.

  Misery—either way she turned she was bound to end up feeling wretched. Having suffered a bleeding heart once before, she was loath to do so again. She had been a very long time healing from it.

  Oh, but had she healed? Standing here in the rain, so close to Victor’s cowboy, she wondered. Had she merely coped with heartache by mounding a heap of bitterness on it?

  Perhaps such a wound could not be healed that way, but rather by having the courage to boldly step out and give one’s heart away again.

  Which, she feared, she did not have the courage to do.

  They had stopped walking without her noticing. Josiah was looking at her questioningly.

  What was it they had been discussing? She had completely wandered from the conversation. Oh, yes—Victor’s father.

  He might as well know. Everyone else did. And not a one of them had the power to bring her child joy—or sorrow.

  It felt as though a precipice lay before her, admitting her marital failure to him. She took a deep breath, then stepped to the edge.

  ‘How much do you know of my late husband?’

  ‘I know that he is dead. Roselina probably knows more, but sh
e hasn’t said what.’

  ‘He died in his mistress’s bed.’

  Josiah shook his head, his expression hard to read. When he took a step closer to her the rims of the umbrellas overlapped. The noise of the rain became fainter.

  ‘The man was a fool, Olivia.’

  ‘Perhaps he was. But I was more of one.’

  ‘Don’t believe it. He was your husband. When a man takes vows he ought to honour them.’

  ‘Josiah Steton, you are as naive as I was when I wed.’ It was not prudent to confide anything but the black and white of what had occurred, and yet—‘I was so in love with that man. I could not see past the stars in my eyes. I began to have suspicions, how could I not? I heard rumours of his infidelity, plenty of them. But I refused to see, or hear, anything I did not wish to. Would you believe it, I even found a bit of poetry he wrote to his mistress—his second or perhaps his third. I did ask him about it and he claimed it was written for me. It did not matter that the object of his adoration had “eyes the colour of rich brown velvet” and “hair the shade of deepest obsidian”, I blindly chose to believe him. Did you realise it’s possible? To know something and yet refuse to acknowledge that you know it?’

  ‘I know that you did not deserve to be treated so callously. And Victor? The child deserved the love of his father.’

  ‘Henry Shaw’s love would have been warped. It is better that Victor was only a baby and never knew the loss.’

  What was there to say to that? His silence indicated that he did not know any more than she did.

  ‘If your boots are anything like my slippers, they are soaking wet.’

  ‘Are your toes getting numb, too?’

  ‘I can’t feel them.’

  ‘I reckon you ought to hold on to my arm and keep me steady,’ he suggested.

  With a grin he extended his elbow. She must be mad, but she slipped her hand into the crook of his sleeve. She very nearly sighed because it felt so solid and warm under her fingers. More than that, it set her heart pounding and her blood singing.

  There was one more thing she wanted to say while they had this quiet moment of friendship between them, while she was not his instructor and he was not her student.