The Making Of Baron Haversmere

Chapter Two

‘Howdy, ma’am. I reckon this young’un belongs to you?’

Had to. The lady looked like she might faint on the spot…or attack him.

Either way, he figured he ought to set the child down.

She lowered her arms to her side, uncurling her fingers one by one.

No doubt she was surprised to discover she was not alone in the cemetery at this early hour. He sure had been surprised to come upon the boy.

Did she realise her mouth sagged slightly open?

Blamed if he would mention it, though. Not only because pointing it out would be rude, but because the expression looked extremely fetching on her pretty, heart-shaped face.

The brim of her hat dipped low on her forehead, but did not hide what her round blue eyes had to say. Glancing between him and Sir Bristle, they revealed her fear—and her courage.

She wanted to flee, but held her ground. Not that he could blame her for feeling frightened. A little thing like her coming across a stranger and what would appear to be his wolf, and the stranger in possession of her boy?

Motherhood was a miraculous thing in his mind. Common sense would urge her to run. Mothers, he’d noticed, were fierce in defending their young, be they animal or human.

To put her at ease he offered a friendly smile and set the boy down.

Her brow lowered, her lips pressed together. It was hard not to stare at them because they looked like a satin bow with dimples at each corner.

No doubt to the boy she looked stern, but to Joe she looked as pretty as a morning rose with dew drops on her petals. Clearly this woman was a rose with a thorny stem, but it was the delicacy of her features that appealed to him.

Part of her thorniness might have to do with the fact that her child was clutching tight to the fringe of his coat sleeve when he ought to be rushing to her.

‘I’m Joe Steton, ma’am.’ He dipped his hat in formal greeting. ‘I found young Victor crouched behind a tomb and lost as can be.’

‘I’m very grateful, Mr Steton.’

He was glad to see her expression soften slightly with her thanks. She had the most arresting eyes he had ever seen. A man could get lost in how blue they were, in how round and wide. Even more in how they seemed to slant ever so slightly at the corners, giving them a pretty cat-like appearance.

Joe had always been fascinated by cats.

Too bad for the boy, though, being on the wrong end of that look. He had some sort of punishment coming. One could hardly blame his mother for needing to teach him a lesson about wandering off.

‘Victor Shaw, come to me at once. And step well wide of the wolf.’

‘But, Mother! Uncle Oliver sent me a cowboy. He’s mine to keep.’

It was fair to say the statement left the lady as stunned as he was.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Steton.’ A wisp of fair hair slipped out from under her bonnet when she shook her head. ‘My son is only five years old and has quite a fascination for cowboys.’

He could only hope that she secretly shared it. The fact was, he could not recall when he’d had such an instant fascination upon meeting a woman. There had been a few who’d intrigued him, but none of them as suddenly or as intensely as this woman did.

‘Victor, no person belongs to another.’ Since the child seemed loath to release Joe’s sleeve, his mother walked forward and snatched his hand. ‘Mr Steton has a life of his own. You cannot simply lay claim to him.’

‘But Uncle Oliver—’

With the woman’s attention settled upon the boy, it was clear there was no other thought in her mind but what to do with him. It had been wishful on his part to hope she might return his interest.

He’d wager she had not even noticed it.

Perhaps if they had met under other circumstances? London was a very large town, so he doubted the odds of them crossing paths again were great.

‘Son, I haven’t met your uncle. I was only here to pay my respects to my mother.’

‘There, you see? It was only coincidence that he was here.’ She flashed him a smile of appreciation which gave his heart a turn. ‘Now, thank Mr Steton for rescuing you and we will be on our way.’

‘But, Mother, didn’t you hear? He called me son—that means Uncle Oliver did bring him here for me.’

‘Come along, Victor, we will discuss this later and not take up any more of Mr Steton’s time.’

‘Please allow me to walk you to your carriage.’ He wasn’t ready to be quit of her company yet.

‘It is not necessary, truly. But thank you again for finding him. I am for ever grateful.’

With that she walked away. The boy pulled, resisting her lead.

‘Uncle did give him to me! You said he hears us from Heaven and when I was lost I asked him to make a cowboy find me. And there he is!’

Joe stood watching, while she half-dragged the boy along the path.

What the child said gave him the oddest feeling in his belly because what he stated was not exactly wrong.

Here he was.

He had been there—a cowboy.

Leaning against the doorway between the governess’s bedchamber and the nursery, Olivia watched her son sleep. The softly glowing lamp, placed a safe distance from his bed, cast a golden aura about his face, giving him the appearance of an angel.

