The Making of Baron Haversmere

by Carol Arens

  ‘There is something I need to tell you. It has to do with your sister.’

  ‘Roselina?’ he asked, looking surprised.

  ‘Do you have another?’

  ‘No.’ His brows arched, small lines creased his forehead. ‘But what about her?’

  ‘Not her so much as men. She is so innocent and sweet—I fear they will—But perhaps she is not as naive as I was and all will be well.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, she is all that. But she also knows her own mind.’

  ‘Have a care for her, though, won’t you? There are all sorts of pitfalls for a young woman.’

  Coming in the garden door, Olivia found Mr Ramsfield striding past the orange tree, a severe frown cutting his professional demeanour.

  ‘Lady Olivia, you have a caller.’

  She had not expected anyone. ‘I do not recall receiving any cards this morning.’

  ‘Lord Waverly claims he did leave one, but I assure you he did not.’

  * * *

  Waverly. Joe’s blood went cold even though it pumped hotly through his veins.

  It’s how it went when he was riled, hot and cold all at once.

  ‘I shall inform him that you are indisposed.’

  ‘I would rather not receive him, so, yes, please do.’

  ‘May I receive him, Lady Olivia?’

  Joe was not sure which part of his temper would greet the fellow, the hot or the cold, but the butler was smiling so maybe it didn’t matter which.

  ‘That would be wildly inappropriate.’ Olivia’s complexion was pale when she said so, which made him more determined to meet with the Marquess.

  Joe was not bound by society’s folly. He did not care who in society was valued more than whom and all that rot. Any American worth his salt knew that a cowboy was equal to a marquess, a duke, or an earl.

  As far as Joe was concerned it was character that made a man. And that being the case, Waverly was on the waste heap of humanity, sharing the muck with Henry Shaw.

  ‘I will not let the incident be known, nor do I believe Mr Ramsfield will. Am I correct?’

  ‘Anything that might occur in the parlour will go unseen by this employee. Or any others, I dare say.’

  ‘But you cannot mean to—’

  ‘I do mean to.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, her eyes narrowed upon him, the upward slant sharp with censure. ‘It is abundantly clear that you intend to throw aside everything proper and shame me in my own home.’

  ‘Shame you in front of whom?’ He took her shoulders gently in his hands, made sure she was looking at him, which was no doubt an act more scandalous than receiving her caller was. ‘The man knows no shame. My sister told me about him. Roselina believes she is safe from him, but that you are not. I saw for myself that is true. I intend to make it clear that both of you are under my protection.’

  ‘No one gave you the right to protect me.’

  ‘What about Victor? Will you give me the right to protect him? What happens to you happens to him.’

  After a long, scathing glance, she twirled out from under his hold.

  She walked past her butler, who was grinning broadly. ‘I will walk ahead of you.’

  Joe winked at the butler in passing. The man nodded, then brought up the rear.

  ‘I saw what you did, Josiah Steton. Kindly do not subvert the staff.’

  Odd, he was heading for a showdown with a grin on his face. He would need to school his features before bursting into the parlour.

  Going before them, her strides long, her back straight as a pole and her chin lifted, she was the image of authority.

  The problem was, from his point of view, she was more than that. Olivia believed she was expressing outrage while she paced ahead of him. She had no way of knowing that her affronted strides caused her skirt to sway in a provocative swish.

  By sugar, he would not be the one to inform her of it.

  Olivia marched into the parlour. Joe could not recall a woman he admired more than this one.

  He and the butler remained in the hallway, but out of the man’s line of vision.

  Joe needed to know what Waverly’s attitude towards Olivia would be before he confronted him.

  There was no danger to Olivia, given that he and the butler had a clear sight into the parlour and were ready to act when the need arose.

  If Waverly had come to beg her forgiveness, his posture did not indicate it. Rather than standing, hat in hand and head bent in shame, he lounged indolently on the sofa, ankle crossed over knee. He gripped his walking stick in one fist, tapping it on the floor as if the wait had made him impatient.

