Lord Haven's Deception

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Cover

  Lord Haven’s Deception

  Jane Dresden has no patience for the merciless gossip of the ton or the handy hypocrisy of the nobility, and now that her mother has arranged for her to marry the supposedly cruel Viscount Haven, she fears for her future happiness. In an effort to appease her mother and also put an end to her matchmaking, Jane agrees to meet the man, but in a fit of panic runs from the engagement and takes refuge in a country cottage, disguised as a maid. There she meets a kind and comforting local farmer who shares her taste for simplicity and quickly captures her heart.

  Lord Haven had long ago resigned himself to the unpleasant duties of his title and accepted the hard truth that taking a wife and producing an heir was among them—though he shudders at the prospect of spending his life with the charmless woman his mother has arranged for him to wed. Wishing to delay their formal meeting until the last possible moment, he shrugs off his stifling attire and escapes to his favorite sanctuary, a simple cottage on his grand estate. There he meets a caring and captivating maid who steals his heart, and in the guise of a common farmer he proceeds to court her, fearing all the while that his ruse will be discovered.

  As the two struggle with the implications of their deceit and the shattering knowledge that revealing their true identities will doom their blossoming bond, each is forced to choose between duty and heartfelt desire, never suspecting that their fated match holds the key to a true and lasting love.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Lord Haven’s Deception

  Donna Lea Simpson

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  This is a revised edition of a book originally published as A Country Courtship, copyright © 2002, 2016 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Material excerpted from A Rake’s Redemption copyright © 2002 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-78-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Excerpt from A Rake’s Redemption

  Classic Regency Romances

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “But, Mama, why can’t I just stay here in Bath with you?” Though Miss Jane Dresden shuddered at the thought—Bath was dreadful, almost as bad as London, in her eyes—it was better than the alternative. Better than an arranged marriage to a coldhearted viscount from the equally frigid north, who was too lazy to seek his own bride and too prideful to enter the marriage mart. Let the man find some other sacrificial lamb; she had no desire to live in frozen dignity in some great, ancient noble pile.

  Mrs. Olivia Dresden, swathed in layer upon layer of soft knit shawls over a warm merino dress, reclined on the sofa, her thin, wasted face only registering exhaustion. Even though the elegant little room was overheated, with a fire blazing in the fireplace, she shivered. “Jane, dear, please don’t speak so loudly. It hurts my head.”

  Mr. Jessup chimed in, “Be a little more thoughtful of your mother, Miss Dresden. She is suffering more than she lets on, you know.”

  Jane shot a look of dislike over at the man who sat by Mrs. Dresden’s head and periodically waved a vial of hartshorn under her nose. Jane’s mother, a widow of many years, had come to Bath for her health, only to find her decline. She now spent her days in her stuffy parlor, recumbent, a victim to her nerves, her stomach ailments and her aching head. Jane couldn’t help but think that creatures like Mr. Jessup, who leeched on to the ill, enabled women of delicate constitution to decline so they could maintain their own manner of living. He was a new visitor, relatively speaking; Mrs. Dresden had just been introduced to him by a mutual friend two weeks before, but he had spent long hours every day since in the comfortable home Mrs. Dresden had rented in Bath. Her mother, Jane feared, fed on the ready sympathy, the murmured commiseration, and the male attention he offered. She was weary of his company but her mother delighted in it, so Jane could do nothing but note how threadbare his jacket was, and how day by day his expensive little trinkets—enameled snuffbox, gold toothpick case, jeweled quizzing glass—seemed to be disappearing one by one, likely to a pawnshop.

  “Mr. Jessup,” Jane said, moving restlessly on her chair, restraining with difficulty her own vigorous, healthy desire to move, to walk, to do anything but sit a prisoner in this overheated, over-furnished room. “My mother knows I would do nothing to exacerbate her poor health, but I cannot think that hartshorn under her nose is going to help a headache!”

  “Please, Jane, do not speak so!” Mrs. Dresden lifted one delicate, blue-veined hand to her forehead, and Mr. Jessup, a veritable elderly tulip in fawn breeches and aqua coat, shot Jane a look of malevolent triumph. He knelt at Mrs. Dresden’s side, pulled the bulkiest shawl up over her thin bosom and murmured in her ear.

  “Jane, this is for your own good,” her mother said after a whispered conference with her admirer. “If I should pass on, or . . . or if my circumstances should change in any other way, I want you taken care of. You are only adding to my burdens, dear girl, by your intransigence. Please, go north with your aunt and meet Lord Haven!”

