A wolf in gentleman’s clothing…

She might be the making of him

American Joe Steton is visiting his estate in England, bringing his straight-talking attitude and rugged manners with him, much to the ton’s disapproval! Respectable widow Olivia Shaw offers to smooth his edges and make him an English gentleman, and Joe can’t resist such an intriguing instructor. He has wealth and a title—yet how can he give her his heart when his real life is an ocean away?

CAROL ARENS delights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam, and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she’s not writing she enjoys spending time with her family, beach-camping or lounging about in a mountain cabin. At home, she enjoys playing with her grandchildren and gardening. During rare spare moments you will find her snuggled up with a good book. Carol enjoys hearing from readers at carolarens@yahoo.com or on Facebook.

Also by Carol Arens

Dreaming of a Western Christmas

Western Christmas Proposals

The Cowboy’s Cinderella

Western Christmas Brides

The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride

A Ranch to Call Home

A Texas Christmas Reunion

The Earl’s American Heiress

Rescued by the Viscount’s Ring

The Walker Twins miniseries

Wed to the Montana Cowboy

Wed to the Texas Outlaw

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Making of Baron Haversmere

Carol Arens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90151-6

THE MAKING OF BARON HAVERSMERE

© 2020 Carol Arens

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Dedicated to Wade Matthew.

Your quick-witted humor keeps us laughing.

We are blessed by your loving spirit.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
London—third day of spring, 1890

Lady Olivia Shaw kept a tight hold of her five-year-old son’s hand even though he was capable of keeping pace beside her. This early in the morning fog swirled along the path, twining eerily among the tombs of Kensal Green Cemetery.

Naturally she did not expect a vaporous spirit to slither into view. That was nonsense.

What was not nonsense was the possibility of there being a thief—or worse, a kidnapper—lurking in the mist. Yes, any mother with an ounce of caution would be aware that a man of evil intent might be listening to their footsteps and waiting to pounce.

Perhaps she ought to have waited until the fog lifted and there were other mourners to keep company with.

Of course she could not have. Her appointments for the day were a few too many as it was. In order to visit her late brother’s grave, it must be done at this early hour.

With all her family aboard ship to America, the running of Fencroft fell to her and she intended to do a first-rate job of it.

If only birds would awake and sing, the mood of the place would improve dramatically. Birdsong had a way of brightening any situation, of cheering the bluest heart.

‘Mother…’ Victor wriggled his fingers from her grasp ‘…you are holding too tight.’

She gazed down at her only child, pinned him with a stern look, then reclaimed his hand, gripping it even more firmly.

‘Perhaps so, but you do have a habit of disappearing, my boy. If you pull such a stunt here, I’ll have the devil of a time finding you.’

If she could have, she would have left him back at Fencroft House in the care of his governess, but he no longer had one. The lady had up and married without warning and left Olivia at a loss.

‘I miss everyone,’ Victor said, dragging his feet, which indicated he was about to express a complaint. ‘Why did we not go to visit America with them?’

‘Because it is a very long way across the Atlantic Ocean.’ She could scarcely credit that her sister-in-law, Clementine, had taken her fourteen adopted children on such a journey. ‘They will be gone for a long time. Someone must stay behind and see to the affairs of Fencroft.’

Poor Victor was naturally bored and lonely.

‘But there are cowboys in America!’ Add envious to bored and lonely.

He yanked his hand from hers yet again. Where was her adorable toddler? The one who wanted nothing more than to gain his mother’s approval? Left behind somewhere between his fourth and his fifth birthday, she supposed.

Oh, but he was a handsome child. She cupped his upturned face in her palm. His wavy blond hair and his sky-blue eyes were quite her undoing. She would be for ever grateful that he looked nothing like her faithless late husband.

It was his uncle, Oliver—Olivia’s twin—she saw blinking up at her.

‘You would only be disappointed if you met one, Victor. Cowboys are not the bold heroes you read about in your storybooks.’

‘Yes, they are, Mother. I know it!’

Around a bend in the path a stone angel kneeling in prayer at the foot the Fifth Earl of Fencroft’s tomb came into view. How odd that it appeared to move when fog whorled about cold damp marble.

It was only good common sense that made her certain it was a trick of shadow and mist that made the wings appear to tremble. If she did not know better, she would think they were about to unfurl and take to the heavens.

To fly away suddenly, just as Oliver had. But it had not been so sudden, really. Her brother had been sick for most of his life. It only seemed sudden because he had been laughing and smiling over a game of whist—and then he was just gone.

‘Here we are.’ She knelt, placing the bouquet of roses she carried at the foot of the tomb. ‘Would you like to say something to your uncle?’

‘Where is he?’ Victor frowned at the sculpture. If she knew her son at all, and she did, he was wondering if his uncle had somehow turned into a marble figure.

‘That is not him. Uncle Oliver is in Heaven.’

‘Then why are we here? Ought we not go talk to him in Heaven?’

‘That is not how it is done. We talk to him here and he hears us there.’

