The Making of Baron Haversmere

by Carol Arens

  That would not do, not at all.

  ‘It would be much preferable to speak of fashion and—’

  ‘I owe you an apology, Olivia.’

  As much as she agreed that they should not pursue what they had begun, she did not wish for him to have been unmoved by it.

  In the moment she would have sworn he had been as overcome as she was.

  ‘No need for apology, surely. We were both rather overtaken by a moment. It was simply a temporary lapse of good sense that we will think no more of.’

  ‘I will think of it—always.’

  It was as if she had been struck dumb. How was she to reply to his honesty? This was not a time for truth. It was a time to present what needed to be the truth.

  ‘The fact is, Olivia, I can’t say if it’s a pleasure or a heartache, remembering. But I ask your forgiveness if I led you to believe I could offer more. My place is not here in London.’

  ‘And mine is not away from it. I completely understand.’

  Of course she understood. It was only sensible to do so.

  But then again—he had just said he would think of their kiss—always. There was no unsaying that.

  The notion that he would remember her years down the road from now, possibly even yearn for that kiss, put her off balance. Left her utterly confused.

  The very last thing she wanted was to be off balance or confused.

  Such a state would make her vulnerable.

  ‘Please,’ she said with false flippancy. ‘Think no more of it. I am a woman of some experience, after all, and am not misled by a simple kiss.’

  ‘Was it so simple for you? Because it was not for me.’

  ‘As I said, think no more of it. We will carry on with your lessons as if it never happened.’

  When, she wondered, had she become so adept at prevarication?

  ‘Does “think no more of it” mean the same thing as you forgive me?’

  ‘It means, there is nothing to forgive.’ She waggled the instructions on proper conversation in front of his nose. ‘Shall we carry on?’

  He took it from her, glanced at it for a moment.

  ‘Seems to me it would be better not to have a conversation with a lady at all if this is what we will be talking about. We will both be bored as snails in a foot race.’

  ‘You might discuss the opera with her.’

  His response to that advice was to grin at her.

  Evidently he did not regret caressing her fingers any more than he did kissing her.

  Maybe he did not have regrets, but she did and they must be dealt with. Wondering what if this, or what if that, did not change the fact that his life led one way and hers another. Trying to do so was a sure path to heartache, which was one road she would not stumble down again.

  ‘I am glad that we have come to an understanding about last night,’ she said because even though she had momentarily diverted the conversation away from the subject, she wanted to put a final word on it.

  Indeed, she wanted him to understand it was her choice as much as it was his.

  An equal and sensible meeting of minds.

  If she felt the same tonight in the quiet stillness of her bed, she would be beyond delighted—and surprised.

  It seemed that the new Olivia, the one who wanted to dance, sing, and kiss the cowboy, made her presence known in quiet times when the real Olivia let her guard down.

  Perhaps she ought to remain awake, recalling the faces of Henry’s mistresses. That would keep star-dancing Olivia in her place.

  * * *

  For the next two weeks Joe spent time with Olivia, attending his lessons dutifully, studiously. Somehow he managed not to kiss her, but the temptation was there like an itch under his skin.

  During that time of becoming socially educated he had also learned to greet Roselina’s callers with civility. It would not do for him to behave with less friendliness than the dog did. Apparently Sir Bristle thought them all worthy.

  Naturally, Sir Bristle was most partial to the one Joe harboured the greatest resentment for.

  ‘Young Lord Mansfield,’ he murmured, watching from an upper window while the young man paid his daily visit.

  In the absence of Ma, Olivia had volunteered to act as Roselina’s chaperon. He could not express how grateful he was for it. Had Joe been chaperon, Roselina would probably have no suitors.

  Except that dogged one. How old could he be? Not much older than Roselina, surely. Could he even provide for her?

  Watching the two of them laughing and having a fine high time made him irritable.

  He would rather look at Olivia, so he did. She sat beside the fountain, reading a book. Pretended to, anyway. Even from up here he noticed her attention focused discreetly on the ridiculously young couple.

  And a good thing she did. Of all the boys coming to call, his sister seemed most drawn to peach-faced Mansfield, and he—well, besotted only began to describe the look on his face.

  Joe ought to go downstairs, join Olivia in her surveillance.

  The trouble was, his attention would be all for her. Keeping up his mask of indifferent camaraderie was no easy thing.

  There was an understanding between them. He was obliged to live up to it. But by sugar, he was becoming more attracted to her, not less. He might appear to be the soul of cordiality but there was more to his friendly smile than she knew.

  He’d spent more than a few hours wondering what he would do if it was not his destiny to return home.

  If, for whatever inconceivable reason, he did not, would she want him?

  Didn’t appear so. Unlike he did, she probably did not hide anything behind her smile. It was what it appeared to be.

  And yet he saw the way she was with her child. A woman who loved so deeply was not likely to limit that love to only one person.

  Blame it, he had no business wondering if there was more to her smile. He was going home and grateful to be doing so.