  Jane sighed, exasperated, as she stiffly sat in the ladder-back chair she had chosen as the only bearable seat in a room filled with reclining sofas and overstuffed ottomans. It was her life, and yet she seemed doomed to live it out as wife of a titled terror who would likely despise her for her common tastes and low desires. All she wanted from her life now, at her almost unmarriageable age, was to retire to a cozy cottage somewhere in the country, where she could maybe have a little garden, with roses winding up the whitewashed walls. There would be a sunny kitchen overlooking an herb garden in her cottage; she would grow rosemary and thyme, sage and savory, and she could learn to cook!

  The overheated room melted away as her vision clouded and the cottage appeared in all its simple beauty. It would be in a small village on a winding lane, perhaps in Oxfordshire or Kent. Her neighbors would be simple, hardworking folk who would take her to their collect
ive bosom and teach her all the little ways of the village. Or perhaps her cottage would be on a hillside somewhere, by a pretty silver stream in the country. The Cotswolds, mayhap. No neighbors at all. She would keep a gray tabby cat who would sit on the hearth and wink at her while she read a cookery book or kept her simple accounts.

  Jane smiled mistily and plucked at the skirt of her plain but well-made dress. That was it; the country, and a cottage on a hillside. Then the garden could be as big as she wanted and she could grow vegetables among the roses and herbs among the daisies. Lost in her daydreams of pastoral perfection, she was startled when a cruel, hard-mouthed viscount strode into her reverie, demanding that she sit in his golden saloon and visit with the Duchess of Someplace-or-other while netting a purse, needle-pointing a screen and counting the family silver.

  She shook herself. Perhaps she should not have looked up her proposed bridegroom’s family lineage. The title, Viscount Haven, dated back hundreds of years to early in the Wars of the Roses, and the estate manor was even older, a great, cold, dingy pile that probably stretched a half a mile along a desolate, brutal Yorkshire moor. And the many past Viscount Havens had been hard, cruel men who had cared for little beyond enlarging their massive estate and piling more gold in their coffers. She shivered.

  She was no silly goose and should not assume that the present title holder was built along the same lines as his ancestors, but she had very particular knowledge that led her to believe he was a shard off the same flinty rock. And that was the man her family wanted her to wed, and in Yorkshire of all places? That fate, Viscountess Haven of cold and dreary Yorkshire, did not accord well with her daydream of a warm and cozy cottage and that most elusive and ephemeral of imaginings, a kind and gentle man who would love her.

  The pert maidservant who looked after such things as answering the door—Mrs. Dresden claimed not to be able to stand the bold accents of even the best manservants—flounced into the parlor and said, “Lady Mortimer, mum.”

  Lady Mortimer, Mrs. Dresden’s older sister, surged into the room as the maid slid out. She was a woman of fifty years or more—she never admitted to more than forty-nine—with black hair shot with iron gray and dark snapping eyes. Her back was straight, her gait bold and her mien challenging. She wore black always in perpetual mourning for a husband she had never much cared for when he was alive. Lady Mortimer was born to be a widow, not a wife.

  Jane’s mother looked somewhat alarmed as she shrank back under her woolen barrier, and Jane wondered, not for the first time, if her mother was using this trip north as a ruse to get Lady Mortimer out of Bath. Mrs. Dresden didn’t like her sister overmuch, it was true, but surely she would not sacrifice her own daughter’s happiness just to get rid of her sister for a month? And yet she had supported Jane’s right to refuse to go until recently, when she had begun siding with Lady Mortimer, who had arranged this match through an old school connection of her husband’s.

  Jane stood and nodded to her aunt. “My lady,” she said, the only greeting the woman would acknowledge. Marrying a baron at a young age had infused Lady Mortimer with a sense of her own worth that only ever wavered in the presence of someone of higher rank. “We were just discussing why I think this trip to Yorkshire is not necessary.” She clenched her hands together in front of her, uneasy as always in the presence of her stern and demanding aunt.

  One would think at her age, a grand and ancient twenty-seven, that she would have gotten over her childhood fears, but Lady Mortimer had taken a switch to her on numerous occasions when, as a child, she was inclined to mischief and frolics. The woman still unsettled her. She was everything the aristocracy was supposed to be: cold, contemptuous and condescending. Jane had met innumerable “Lady Mortimers” in the ballrooms and parlors of London before her mother finally succumbed to her various ailments and moved them both to Bath for her health, and yet she had never learned how to handle them.