‘Oh,’ he said with a nod. ‘Good morning, Uncle. I miss you. I suppose you know all your dead neighbours by now. Might there be any cowboys here I can talk to?’

‘Victor Shaw!’ Even as she opened her mouth to scold her son, she heard, not with her ears, of course, but rather a faraway echo in her heart of her brother’s laughter.

Oliver saw humour in everything.

‘I’m sure there are no cowboys in Kensal Green.’

‘Might be.’

There was more likely to be a criminal lurking about than a cowboy. She glanced about, wishing her nerves were not so on edge.

Perhaps she ought to have accepted her carriage driver’s offer to accompany her, but Mr Creed had spent a late night in the stable with a newly purchased horse who was nervous about unfamiliar surrounds. It was only right for him to remain in the carriage and get some rest while she paid her call on Oliver.

Now though, with the cemetery grounds so damp and still, with shadows that might be hiding—things—she rather wished for his large presence.

Even knowing, as she now did, that the Abductor who was rumoured to have plagued London recently was not in fact an actual villain, she had been scared by the incident. London was a large and dangerous city. There might still be evil men who would kidnap innocent children—her innocent child, not to put a fine point on it.

The mother of an adventurous boy could not be too careful.

‘I’m going to have a few words with your uncle. You can play nearby, but only where I can see you.’

‘May I have a puppy, Mother?’

‘What? No, you may not!’

‘If I had one, he could follow me and when you wanted to find me he could bark.’

‘How would he know—? The point is, you will stay close by while I speak with your uncle.’

‘Heaven is quite far off. I do not think he will hear you.’

‘Oh, but he will, my dear, with his heart. Hearts hear things that ears cannot.’

‘Dogs can hear everything with their ears and mostly cowboys have dogs.’

What was there to do but shake her head, sit on the bench beside the tomb and laugh inside at his persistence?

Perhaps she would get him a small pup, after all. Getting him a cowboy was quite beyond her, but a puppy, yes, she could manage that.

‘Hello, Oliver,’ she murmured softly, staring at the cross which the angel knelt in front of.

The marble bench felt chilly, hard and cold even through layers of clothing. She would speak with her brother for a short time and then take her son back to the coach, to warmth and security.

Really, she ought not to be so fearful. She was sturdier than that. Or had been at one time.

Life—the behaviour of men, to be more precise—had changed her. The brother she was here to visit being one of them.

There was Heath, of course. She did trust her younger brother, but he was off to America. Which left her feeling more vulnerable than ever. Until he returned, any problem that arose for the estate would be hers to deal with.

‘You left quite a mess behind when you died. I was angry at you for a time. But you needn’t worry. I have forgiven you and it has all been sorted out thanks to the Macooishes from America. Our brother went through with the marriage which you had intended to be our financial salvation—not to Madeline, but to her cousin Clementine. It is because of her that the destitution you left us with is settled in our favour. I cannot imagine why you thought that college chum of yours was qualified to handle the estate funds. Did you know that creditors came knocking upon our doors? Yes, but I did say I forgive you and I will speak no more of it. Everything down here is going rather splendidly for now. Although all the family has sailed off for a holiday in America. And when I say all—well, let me tell you how the family has grown…’

Fog in this cemetery was a different breed of mist than what Joe had grown up with in the wilds of Wyoming. A body would expect London fog to be a more docile sort, citified and tame, but it wasn’t so. Back home the stuff was fresh, cool and moist to breathe.

This creeping vapour was neither. There was a yellow taint to it that made a man cough if he breathed too deeply.

He figured it hid a lot of secrets.

‘It would, I reckon,’ he said to Sir Bristle. The wolfish dog trotting beside him glanced up, swishing his broom-like tail. ‘It is a graveyard.’

One which he would rather not be visiting. Wouldn’t be if it were not for the fact that the woman who gave birth to him was laid to rest here.

Joe’s boots, the leather well worn and feeling more familiar to his feet than bare ground did, crunched the gravel and broke the early morning stillness.

Reading the names on the tombstones while he walked, he tried to summon an image of his mother. It was a sad thing that he could not.

It hurt that he did not recall what she looked like, or smelled like even. What had her voice sounded like singing him a lullaby? He knew none of the things a boy should know.

All he did know was what his father had told him. Mother was as pretty as a porcelain doll, more angel than woman. Father’s heart had shattered when she died a month before giving birth to their second child. Not of the complications of childbirth as sometimes happened, but of a lung ailment.

Grandmother Hampton blamed her daughter’s death on Pa. Had he not brought her delicate child to such a damp place, she would not have sickened. It was because of Lady Hampton that Mother was buried here in London and not at the estate near Grasmere.

Pa always said her grief had been bitter and so he had allowed his wife to buried in London, hoping to give the woman a bit of relief.

‘“Evan Green, Viscount Clament”,’ he read, then passed by searching the shadows for the one he sought. ‘“Lady Emily Thornton”—not you either.’