  Funny, but the thought of going home used to make him feel rather buoyant. Ever since he had kissed Olivia, thinking of going home almost gave him the sensation of sinking.

  Now he was being ridiculous. There was nothing he wanted more than to go home, to ride across the open range and lasso a calf or two.

  Down below, young Mansfield bowed over Roselina’s hand in taking his leave. He lingered over it, but Olivia did not glance up from her book in censure. Perhaps he ought to rap on the window.

  Finally Mansfield did walk away, but not without casting moon-eyed looks back over his shoulder. At last he closed the garden gate behind him.

  Ah, just there, he saw Olivia’s shoulders shaking in what had to be suppressed humour.

  In the instant, Victor dashed across the Fencroft terrace, scrambled over the low stone wall that divided it from the rest of the garden, then ran like mad towards his mother.

  She caught him up, twirled him about in a hug, kissing his cheeks without ceasing.

  One day some fellow was going to be the lucky recipient of all that love. Resentment over some imagined man ought not turn his stomach sour, and yet it did. The reason why did bear dwelling upon.

  Joe Steton was not meant to be her man. He was going home to Wyoming and nothing could deter him from it.

  He had nothing against London, except maybe the foul city air, but this was a town for gentlemen—a town for his father. Some day he would be required to take care of the family estates, but that time was far off. When the day came, he would do what his father did—travel between the two—but in the end it would be the ranch that roped his heart.

  The hell of it was, Olivia had roped and tied him, as well.

  Even if he did change his mind about where home was, there was nothing to say that she wanted him.

  It was a wicked situation to be in and it grieved him.

&nbs
p; Roselina skipped into the room, looking as happy as he’d ever seen her.

  It was not for him to cloud her joy with his own inner turmoil. His job of the moment was to see that the fellow she chose was a good match for her.

  After that—or perhaps before—if he could manage, he was off to the north to see to Haversmere Estate.

  Once everything was settled there, he hoped the state of his own heart would be more peaceful.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I’d rather be playing poker,’ Joe grumbled while sitting across the card table from his sister.

  ‘So would I. However, whist is what most gentlemen play and you will not want to seem inept at it. It’s an easy game to play if you pay attention.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.’

  ‘And I know where to.’

  Perhaps she did, but he did not wish to speak of it so he pretended to be studying the cards.

  ‘To Olivia,’ she continued, ignoring his attempt to avoid the discussion. ‘That is the way of it when one is in love.’

  ‘I’m not in love. And how would you know the way of things?’

  ‘Of course you are. You just have not recognised it yet.’

  ‘But you do?’

  ‘It is rather obvious.’

  ‘I cannot be in love with her. There is no future for us.’

  She waved her hand between them, signifying that in her opinion this important detail was irrelevant.

  Sir Bristle turned his face towards the door, lifted his nose and sniffed. His tail thumped heavily on the rug.

  Voices, speaking softly, rose from the first-level hall.

  Joe had no doubt that his expression looked as puzzled as Roselina’s did.

  Sir Bristle stood up from the rug, then trotted to the doorway.

  ‘Who could be calling that he would be acquainted with? And at this hour?’ For clearly whoever it was, was someone he knew.

  Light-sounding footsteps tapped quickly up the stairs. A small, black-gowned figure stepped into the room.

  ‘Mama!’ Roselina exclaimed.

  His sister jumped up from her chair, ran to Ma and held her tight, hugging and weeping joy all over her. ‘I cannot believe you are here!’

  In her excitement, Roselina failed to really see their mother.

  She was dressed head to toe in black. Her eyes were clouded, her mouth turned down in sadness.

  Esmeralda Steton was in mourning.

  Pa was not with her.

  * * *

  Moonlight streamed through Olivia’s chamber window. Sitting up in her bed, she watched the eerie and yet beautiful play of light and shadow in the room.

  It was late. She ought to be sleeping, but something was amiss, although she had no idea what it might be. There was just a persistent sense of foreboding, or unrest, which was not due to anything she could identify.

  The house was quiet. Victor was asleep. She knew because she had checked in on him three times since she had tucked him into bed.

  None of the servants seemed to be up, either, which sometimes indicated that someone was ill.

  The house was peaceful. She was not.

  Flinging off the quilt, she went to her mother’s chair, snuggled into the cushions and gazed out the window at the garden below.

  Perhaps with daylight the disquiet would go away.

  All of a sudden, she sat up tall and stared hard out the window.

  Someone was in the garden.

  Josiah sat on the bench beside the fountain, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook as if he were weeping.

  But why? Something was very wrong.

  Roselina! Had something happened to her?

  Olivia ran towards the chamber door, snatching her robe from the bed in passing. She stepped into her slippers while dashing down the hallway and nearly tripped over the hem of her robe.

  By the time she neared the fountain, she felt sick with dread, her stomach squeezed in a horrible fist.

  He must have heard her steps on the stones, the rasp of her laboured breathing, but he did not look up.

  ‘Joe?’

  Head down, he reached for her. His hand trembled. She rushed forward, clasped it and sat beside him. Turning sideways, he wrapped her up, buried his face in her neck.

