The Making of Baron Haversmere Read online

  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?

  He set his hat on the table, shook his head. His hair was a bit longer than gentlemen wore, but it shimmered in such a rich, lovely shade of chestnut brown she would not think of advising him to have it trimmed.

  “She might come over later. Just now she is writing a letter to Ma and Pa.”

  “Mother and Father.” She felt something of a harpy pointing it out. But she had committed to his transformation. Since she had decided not to comment on his hair, she could not let his language go uncorrected. “A gentleman would say, ‘Mother and Father.’”

  “Seems awfully formal. They’d have a good laugh if they could hear it.”

  “Rather say, ‘It does seem awfully formal. They would laugh if they could hear me.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yes, well, nearly.” She was a shrew. The truth was that she was beginning to find she quite enjoyed the way he spoke. However, needs were what they were. “Gentlemen do not use contractions.”

  “I fear, Lady Shaw, that my instruction will be a challenge to you. Please do not lose patience with me.”

  If only patience was all she had to lose. Her fear was that she might lose something more costly. Such as her self-possession, her levelheadedness...her very heart.

  Author Note

  Thank you for picking up The Making of Baron Haversmere. If you have read the stories leading up to this one, I appreciate it! In The Earl’s American Heiress you will have met Olivia Cavill Shaw. Perhaps in the beginning you were not all that fond of the bitter widow, but I do hope you can see into her heart of hearts. She has been horribly wounded by her late husband. I’m certain Olivia is not alone in putting her trust in an unworthy man. In The Making of Baron Haversmere, we see her face who she is now, strive to rise above her brokenness and become again the girl who knew how to love.

  You might recall that at one point in The Earl’s American Heiress, Olivia jokingly—and yes, sarcastically—stated to everyone at the dinner table, “Perhaps I should wed a cowboy...” Those were her exact words. Well...perhaps she ought to! Conveniently, such a man has moved into the apartment across from where she lives at Fencroft House. Not only that, but her small son, Victor, is convinced the cowboy is a gift from his late uncle. What do you think, dear reader? Could he be the gift Olivia needs to rise above her distrustful nature and open her heart to love and joy again? If Victor has his say, she will. But what does Cowboy Joe have to say about the matter?

  We shall see...

  CAROL ARENS

  The Making of Baron Haversmere

  Carol Arens delights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she is not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, beach camping or lounging about 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 [email protected] or on Facebook.

  Books by Carol Arens

  Harlequin Historical

  Dreaming of a Western Christmas

  “Snowbound with the Cowboy”

  Western Christmas Proposals

  “The Sheriff’s Christmas Proposal”

  The Cowboy’s Cinderella

  Western Christmas Brides

  “A Kiss from the Cowboy”

  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 Making of Baron Haversmere

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Dedicated to Wade Matthew.

  Your quick-witted humor keeps us laughing; we are blessed by your loving spirit.

  Contents

  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

  Excerpt from A Royal Kiss & Tell by Julia London

  Excerpt from Captured by Her Enemy Knight by Nicole Locke

  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, bu
t 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.’