Pa had told him to look for a standing angel, her marble arms wrapped about a woman cradling her infant.

‘Sure are a lot of stone angels.’ The dog huffed a soft woof in apparent agreement.

Joe passed by no less than a dozen marble guardians keeping eternal watch.

A small path turned off the wide, central one he strode down. It looked pretty, lined with trees whose newly leafed branches formed a wisp-like canopy in the fog.

He turned down it. The gravestones here were less ornate than the ones on the central path. Barons did not rate as high as dukes, he’d been told. Growing up, Joe had never paid a lot of mind to life across the ocean. As an adult, cattle ranching took up the greater portion of his attention.

As interesting as he found London to be, he longed to return to the great open spaces of Wyoming, where the land was as big as the sky, where he could gallop across open ground on his horse, to shout out loud and feel one with the wind.

‘What do you think, Sir Bristle? Will we go home by summer’s end?’

Drizzle caused by the heavy mist tapped the brim of his Stetson.

The dog shook himself, but did not answer one way or another.

‘I suppose it depends upon how long it takes to—’

Ah, just there. The tomb he’d been searching for loomed suddenly in front of him. He took off his hat, held it in his fist and read the name on the marker just to be sure.

‘“Violet Hampton Steton, Baroness Haversmere”.’

He hadn’t expected his heart to weep, but it did. Somehow seeing his mother’s name upon the stone brought tears to the corners of his eyes.

Being not quite three years old when she died, he could not recall anything about her, but he must remember…her.

There was not a bench to sit on so he settled on the wet grass beside the tomb. He touched the marble, Sir Bristle pressed close beside him, whining and trying to lick his face. ‘I reckon you were expecting Pa.’

He didn’t know for a fact that his mother could hear him, but he went on as if she could. It was a thing folks did in a cemetery, speak out loud to the dead. For some reason it seemed right.

‘Pa wasn’t feeling up to making his usual trip so he sent me to tend to business at Haversmere.’ Maybe Joe ought to have made the trip to England with his father once or twice, but Pa had needed him to remain on the ranch and keep it going in his absence. ‘He said to tell you not to worry about him. He’s only feeling tired and will pay you a call when he comes next year.’

A sudden breeze came up, ruffled his hair, then faded as quickly as it had risen. It was the oddest sensation, almost as if his hair had been tenderly stroked.

‘Was that you?’ he asked over the lump swelling in his throat.

It had to have been a trick of imagination, but he did wonder why Sir Bristle suddenly looked up and thumped his tail.

He’d caught the scent of a squirrel foraging his breakfast, more than likely.

‘I wish I remembered you…you and me…together.’

He sat silently, trying to.

It wasn’t as if there had not been a woman he called ‘Ma’ for most of his life.

His father had left Haversmere behind, having been being broken with grief and guilt over his wife’s death. What if the climate had been the cause of it just as her mother claimed? He’d purchased a ranch in Wyoming hoping for a new start.

He’d got one. When Joe was seven years old, Esmeralda Viella came into their lives. She healed what was broken in both of their hearts. When she and Pa added Roselina to the family, life became complete again.

‘I could use some help, if you are able to influence anything here below.’

He listened for a moment, but nothing happened to make him think she was able.

‘I need to find a husband for Roselina. You might know that she is my sister.’ Again, no breeze, no odd turning of a leaf, gave hint of what she did or did not know of this conversation. ‘My stepmother has given me the task of finding her a suitable fellow. She’s set on her daughter making a society marriage.’

Ma had worked towards this goal for the better part of two years. She had even hired an instructor to teach Roselina proper deportment and current fashion.

His sister took to the training well, but Joe wasn’t sure if she went along with the tutelage because she wanted to be a ‘lady’ or if she longed for a bit of adventure.

In her eighteen years on the ranch she had seen little of gentle society. Parties were few and far between. If Joe made a guess, his sister was looking for fun more than marriage.

For all that Ma had told him not to bring her home without a title, he was not sure this was anything he had control over.

He could not help but wonder why Ma would want this. If his sister did marry a British fellow, she probably would not come home.

The thought made him hope he did not succeed in finding her a husband.

He might not, especially once they made the trip north to the Lake District. He wasn’t sure how many eligible nobles would come calling at Haversmere. Wasn’t London the place they looked for brides?

For all that he had never been to Haversmere, he understood the area to be sparsely inhabited, with more sheep than folks.

Sir Bristle had never seen a sheep. Joe couldn’t help but wonder how he would react to seeing a critter as woolly as he was.

All of sudden the dog stood up, cocked his big head, ears twitching.

‘What is it, boy?’ Joe came to his feet, glancing about.

The dog took this stance when there was something he felt Joe needed to attend to. More often than not it was a straying calf. Once it had been a lost kitten, but once it had been Roselina, so Joe always paid attention to the dog’s message.

‘Take me to it.’