Which he was, a five-year-old cherub who was blessed with a vivid imagination.

How was she ever to convince him that Oliver had not given him his very own cowboy?

She had to, of course. The fact was, the man had just happened to be in the cemetery and had just happened to find her lost child. Olivia’s late brother had not a thing to do with it.

There was that echo of his laughter again. She felt it go through her as vividly as she would have heard it with her ears.

‘If it was you, what do you expect me to do now?’

Rain tapping on the window was all the answer she heard. No mysterious voice in her heart took credit for her predicament.

Had it really been Oliver, he would have.

In the morning, she would explain it all to Victor, somehow find the words to do it gently and not break his heart.

It would not be easy since, against all reason, the cowboy had been there. It was not as if she could tell him that it was a common thing to be rescued by a man like Mr Steton. In thirty-two years of life the only cowboys Olivia had seen were in storybooks.

Even they had not been as dashing and—

Her mind conjured the boldness of the cowboy’s smile before she could swat the image away.

Spinning from the doorway, she crossed the room and sat down at the dressing table. She drew her hair over her shoulder and began to plait it.

At least Victor had not asked his uncle for a pirate. The boy had been quite enamoured of them until he discovered the existence of cowboys.

Had she crossed paths with a pirate in the graveyard, well, she might have collapsed on the spot.

As it was, she nearly had collapsed, but in an intense blend of relief and astonishment.

Once she had seen that Victor was not only safe, but deliriously happy, and that the wolf was not going to attack, she had truly noticed the man.

Noticed things about him that she had no business noticing.

Her hands fell from her hair to her lap while she stared at the water drops gently tapping the window behind the mirror.

But even she, a mature and wary woman, could see how uncommonly handsome he was. No gentleman of her acquaintance looked quite so rugged or had fine lines at the corners of his eyes that squinted in suppressed humour. Oh, and his voice—it had been so deep and rich sounding when he’d called her ‘ma’am’.

She would be a liar if she said that her nerves had not tapped a flamenco dance under her skin.

She was nearly certain that he had been biting down a bark of laughter during the encounter in the cemetery.

The words he spoke were supportive of her motherly authority, but under it all she would bet he found the situation amusing. And, honestly, it was.

Once she understood her child was safe, she could hardly fail to see the humour. Not that she could let on that she did. As far as her son knew she was quite angry over his disappearance.

Oh, but the cowboy—Joe—she had been quite mistaken when she told Victor that meeting one would only cause him to be disappointed. That they were not the heroes romantic tales told of.

Mr Steton was every bit a hero. And a dashingly handsome one to go with it.

Too handsome, in fact. If he were hers, she would never have a peaceful moment. Not a single unworried thought. Dozens of women would be fawning over him, hoping to become his mistress.

Certainly a dashing fellow like Cowboy Joe would have one—perhaps even two—whether he was married or not.

One thing was certain: no matter how bold or handsome he was, Olivia Shaw’s heart was one that would never be broken again.

If her late husband had left her with anything of value, it was the lesson of keeping her heart to herself.

Giving it away would only cause it to be crushed, as ruined as an egg fallen from a bird’s nest.

She stared at the mirror, watching her head nod in forceful agreement.

What she noticed, though, was how very plain her hair was. It was straight and not in the least bit interesting.

She lifted a hank and twirled it about her ear. What if she took to styling a loop here or a whirl there? It would be quite dramatic in comparison to the severe bun she typically wore.

Hmm, it did look rather pretty. It had been a very long time since she felt pretty.

The problem was, feeling pretty led to feeling flirtatious.

What was the point of feeling flirtatious unless one wanted to attract the attentions of a man?

She let the loop slide out of her fingers.

By no means would she stray from her good staid bun.

Roselina arched a brow at Joe, shrugging one shoulder while they walked along Bond Street.

Had he been carrying one more package he would not have been able to see her shoot him the glance that said, This is your own fault.

‘Were you dressed like a gentleman, no one would be staring at you.’

‘These clothes have always been good enough.’ He tried to glance down to reassure himself it was true, but the boxes got in the way and the lacy pink bow on the hatbox tickled his nose. ‘I don’t see any reason to change.’

‘Good enough for Cheyenne, Big Brother.’ Roselina’s attention snagged eagerly on the perfumery they were passing by. She crossed in front of him so suddenly he nearly dropped the stack of treasures his sister had purchased this morning. ‘If you hope to find me a husband, you will need to act more of a gentleman.’

‘I am a gentleman.’