  While he was not weeping, his tears dampened her collar. She stroked his hair, held him close and rocked him like she would do Victor when he was hurt.

  Although this was not like holding Victor. Hugging her child close, caressing his hurts away, was not the same.

  The need to offer Joe comfort was more compelling. She could no more walk back into the house right now than she could send her baby away while he was still clinging to her.

  Clearly, Joe was in need of her.

  Whatever troubled him went far deeper than a scratch. This hurt was much worse, she feared, and not so easily consoled.

  After a long moment, she patted his back and drew slightly away, but only far enough to look into his eyes.

  They were red and puffy. Even in the moonlit shadows, the intense grief gripping him was clear to see.

  ‘What is it, Joe? What has happened?’

  He shook his head, tried to speak, but could not.

  She drew him to her again, whispered close to his ear, ‘I’m here. Rest your heart, I’m here.’

  Yes, just so—she felt the tension leave his body as he sagged into her.

  Hugging him close felt so right, so natural. Letting him weep against her was an act of deep friendship—and perhaps more than that.

  Something rustled in a nearby bush. A young kitten ventured into view, but spotting them, scampered for shelter.

  She wanted desperately to ask after Roselina, but did not dare. He would speak when he was able. Between now and then she would simply be here, hold him and pray that her presence gave him ease.

  It seemed a long time passed before he drew a deep breath, leaned back against the bench and stared up at the moon.

  ‘My father.’ His voice was hoarse, as if the very words ripped his throat. ‘He’s gone—dead.’

  Not Roselina, then. Her relief vanished from one heartbeat to the next. Joe loved his father.

  ‘I’m so very sorry.’ Common words to console uncommon grief. She only hoped he felt how sincerely she meant them.

  He nodded, silent again. He drew her close to his side, curled his arm around her, holding on to control but barely.

  The kitten came out again, crawling stealthy towards them. It batted at the tassel on her slipper, then dashed off once more.

  She was grateful for it. Sometimes in the midst of overwhelming sorrow something so normal kept the world from flying apart.

  ‘How old do you think it is?’ Joe asked. Not because he really cared to know, but because the asking enabled him to take a step back from the edge.

  ‘Only about six weeks, I imagine.’

  ‘I wonder if Victor would want to play with him.’

  ‘He would, of course, but he’s asked for a steer.’

  He looked at her then, fresh tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes. ‘Our mother came from America to tell us. She is with Roselina. I think they have both finally fallen asleep.’

  ‘You should try, Joe.’

  ‘No. For me, sitting out here makes it seem like I’m keeping watch. Don’t know what for, but it seems right to do it.’

  ‘Shall I watch with you or would you like to be alone?’

  ‘Stay...please.’

  She nodded and it was the last either of them said for several minutes.

  ‘He didn’t suffer, Ma said.’

  ‘It’s a comfort knowing, I think. It was for me when Oliver passed away. He was happily playing cards and then—he was just gone. I’d swear he was still smiling over the win
ning cards he was about to play. But Oliver was nearly always smiling.’

  She reached up and twined her fingers in his where they lay on her shoulder. In the moment she found she needed comfort as well.

  Grief had a way of sneaking up on one, bringing up the hurt all over again.

  ‘We knew Pa was not feeling as strong as usual, but no one knew how sick he was. The doctor said it was probably his heart and such a slow decline it was hard to notice day to day. He went to sleep one night and then he didn’t wake up.’

  ‘Your poor mother. She must have been devastated.’

  ‘Ma is small, like Roselina, but as strong as a prize fighter when she needs to be.’

  ‘Also like your sister, I think.’

  ‘They do know their own minds.’

  ‘I’ll pay a call tomorrow to offer my condolences. But only if you think it will be a comfort. I would not want to intrude.’

  Very gently, he squeezed her fingers. ‘I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but, yes, I would find it a great comfort. Please, Olivia...do come.’

  ‘I will then.’

  For a long, quiet time they looked at the moon.

  ‘What do you think, Olivia? Are they up there somewhere, can they see us down here, know what we are up to, how we ache for them?’

  Of course she did believe that. Had she not heard her brother laughing at her from time to time? And if he was laughing it meant he was happy.

  ‘I’m completely certain of it. No one is more convinced of it than Victor is.’

  She shifted her gaze from the moon to Joe’s face. Pure, clean light accented the lines of grief at the corners of his mouth, bringing back too clearly the feel of having her heart cleaved in half in the hours after her brother’s death.

  Oddly, she had not felt that way when her husband died. Then again, perhaps it was not so odd.

  ‘You will know why he believes it,’ she said, continuing with her thought.

  ‘That his uncle sent me? If it is true, I’m flattered. If nothing else, I’m greatly complimented that Victor would feel that way about me.’

  ‘I only hope his attention—oh, honestly—his devotion—is not a burden to you.’

  ‘No, he is a sweet child. His attention could never be that. Don’t worry, though, I will not lead him to believe there is anything Heaven-sent about our meeting.’