With a woof the dog set off at a trot. Joe dashed after him, back to the main path, then down a narrower one that twisted half-a-dozen times. The further down it he went the darker it got. This part of the cemetery appeared to be neglected and densely overgrown with vegetation.

‘Good boy,’ he said to the dog.

It was always amazing to Joe that Sir Bristle was able to hear a sound from so far away and find his way to it.

After five minutes of twists and turns, the dog stopped, sniffed the ground, then disappeared behind a chipped and mossy tomb.

‘Wolf!’ a young, high-pitched voice screeched.

On a dash, Joe rounded the grave. A young boy crouched on the ground, his face buried in his arms while he wept in apparent terror of the beast sniffing his shoulder.

‘Howdy, son,’ he said. ‘Get yourself lost?’

The boy looked up. His tear-streaked face broke into a wide grin.

‘And so, last autumn was an adventure since our brother did turn out to be the Abductor. But, of course, he was not the fiend people believed him to be.’ Olivia glanced up from her story to make sure Victor was still hunting for bugs under damp stones. ‘Victor? Come out where I can see you. As you can expect, Heath was arrested when his wife accidentally—Victor?’

He ought to have answered by now. What on earth was she to do with him? It was one thing for him to wander off at the town house, but quite another out here where—‘Victor!’

She sprang up from the bench, spun about looking left, then right. Was it her imagination that the fog had grown even thicker while she spoke to Oliver?

It was not! How could she have failed to notice the change? Worse, how could she have failed to hear her son sneak away?

What a thoughtless, inattentive mother she was! She knew her son’s proclivity to hide and she had let down her guard.

He had sneaked off to find a cowboy. She would bet her life on it. But who might he have come across instead?

‘Victor!’

She dashed along the path, trying to stave off the panic constricting her chest. So many smaller paths led off from this central one. Which could he have taken?

Was he still in the cemetery or had someone carried him off? How was she to go on if he had been…?

No! She could not think it.

Her sweet, precious boy—she would give anything to see him run from the tombs, laughing at the grand trick he had played.

Winded, she stopped, braced her hands on her thighs and tried to catch her breath.

Fog was supposed to lift as the morning wore on, but today it only grew worse. She could see no more than fifteen feet in any direction.

Anxiety made her sick to her stomach—lightheaded and half-faint. She would not crumple! She could not. She was a mother, not an inexperienced girl. Her child depended upon her.

The sound of shoes crunching the path brought her upright.

These were not Victor’s light, quick steps. The footfalls coming towards her hit the ground boldly and with long, purposeful strides.

There were other steps as well. They sounded like something having four feet—or possibly paws—large ones, and whatever they belonged to panted heavily.

She ought to run away, hide until the possible danger passed. Of course she could not. There was but one thing to be done. For Victor’s sake she must stand her ground.

A dark-looking figure began to emerge, the fog swirling and receding about it. Second by second the silhouette of a man became more defined, beside him trotted some sort of large beast—a canine of some sort.

She readied her legs to leap, her arms to flay in defence of her child in the event the man had captured him.

The closer the man strode, the clearer his image became. And there was Victor, perched in the crook of his arm.

‘Look, Mother! I found a cowboy and he isn’t even dead.’

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.

Were it not for the fact that his sister set a great store in appearances, he’d wad it all up in a heap and toss it out of the window.

After all the stares he’d got during the outing to Bond Street she had become convinced he could not be presented to society garbed as an uncivilised rancher.

Being certain of it, Roselina had sent the butler to buy the fancy duds he could not look at without feeling itchy.

He hadn’t wanted a butler but it seemed as if the fellow came with the place. Joe did not think this could be a common practice, having a servant as part of a rental arrangement, but it was one the landlord had insisted upon. His sets of rooms were for ladies and gentlemen of distinction and standards must be upheld.

Since the landlord did not forbid Sir Bristle’s presence Joe accepted the butler in turn.

From what Roselina had to say, the fellow had experience in serving Americans. The last tenant had been a wealthy industrialist who married his granddaughter off to the Earl who lived on the far side of the garden.

Evidently, Mr Bowmeyer would take pride in dressing Joe in the fancy garments that seemed more foreign to him than the moon.

He didn’t have to turn to see the shiny black top hat, its absurd image was reflected in the window glass.

How tall would he be if he wore it? He’d probably collide with a chandelier and set the ballroom ablaze.

Maybe he ought to pretend to be ill. If he were forced to wear the thing, it would not be a lie.

But no. He would not find a noble husband for Roselina by hiding away at his room.

The sooner she was betrothed, the sooner he could travel to Grasmere, see to business at Haversmere and then go home—home to Wyoming, a vast open space where what he put on his head was no one’s business but his own.

The ranch in Wyoming was where he grew to be a man. It suited him. The busy streets of London with everyone strolling along to be seen, greeting each other so properly, so mannerly, it all felt very foreign to him.

Perhaps if Pa had ever brought him along on the yearly trips to England, he would not feel so much like a fish gasping on a riverbank. But Pa had felt it best for Joe to remain at home to watch over Ma and Roselina and tend to the business of cattle ranching.