‘Yes, you are.’ She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her teasing frown raking him, Stetson to boot toe. ‘But you will need to look like one.’

Blame it! His good sturdy clothes were just fine as far as he was concerned. Anybody else’s concern didn’t matter all that much.

‘If you buy one more thing, we are taking a carriage back to the rooms.’

She winked at him. ‘But we will not call for one. Walking gets us seen.’

If he did need new clothes, as Pa had warned him he would, he’d have Roselina do the shopping. She revelled in what to him was a tedious ordeal.

He was pretty certain they had spent more than an hour in the perfumery even though his sister insisted it had been only a quarter of one.

Finally outside in open air, she carried her prize close to her heart, smiling happily over it.

A bee buzzed about Joe’s nose and no wonder. With all the scents sticking to him he must seem like a huge blossom drifting down the street.

‘Tonight at the Duchess’s ball I will smell like my name—Rose. People will remember me because of it.’

It was not as if she needed the scent to be remembered. Roselina Anne Steton was unforgettable.

She was a bright spirit, a joy to everyone. She had been since the day she was born. If folks at the ball did not remember her for that, they would for her appearance. She’d got Pa’s mossy green eyes and Ma’s nearly black curls. Her lithe, pixie-like form he thought was all her own.

His sister could not help but be noticed tonight. That was not his worry.

What concerned him was that he was not acquainted with any of the gentleman who would be doing the noticing. It was going to be a tricky thing to determine which of them was worthy of courting her.

With the pavement crowded, Joe scanned the faces of the younger gentlemen passing by. He watched their behaviour. There might be a few strolling along Bond Street who would attend the Duchess of Guthrie’s gathering.

He’d heard it was to be a lavish event.

It wasn’t likely he would learn anything of value by staring at passing faces, but it only felt natural to be on the lookout.

All of a sudden he was aware that it was no longer the young men’s faces he was studying. Without being aware of his attention drifting, he realised it was the ladies’ faces he sought.

One face in particular. The mother of the boy he had found in the cemetery.

A thought struck him, nearly making him trip over his boots.

‘Mrs,’ he mumbled under his breath. For some reason when he met her, the idea that she might be married had not entered his mind.

It ought to have, first thing.

While the lady never said so one way or another, the fact that she had a child ought to have alerted him that there was very likely a husband.

Good God forgive him if he had been indulging in inappropriate thoughts about a married woman.

Blame it! How did he expect to make a judgement on his sister’s suitors when his own clear-headedness was in question?

Most of the time what his gut told him was spot on. What it said, even now, was the lady seemed too vulnerable to have a man who stood with her. Perhaps she was a widow.

He might not know the truth of her marital status, but what he did know was that it was not for him to wonder about.

In the instant a young fellow swaggered past, his manner arrogant, a hint of last night’s bourbon on his clothing, and his half-cocked smile resting squarely on Roselina.

His sister responded with the bright smile she gave everyone, but—

Curse it! Just there, he spotted a twinkle in her eye—a flash of returned interest.

And like a wisp of smoke blown in the wind, thoughts of Victor’s mother scattered.

While he’d understood part of his reason for being here was to see Roselina well wed, in his heart she was still his baby sister. Baby sisters did not return the flirtations of grown men.

Olivia tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair while she waited for Miss Hopp, the next candidate to be interviewed for the position of Victor’s governess, to be escorted to the terrace.

Idleness, she observed for the third time in less than a quarter-hour, was hardly a virtue.

Even with the sun shining down to warm her shoulders, no matter that a hundred birds sang pleasantly to each other and the fountain tapped soothingly in the garden pond, she found it impossible to relax and enjoy a tranquil moment.

All she could think of was the next thing to be done. Her sister-in-law seemed to have no trouble indulging in peaceful interludes. Clementine seemed content to sit in the garden and write poetic words, even with so many children needing her attention.

Perhaps if Olivia liked poetry she could do the same. But she did not. Fancy words expressing silly sentiments was all it was.

It was better to focus her mind on attending to Fencroft business.

With the family on holiday to America, it fell to her to keep the estate in order. She would not fail in the task as Oliver had.

‘Look at me, Mother!’ Victor called.

She would if she could see him. A sudden rustle of leaves told her he was peering at her through one of the terrace trees.

‘Come down at once, Victor Shaw. It is not safe for you to be up so high.’

‘I bet my cousins visiting America are climbing great tall trees.’ Branches lower down began to shimmy.

‘They are still aboard ship. They will not see a tree for at least a week.’