  At least his arrogance was offset by a bruised nose and black eye.

  Olivia did not greet him, warmly or otherwise. She stood silently, her hands folded in front of her.

  Waverly did not change his posture, but allowed his gaze to slide over her, his opinion of his superior social rank evident.

  In Joe’s opinion, Mr Ramsfield, a man of no social rank, was the superior man.

  ‘Is this how you welcome a caller, Lady Olivia? No pleasure at having a gentleman paying his respects?’

  ‘I do not welcome you, my lord. If you suppose I find pleasure in your visit, you are greatly mistaken.’

  He laughed, came to his feet, but did not take a step towards her. ‘But of course, you are playing coy.’

  ‘Not at all. You are deceiving yourself if you think I welcome your lurid advances.’

  ‘In spite of your sharp tongue, I find you enticing. You challenge me.’

  ‘What you may find is your way out of my home.’

  The tap, tap, tap of his cane sounded on the floor.

  ‘Is it true that your family has gone to America and left you alone?’

  ‘Perhaps the blow to your face has left you forgetful of the way you entered. The front door is behind you, down a short hall, then to the left.’

  ‘My dear lady, I am willing to forget the unpleasant episode in the Duchess of Guthrie’s garden.’

  The fool advanced a step. Joe would have liked to see Olivia retreat one, but she did not. She stood with that proud heart-shaped chin lifted, all but challenging the Marquess.

  ‘There is no reason for you to be alone.’

  The wretch lifted his hand.

  Joe had no idea what he meant to do with it, only what he would not. He stepped into the room.

  ‘Lady Olivia is not alone.’

  In spite of his dandy walking aid, the Marquis half-stumbled while retreating a few steps.

  ‘You,’ he hissed, but the sound was not nearly as impressive as a snake’s buzz.

  ‘Indeed...it is me. Mr Ramsfield and I are both present.’ At that the butler entered the parlour, presented a bow, but Joe figured it was not enough of one to show respect.

  ‘Lady Olivia, if you require the presence of a gentleman, I will be happy to attend,’ Waverly uttered with a smirk.

  ‘Mr Ramsfield,’ Olivia said. ‘It is apparent that not only has this visitor forgotten his way out, but he cannot discern a gentleman from a rogue. I fear you must show him the way.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Olivia, indeed.’

  ‘Oh, but, Lord Waverly, it occurs to me that perhaps you do not recall your way home, either. I’m certain your wife will be beyond distressed if you lose your way. Shall I call for my coach to deliver you safely to her?’

  ‘I believe, Lady Olivia, that my own coachman recalls the way.’

  ‘Does he? It is said that he becomes lost at times, delivering you to doorsteps that are not your own.’

  The Marquess’s neck and face flamed, the hue a near match to his cravat.

  With nothing to do but admit defeat at the tongue of the valiant Lady Olivia, Waverly pushed past Mr Ramsfield, his retreat punctuated by the slam of his cane
on the floor.

  ‘I imagine that is the last we will see of that philanderer,’ she observed.

  Olivia’s smile over her victory looked triumphant, as well it should.

  Joe would feel a great deal better about it if he believed the man had given up his pursuit.

  More than likely, Waverly’s interest in her had only been escalated.

  Chapter Seven

  A balmy breeze blew in the office window from the garden. It lifted the lace curtain and carried the scents of rose and lavender.

  Sitting at the desk, Olivia felt the essence of spring caress her face, tickle the hair at her temple.

  She held a pen in her fingers, all but forgetting she meant to dip it in the ink bottle.

  Victor’s laughter carried into the office along with Miss Hopp’s.

  It had been a very long time since she paid attention to the beauty of the Season or to beauty in any form, except Victor’s smile, of course—and his laughter.

  She closed her eyes, listened while inhaling a long, slow breath of sweet air.