One distant day from now Joe would become Baron, although he tried not to think about it much because it would mean—

Once again he put the thought away. Every time Pa taught him about Haversmere, about raising sheep instead of cattle, Joe shied from the lesson. It wasn’t that he had anything against sheep, or Haversmere, but the ranch was home—the place in the world his roots grew deep.

While he had shied from those lessons in his heart, he had paid attention to them. On the far-off day he became Baron he would need to know.

He wondered if by then he would have a son of his own who would care for things at the ranch while Joe made the journey to Haversmere.

Just like Pa did, he would remain at the estate for a few months, meet with folks, make plans with the estate manager, then go home where his heart lived.

A soft knock rapped on his door. It slid open without a squeak and his sister’s head poked into view.

‘Mr Bowmeyer is ready to serve tea. You must come at once.’

‘Tea?’

‘Yes, and little sandwiches. You’ll like them.’

‘I’ll hate them. Is there at least coffee?’

She shook her head.

‘You go ahead without me.’

She came inside and snatched his sleeve. ‘You are my guardian. You must learn to take tea in a proper way. Mr Bowmeyer has offered to instruct you. It is quite a kind gesture and we will not offend him.’

‘Quite?’ He could not recall ever hearing his sister use the word that way. ‘When did you start speaking so properly?’

‘I’ve had lessons. It just never seemed right to speak so formally at the ranch.’

‘You sure you really want to marry a society fellow?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded confidently, hauling him towards the door. ‘Quite.’

‘All right. For your sake I will learn, but I’m not wearing that top hat tonight. There are some things a man just can’t do.’

‘Every other gentleman will be sporting one and feeling fashionable.’

‘The difference between them and me is that I’m not a gentleman.’

‘As the son of Baron Haversmere, you most certainly are.’

‘Heaven help me.’ He shook his head going down the stairs. ‘If I didn’t love you and Ma so dang much, I’d hightail it to Haversmere tonight. Pa does say it is a bit of paradise.’

‘I love you, too, Joe. I recall that, as much as Pa loves the ranch, he always says he left a piece of his heart here. I suppose it had to do with your mother as much as anything.’

Mr Bowmeyer stood beside the parlour door, stiff and proper looking. He nodded when Joe passed by him.

‘Mr Steton,’ he greeted him with a nod. Joe caught sight of the small sandwiches. He’d eat one in a single bite. Didn’t figure he’d even need to chew.

It was the teacup that worried him, though, being as dainty a piece of porcelain as he’d ever seen. If he didn’t snap the fragile-looking handle off, he’d consider it a wonder.

Had Olivia been invited to any other ball this evening she might have remained at home. She had hired Miss Hopp as governess and the lady had already begun her service.

It would have been good to stay close at hand to be sure that Victor and Miss Hopp got along. Luckily Mrs Hughes had agreed to keep an eye out and Olivia had faith in her housekeeper’s judgement.

Since an invitation from Her Grace was a summons more than a request, she instead found herself on the short carriage ride to the Duke and Duchess’s Mayfair estate.

The rain had cleared, giving way to a lovely starry sky. Olivia might have easily walked the distance, but to go out at night without a man to accompany her would be folly even for a widow.

Within moments she found herself mounting the steps, wondering who would, and who would not, be in attendance.

Now that she was entering the house, the vestibule sweet with the scent of spring flowers and gaslight from the chandeliers casting the room in an elegant glow, she was glad she had come.

Having become used to the company of Clementine and her brood, Fencroft House seemed too quiet.

The company of others would be just the thing. Of course, even after all this time there would be those who looked at her with pitying glances because of what her late husband had done. She had become accustomed to it and for the most part managed to smile past the shame.

In fact, she was not at all uncomfortable walking into the grand ballroom without having a man’s arm to cling to.

That was one advantage of being a widow. She had quite a bit more freedom than a debutante did in her Season.

It felt rather nice to be off the marriage market. Wedded bliss was a myth and she was glad to be done with it. While there were gentlemen seeking widows as brides, Olivia had no fortune of her own, nothing really to offer, and so felt quite safe from their attentions.

There was not a gentleman present tonight who intrigued her in the least. Oh, to be honest, if Victor’s cowboy sauntered in he would capture her attention. Luckily that was not going to happen. The very last thing she wanted was for him to notice and remember her.

Indeed, it was fortunate that earlier today she had managed to whisk Victor into the house before her son had a chance to call out to him. It would have been embarrassing if he, again, claimed the man as his own.

Only steps into the ballroom, Olivia spotted a face she did not wish to see. A former mistress of her husband’s. Not the one whose bed he had died in, but another.

Fortunately, in that moment Her Grace spotted her. The Duchess hurried forward, her hands stretched in greeting and a welcoming smile upon her round face.

‘My dear Olivia! I feared you might not come without someone of your family in attendance, but I’m so pleased that you did.’

