by Carol Arens
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 wi
th 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.’
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.