  She could not recall the last time she had indulged in such a common pleasure.

  ‘Lady Olivia?’ Olivia glanced across the desk. Mr Small, her accountant, pointed to the tip of the pen hanging limp in her fingers. ‘You are dribbling ink on the invoice.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I was just...’ How could her attention have wandered so far afield?

  ‘Spring is in the air.’ He smiled, his gaze slid to the garden. ‘One must allow for it.’

  Spring being in the air had not caused her undue distraction since before her marriage. She could not imagine why it would now.

  There was nothing different about this spring day than any other—and yet it seemed more vibrant.

  It was unlikely that this day was any different than the next. More likely, she was different. For so long it seemed that she had been asleep and was now beginning to stretch and open her eyes to the beauty all around.

  Much like the yellow rosebud beyond the windowsill, she was opening. She could not prevent it from happening any more than she could stop the imperceptible spread of the petals.

  Just because it was happening did not mean she wished it to. Opening up made her vulnerable, and she disliked being vulnerable. Surely one could imagine dancing among the newly budded leaves and not lose oneself. One could, if she was able to purge the image of an American cowboy from her mind.

  Oh, my word! She no longer had an image of him on her mind, she had it on her eyes. He came out of the house next door, sat on a bench beside the fountain and opened a book.

  She felt one of her petals tremble, reach for the sunshine.

  Mr Small indicated that she should sign something. She gave him her attention for the moment it took to neatly write her name. The instant her pen lifted from the paper, her gaze returned to the garden.

  Victor spotted his hero and scampered away from his governess. Without apparent invitation, he clambered on to Josiah’s lap.

  She heard a slip of paper slide across the blotter, set the pen to it.

  ‘An inch higher, Lady Olivia, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She dragged her attention away from the window, but what she had seen would not go away. No, rather the image burned itself on her heart.

  Victor leaned his curly head against his cowboy’s chest, snuggled in. Josiah’s calloused hand settled on her child’s back while he read to him.

  What an easy thing it was to imagine Victor having the father he wanted so badly. Easy to imagine, yes, but reality told a far sadder story. Her child was giving his heart to a man who did not call London home.

  She dashed at her eye, hoping Mr Small had not noticed the moisture welling.

  ‘Are you well, my lady?’

  ‘Oh, yes quite well. A bug has flown in, that is all. It caught in my eye.’

  ‘We are nearly finished, but I can return later if you would like.’

  Spring was in the air—she feared it was creeping further into her heart. Returning to Fencroft’s finances at a more convenient time would not help in the least.

  ‘Let us carry on, Mr Small. How much did you say we owe the grocer?’

  * * *

  ‘“The ice was here, the ice was there,”’ Joe read over Victor’s shoulder while the child snuggled on his lap. He felt a tremor shiver through the boy. ‘“The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, it roared and howled, like noises in a swound!”’

  ‘What is a swound, sir?’

  ‘Something akin to a swoon.’

  ‘Seems like an odd swoon, cracking and growling. What happens next?’

  ‘“At length did cross an albatross, Through the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, we hailed it in God’s name.”’

  ‘But could they not tell a Christian soul from a bird?’

  ‘Indeed.’ A shadow fell across the pages of the book. ‘What nonsense are you reading to him?’

  ‘It’s not nonsense, Mother.’ The child shifted so that he sat on only one of Joe’s knees. He patted the other, indicating that she should sit there and join them. ‘It’s poetry and there’s an Ancient Mariner with a long grey beard and a glittering eye!’

  Joe jiggled his knee in teasing invitation. He should not have but, by sugar, some playful devilment urged him to and he did.

  ‘Poetry is a waste of good time. Look, here comes Miss Hopp to take you to the nursery for your nap.’

  ‘But, Mother, I’m too old for a nap and I need to find out what will become of the wedding guest sitting on a stone and forced to listen to the tale.’