‘You seem like family to me, Your Grace.’

The Duchess slipped her arm through Olivia’s, leading her deeper into the ballroom.

‘And you to me, my dear. We have a fine gathering tonight. So many people coming in from the country.’

‘Everything looks enchanting, as it always does.’

‘I do adore a bit of enchantment, as I know you do as well.’

Yes, in a decorative sense. But in matters of the heart, well, she’d learned better.

‘It is quite delightful.’

‘Now that you are not in mourning for anyone, I do believe it is time for you to find a husband.’

‘I’ve no interest in that, I assure you.’

‘Hmm…’ Lady Guthrie glanced about the room. ‘There is Lord Nelby. Rather nice looking and a decent sort. Or perhaps his brother. You would not mind a younger son?’

‘I would mind any son.’

‘Nonsense. You are young and beautiful. And your dear little boy needs a father. It is time you put the past away. What Mr Shaw did to you was unconscionable, but you cannot let that cripple you. You must go on with your life.’

‘My life is adequate as it is.’

‘Living on the good graces of your brother and his wife? Again, nonsense.’

‘To marry again or not is my choice, Your Grace.’

‘Why, yes, of course it is. And you will choose more wisely this time.’

While she spoke, the Duchess’s canny gaze swept over the guests. The woman was a matchmaker to the bone. Even her garden seemed designed to encourage romance, having lovely winding paths and secret alcoves.

More than one marriage had been instigated by a visit to the Duchess’s garden.

‘Look! The Earl of Grayson has come. He is just out of mourning and is no doubt here to seek a wife. Come along, we will have a word with him.’

‘I’m rather thirsty all of a sudden. I believe I will find my way to the punchbowl.’

‘Wait over there by the palm near the garden door. I’ll have Grayson bring you a cup.’ Olivia nodded, but had no intention of waiting anywhere for the Earl.

‘Oh!’ The Duchess spun back on her tracks, lowered her voice. ‘Flirt with any eligible gentleman who takes your fancy, but be aware that the Marquess of Waverly has returned to town and is present tonight. You must not encourage him.’

Any woman with a pinch of wariness would not. Waverly was a predator. Too many foolish widows had fallen victim to his handsome face and the compliments he used to lure them.

Once that hunter had a lady in his sights, there was no getting away. His focus upon her became all but—demented, yes, that word suited superbly.

Nothing would deter him from prowling after her skirt, not even the fact that he already had a perfectly lovely wife. Olivia wondered if Lady Waverly had heard the rumour that her husband had portraits painted of his mistresses. After spurning them he hung their likeness on the wall of his secret room, along with the mounted heads of game he had hunted.

Further rumour had it that he boasted of having a tiger’s head and a zebra’s tail on said wall. That was one rumour she never intended to discover the truth of.

She would be sure and keep the full width of the room between them given that she was a widow and his favourite prey. He might consider her a great challenge since she was known to scorn any type of dalliance.

All of a sudden people began to whisper. The drone of shushed words became a hum from one end of the room to the other.

‘Obviously American,’ she heard, then words such as, ‘Cowboy, uncouth interloper—not a gentleman.’

Oh, dear. It could only be the one man in all of London—or creation—she did not wish to encounter. Joe Steton.

From the corner of her eye she saw Lord Grayson approaching, a cup of punch in each of his hands. It would be the height of rudeness to leave him standing alone beside the palm but, really, she did not want to encounter the cowboy.

The reason she did not want to disturbed and confused her.

What she wanted little mattered since there he was, as bold as a man could be, his confident-looking strides carrying him into the ballroom. His companion, the pretty young mistress he had consorted with in the garden, clutched his arm, her face going from pink to cherry-red the further into company they came.

Not everyone expressed dismay at Mr Steton’s rustic dress. Clearly many of the younger ladies found his cowboy attire to be dashing.

Indeed, the way he tipped his black hat to them in greeting?

Despite herself, it made her heart beat faster and her palms grow damp.

Spinning about, she strode outside into the tranquillity of the sweetly scented garden.

Joe felt the full weight of the mistake he had made as soon as he walked into the ballroom. The eyes of a hundred people settled upon him, judged and weighed him.

Roselina had warned him to don gentleman’s clothing, but in the end he could not bring himself to do it. No, curse it, he’d stubbornly refused to give up the familiar comfort of his Stetson, boots and buckskin coat.

Even Bowmeyer’s frown of censure had not been enough to get him to stuff his feet into those polished shoes and yank the fashionable hat on his head.

‘Fashion be damned’ had been his exact words to the man.

Now Roselina was paying the price for it.

This ought to have been his sister’s shining moment, her grand presentation into polite society.

He greatly regretted that the attention was focused so intently upon him that she went all but unnoticed beside him.

There was nothing for it now but to push on and locate their hostess. Perhaps being a woman—a duchess and a friend of his father’s—the lady might know how to set things right for Roselina.

First he would need to locate her. She might be any one of the gaily bedecked matrons in the room.