‘May I have a steer?’ A pair of short, swinging legs came into view, dangling from the lowest branch.

‘You only just asked for a dog.’

‘My cowboy already has a dog, so I think a steer with great long horns would be splendid.’

No doubt her child was thinking it would be great fun to swing from those long horns.

Where in the dickens was Miss Hopp? If she did not arrive momentarily, Olivia would be late for her appointment with the accountant, which in turn would make her late in preparing for the Duchess of Guthrie’s ball.

Which then, in turn, might cause her to be short with her maid. She did want to avoid that at all costs.

There had been a time in her life when kindness came to her as naturally as breathing did. She had been a sweet and trusting girl full of hope and romantic dreams of the future.

Marriage had changed all that.

It had taken an American—Clementine—to show her what a shrew she had become, especially when it came to dealing with the servants. She was doing her best to make up for it, but even still she noticed the servants looking at her apprehensively on occasion.

‘My steer could stay in the stable at night.’ Dropping from the tree, Victor ran for her, then climbed on to her lap.

‘What would you do with it during the day?’ She hugged her boy tight. How long would it be before he considered himself too old for cuddling?

‘Me and my cowboy would play with him. Rope him and ride him and have quite a merry time, Mother.’

‘Victor, you must know that Mr Steton is not your cowboy. He is simply someone we crossed paths with at Kensal Green.’

‘But that isn’t so. I was lost and Uncle Oliver sent him to find me. I know it!’

It hurt her deeply to have to crush his dream, but what help was there for it? She could not allow him to believe this fantasy.

Especially since her sweet son was no doubt seeking the father he had never known. The one who chose a harlot’s bed over hers—a stranger’s affection rather than—

Well, that no longer mattered. What did matter was keeping that man’s wicked choices from hurting her innocent boy. No matter what, she would not allow Henry Shaw to shatter Victor’s heart the way he had shattered hers.

Just because the man was stone cold in his grave did not mean it could not happen.

‘Do you know what a coincidence is?’ she asked while fluffing his short blond curls.

He shook his head. The silklike strands pulled away from her fingers.

‘A coincidence is when something occurs by happenstance. It might appear meant to be, but it is not at all. Mr Steton just happened to be there when you needed him. Your uncle hadn’t anything to do with it.’

‘Did too.’

‘I know you want it to be so and I wish for you that it was. The thing to keep in mind is that you did indeed get to meet a cowboy—to be rescued by him. That is a lovely memory to hold on to. But you must prepare yourself for the fact that you will not see him again.’

‘But I will.’

This conversation was more difficult than she imagined it would be.

‘Of course you will in your heart—’

‘I see him with my eyes.’ Victor leapt from her lap, hopped up and down, wagging his finger. ‘Right there by the fountain! He’s giving that lady a kiss on top of her head. She could be his Indian princess.’

‘You do have a vivid imagination,’ she said with a half-laugh while pivoting about on the chair. ‘You—’

By the saints! There he was!

Tall and bold-looking with his hat dipped low on his forehead. He was indeed kissing the crown of a small woman whose dark hair fell in waves down her back.

The girl, for she was little more than that, swatted his arm, then laughed, exposing a playful-looking dimple on one side of her mouth.

She looked far too happy to be married. She must be his mistress, then—or one of them.

He must be keeping her in one of the sets of rooms across the way.

This was highly inappropriate. Olivia would have a word with the landlord as soon as possible. As long as Fencroft House and his property shared the garden, she did have some say in the matter.

The very last thing that was going to happen was for innocent Victor to associate with such a man—to think he was some sort of hero when in fact he kept a woman.

In any event she had learned an important lesson. She could scarcely imagine what had come over her, if only briefly. To allow her mind to wonder about a man, to fantasise and imagine that he might be better than most, was folly.

There were faithful men, of course. Her brother Heath was one. And, she thought Clementine’s cousin, Madeline, had a devoted husband, as well.

But to sort out which men were honourable and which men were not? No, Olivia would not do it. She had no intention of taking such a risk again.

Chapter Three

Joe stared out of his chamber window, watching rain tap on the garden two storeys below.

Through the drizzle he could see the wavering image of the large home on the other side. He’d been told it was the residence of an earl. Fencroft, he thought the butler had said. He wondered if the Earl would be attending the ball tonight.

If he was, would he be wearing the same sort of stiff-looking clothing that had been delivered to Joe this afternoon?

The formal garments lay across his bed in a precisely arranged line. He’d bet the price of a steer gone to market that his toes were too wide for the gentlemanly boots.