  ‘I’m certain he will be fine. Now here is Miss Hopp, go along with her.’

  Victor let himself be led away, but turned to frown at his mother. ‘He’s probably going to swound.’

  ‘We can only hope the poor wedding guest fares better than that,’ she said, glancing at Joe’s knee and then quickly away.

  ‘We can read it together and find out.’ He patted the bench beside him. He actually did know what happened to the wedding guest. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner had been his favourite since he was Victor’s age.

  ‘Poetry is romantic nonsense,’ she huffed.

  ‘It is when it is written by fools.’ She had to know he was speaking of her late husband and his adulterous missives. ‘To my knowledge Samuel Taylor Coleridge was gifted.’

  ‘I’ve no time for frivolity.’

  As improper as it was to do so, he caught her hand, drew her down beside him on the bench.

  Her bare hand was smooth and warm. He would have let go of it at once had he not felt a shiver skitter through her fingers.

  She was such a fine lady. What her husband had done to her was a crime.

  ‘Do not let your past blind you, Olivia.’

  ‘One’s past teaches wisdom for the future.’

  ‘Wisdom, my friend? Or fear?’

  ‘Caution more than that, I think.’

  ‘Will you cautiously sit beside me on this lovely afternoon and listen to the poem?’

  She glanced down at her lap, nodded, but so quickly that he nearly missed the twinkle in her eye. ‘I do not promise that by listening I will become a fan of nonsensical phrases.’

  ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘Hailing an albatross in God’s name.’

  He gave her a nod and a wink to put her at ease. ‘“It ate the food it ne’er had eat, And round and round it flew...”’

  Joe knew the poem well, could recite it without opening the book, but there was something about seeing words on the paper, reciting them aloud that made a story come alive.

  Sliding a glance at Olivia, he saw that she had closed her eyes. A smile flitted across her lips. He slowed the pace of his words because he did not want this moment with her to end whe
n the poem did.

  Spending time together, friend to friend rather than pupil to instructor, was a fine thing. Funny how simply sitting beside her made him feel good. Better than good—better than he had ever felt sitting beside a woman. Even the one he had considered proposing to, once upon a time.

  Watching Olivia’s face, turned up to catch the sunshine, he was glad he had not.

  He’d write a poem about the moment, about spring and her pretty face, if he had any talent with words.

  As lengthy as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner was, it was coming to a conclusion far too quickly.

  ‘“He prayeth best, who loveth best,”’ he recited slowly. ‘“All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.”’

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him. ‘Is that all of it?’

  ‘There’s a bit more about the mariner’s bright eye and hoary beard and the wedding guest being a sadder but wiser man.’

  ‘Not swound, then. Victor will be glad to hear it.’

  ‘You must be proud of him.’ If Joe had been blessed with a son he would hope him to be like Victor. ‘Of yourself, too, for raising him to be so fine.’

  ‘Oh, he is sweet enough, but full of the dickens.’

  ‘As a boy ought to be.’

  ‘Were you full of the dickens?’

  ‘It’s what Ma and Pa—Mother and Father, I mean—tell me. I only remember having fun.’

  ‘Oh, to be a child again.’ Her sigh seemed soft with remembrance.

  ‘Tell me, what did you do for fun?’ The more she spoke of good times, the happier she would be. It only stood to reason.

  ‘Tormenting my brother Oliver, I suppose.’ Her lips tugged up. He was certain she nearly laughed. ‘He was my twin and I forced him to be a prince to my princess. Even though I know he would rather have been running about the estate with Heath, he played court to me. Of course, had his health been better, he would have run off and left me to invent a prince.’

  Joe knew about Oliver Shaw, at least as much as Roselina had told him. He had been the Fifth Earl of Fencroft and had died young. He had trusted a college chum to keep the accounts for the estate. The man was inept and Fencroft had faced financial peril. Heath Cavill, the younger brother, had inherited a broken estate, a title and a wealthy American bride.