Father had written informing Lady Guthrie that ill health prevented him from making his yearly trip and that he was sorry to miss visiting with her. Joe had read the letter his father had written, knew it explained that it would be Joe coming in his stead. Most of the letter, though, had to do with Roselina finding a husband.

He could only hope the Duchess would know more how to go about it than he did.

Blamed helpless was how he felt. Like a trout trying to make his way downstream in the midst of spawning salmon going up.

‘There she is,’ Roselina murmured, her voice sounding relieved.

His sister nodded at a group of woman who openly gawked at him. Some seemed merely confused while others judged him harshly.

‘How do you know?’

‘She has a regal bearing about her. I can just tell.’

The woman his sister indicated appeared at ease in the company and yet elegant in bearing.

The Duchess cast a frown at the ladies, who had no doubt been discussing his crass appearance. They fell silent, looking owl-eyed at each other rather than at him.

Everything about the lady told of her position as Duchess.

Leaving the group she had been with, she glided towards him and Roselina, her hands extended in greeting. Her smile had to be the most reassuring thing Joe had seen in some time.

‘You can only be Josiah!’ She squeezed his hands, then turned her attention to his sister.

‘Your Grace.’ His sister gave a small, pretty curtsy. When had she learned to do that? Ought he to have bowed or some such thing? ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you.’

‘You, my dear, are as lovely as your father boasted you were.’ The Duchess leaned forward, kissed Roselina’s still-flaming cheek. In a lowered voice she said, ‘I’ve got you under my wing, sweet bird. Do not worry about a thing.’

Roselina tipped her chin in his direction, her brows arched in worry.

‘He’ll clean up rather well, I think.’

Clean up? He’d bathed only hours ago. His leather was well worn, but he was certain it did not reek.

‘You must feel rather out of your element, Josiah. Life here in London is far from what you will be used to.’

‘Yes, ma’am, it is.’

For no good reason, Roselina stepped discreetly on his toe. Her skirt covered the movement so the Duchess was not aware of the assault to his boot. When his sister shot him a glare he realised his faux pas.

‘Your Grace,’ he amended and noticed Roselina’s sigh of relief.

‘As I said, Josiah, our ways must be quite foreign to you. At times they are a puzzle, even to me. But come along, your sister must be introduced to the young men.’

‘I wonder if I’d best stay back.’ The last thing he wanted to do was disgrace his sister more than he already had.

‘That will not do—no—Roselina will be making a formal introduction to her prospective suitors. They will need to understand that she is not to be dallied with, but has a fierce guardian.’

He wished the guardian was Pa and not him. Pa would know how to thwart a disrespectful fellow without laying him out flat. What would be acceptable in Wyoming would no doubt get him banned from polite society here in London.

‘I wonder, Your Grace—how did my father handle it? I know he is Baron Haversmere, but I have only ever known him as a rancher.’

‘He is a gentleman to the core. He was raised for the position, although I rather think it would have been interesting to know him as a rancher. I will say, the Duke and I missed him terribly when he went away. We both tried to convince him to purchase an estate closer to London. But his grief was intense, you understand, and along with that his mother-in-law never ceased berating and blaming him. In the end he must have felt putting an ocean between himself and everything here was the only answer.’

‘Did you know Josiah’s mother, Your Grace?’

Joe nearly tripped on his boot toe. In eighteen years Roselina had never called him anything but Joe, nor had anyone else.

‘Indeed.’ Her Grace stood still, looked back and forth between him and his sister. Compassion suffused her face. ‘Since she was a little girl. Everyone adored Violet. She was a bright spirit, but a delicate one. Something like you, Roselina, although you do not share a blood connection with her.’

‘The truth is, I am not a bit delicate. My size is quite deceptive and does not reflect who I am.’

The Duchess cupped Roselina’s face with her palm. ‘You will do amazingly well here, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘Every gentleman could benefit having a lady with spirit.’

Releasing his sister, the Duchess smiled at him, the twinkle in her eye pronounced. ‘Perhaps we shall find such a lady for you.’

‘As much as I appreciate the thought, Your Grace, I’ll be going home when my business here is finished. I suspect the fine women here would not be comfortable in Wyoming.’

‘I wonder if you will change your mind once you see Haversmere. It is one of the loveliest places on the planet for all that your grandmother detested it.’

‘Pa says she blamed my mother’s death on the wet climate.’

‘I suppose she needed to blame it on something. Her resentment towards your father for taking her daughter to Haversmere was not sufficient for her grief. It was a shame she was so consumed by it. In rejecting him she forfeited knowing you.’

‘I wish we had met her,’ Roselina said, gently squeezing his arm. ‘Perhaps if she had known Joe, it might have helped.’

‘Of course it would have. I grieved when your grandmother passed away. Not only for her death, but for the life she never truly lived. Ah…and it was such a shame about your grandfather. Did your father ever speak of him?’

‘He seldom spoke of either of them.’

‘One can hardly blame him for that. Tragedy is not to be dwelt upon. But your grandfather perished in a shipwreck while travelling to France. There was a great storm, everyone aboard was lost. It happened only two years after your mother died and it quite did Lady Hampton in.’

The Duchess was quiet for a moment, giving him time to let the news settle, he figured.

‘But here we are,’ she said brightly. ‘Grateful to be together on this lovely night and looking forward to your happy future, my sweet girl. Shall we continue on?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Roselina did indeed smell like her name, just as she’d hoped to. The pink blush of excitement in her cheeks made her resemble a freshly bloomed rose, too.

Joe followed along, meeting gentleman after gentleman, looking stern and feeling—lacking.

As soon as the opportunity arose, he would sneak out the open doors and into the peaceful-looking garden.

For all that Olivia had believed she wanted company, she found the solitude of the garden to be a balm. The spring air was crisp, but not frigid as it had been only weeks ago.

Without clouds to block them, the stars made a brilliant show. She stood still at a bend in the path, looking up and feeling overwhelmed.

How far did they go on, blinking and shooting across the heavens? Just to look at them, she guessed it was for ever.

All of a sudden she felt the air stir ever so slightly, heard the crunch of a boot step around the bend of the path.

‘Lady Olivia, how delightful to come upon you like this.’

It was not delightful. It was beyond unfortunate.

‘I see you enjoy stargazing just as I do,’ he said while stepping too close.

‘Indeed. I also find it is better a solitary activity, Lord Waverly. I’ll bid you good evening.’

‘Surely not!’

He took another step closer. She shook her head, narrowed her eyes so he backed up, but half a step only, which made it appear that he was retreating when, in fact, he moved closer.

‘I find stargazing with a beautiful woman to be more entertaining.’

‘Is your wife in attendance, Lord Waverly? I’ve no doubt she would enjoy the sight.’

‘She would tire too quickly. She is in her confinement and I find I am rather lonely tonight. Please say you will walk with me.’

‘I’ve finished with the stars. I’m going back inside.’

He stepped around, blocked her way.

‘I imagine you are lonely as well. How long has it been since your devoted husband died?’ He smiled, but there was nothing remotely friendly in the gesture. ‘Oh, but as I recall he was not devoted. Yes, there was some nasty business of him dying in another woman’s bed.’

‘Step out of my way.’ Heat flared through her, made her feel like a match newly struck.

A gentleman would move aside, heed the warning in her indignant expression. She was accomplished at this particular sneer, but he seemed indifferent to it.

Instead, he took an indulgent posture, leaning against the trunk of a tree, arms crossed over his chest and head tipped as if he were judging how best to entrap fresh prey.

Somehow even lounging on the tree he managed to block her retreat. Clearly he was skilled in this game.

‘I imagine you were a lonely woman well before your husband’s sad demise.’ Now he was staring at her chest while slowly straightening away from the tree. ‘I’m lonely, too. Surely we can find a bit of pleasantness this evening.’

There had to be something to hurl at him other than a sharp tongue.

‘Are you such a coward then that you cannot look me in the eye when you suggest such a vile thing?’

‘Come now, Lady Olivia. Step with me into this alcove and I will give you the most pleasant few moments you have ever spent.’

‘Clearly you think highly of your prowess, Lord Waverly. For all that my late husband was a disloyal lout, he did manage better than a few moments.’

Perhaps she ought not have poked his pride, but it was what was at the heart of this confrontation. Not romance or pleasure—but egotism.

The more feminine conquests he made, the more powerful he felt.

Olivia Cavill Shaw was not going to be a conquest. Although, having insulted him, she might now have to take the brunt of his indignation.

He smiled in response, but the gesture appeared feral with his white teeth grinding behind shapely but wooden-looking lips.

It seemed that words were not going to convince him to step to the side.

A weapon was what she needed. Glancing about, she spotted a twig, a grey feather and a tuft of newly sprouted grass.

Her shoe it must be, although the toe was rounded more than pointed. The heel might do, being a small block of wood.

Reaching down, she plucked it off, waved it in front of his nose. The shoe would not disable him, but perhaps it would dissuade him. No gentleman would want to return to the ballroom with his face scratched. Questions would be asked.

‘My dear, dear lady.’ He caught her wrist, squeezed hard until she dropped the shoe. ‘You need not disrobe for what I have in mind.’

She struggled against his mean grip. She ought to scream. She truly ought to, but she had faced so much shame already she could not bear any more.

If people believed she was assaulted in the garden, there would be no end to the pitying looks.

She kicked his shin. He snared her waist, trying to drag her while she dug her feet into the gravel path.

Something pierced her heel. She yelped because it stung like the dickens.

To her everlasting astonishment, a fist ploughed over her shoulder from behind, then slammed into Waverly’s nose.

She spun about, gazing straight into the enraged face of her—Victor’s, rather—cowboy. She was only vaguely aware of Lord Waverly swaying on his knees and clutching his bleeding nose.

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