  “Not necessary?” Lady Mortimer said, casting a belligerent glance at the meekly withdrawing Mr. Jessup, who was melting back into his deep club chair like a shadow. Satisfied that she had cowed him sufficiently, she then fastened her basilisk glare on Jane. “Not necessary to go to Yorkshire? You’re seven-and-twenty, not seventeen. Where do you think you will find a likelier candidate for husband than a well set up viscount of wealth and property who seems to have no disabling diseases? I’ve gone to considerable trouble to arrange this, and his lordship is expecting us within the week.” She turned her gaze to her younger sibling. “Sister, do you have someone else in mind? A better match than a wealthy viscount with considerable acreage and impeccable lineage? Mayhap you are hiding an earl, or a duke in your woolen shawls?”

  “What?” Mrs. Dresden said, her eyes wide. She cast a glance at Mr. Jessup, and then squeaked, “No, I have no one in mind.”

  “Then it is settled. We leave tomorrow.”

  Jane opened her mouth, then briskly shut it again. Perhaps instead of seeing this enforced journey as a penance, she should view it as an opportunity, a chance to make her future what she wanted. She bit her lip. Did she dare? She must, if she wanted any kind of life for herself. She took a deep breath, and said, all in one spurt, “I will go north and meet Lord Haven on one condition.” She eyed her mother’s hopeful expression and her aunt’s wary one.

  “I knew you would see reason, my dearest,” Mrs. Dresden said weakly.

  “You have not yet heard my condition,” Jane said. She pressed her knees together to keep them from quivering—she had never stood up to her family, especially Aunt Mortimer, in her whole life, and so this was a new experience—and took another deep breath. “I will go north and have a look at Viscount Haven under one condition,” she repeated. “If I decide after being there for two weeks that I cannot bear the man, then not another word will be said about it and I may come back here to Bath and live with you, Mother. Or I may buy a cottage in the country for us. Wouldn’t you like that? Mother? A sweet little cottage in the healthful country air, maybe in Hampshire or Oxfordshire? I would look after you, and we would have a garden and live in a little village where there would be nice folk, a vicar and an apothecary?”

  Mr. Jessup took Mrs. Dresden’s hand and squeezed it, and the woman dimpled up at him, a trembling smile on her face. Jane watched the interchange uneasily. “Don’t you think that is fair?” she prodded, thinking that she would race back to Bath the moment the two weeks was up, if only to pry the limpet-like Mr. Jessup’s hand out of her mother’s.

  “I think that’s fair, do you not think so, sister?” Mrs. Dresden murmured. Mr. Jessup whispered something to her and she nodded. “Though I think we should agree on three weeks or a month, to really give you children a chance to get to know each other.”

  Jane opened her mouth to object but Lady Mortimer said, “That will be adequate. I’m sure that once Jane sees the exalted style in which the Haven household is run and the elegant manner in which they live she will be more than happy to ally herself with them.”

  It sounded like a treaty, not marriage, Jane thought gloomily, hating the way her aunt referred to her in the third person, as though she were not even present. And yet what could she do? It was either this or the infamous Bath mockery of the London marriage mart, she realized, with elderly gents in frock coats or narrow-chested valetudinarian younger men as suitors, for her mother had made it clear that she would accept no other fate for her daughter than marriage. They had had the discussion many times and always it ended the same, with the seemingly fragile Mrs. Dresden saying that a woman’s place was at a man’s side, and Jane had better resign herself to it. It was amazing that the woman even agreed to Jane’s terms, that she could give this one last try and then do what she really wanted.

  If she was born of more humble origins it would have been so much easier, Jane thought, for even marriage, then, would not have been such a frightening specter. She would be able to marry an ordinary man with wants and needs like her own, rather than a blustering baron or minatory m
arquis who would expect her to hostess enormous parties, waltz at Almack’s, tittle-tattle with the privileged ten thousand, all while she would be wishing them at the devil.

  All she wanted was that snug country cottage. The husband was impossible, for what farmer of humble means would marry her, the granddaughter of an earl and niece of a baroness, as she was constantly reminded by her aunt? The man to whom she could imagine committing herself for life she had met only in her dreams. There she had seen him, noted the quiet strength in his face, felt the loving security of his strong arms. He would have no want or desire for an elegant female who knew how to net purses and dance the quadrille. All he would want was a woman to love him and take care of him.

  She sighed and shook herself out of that delectable daydream. That was out of the question; she had already surrendered her hope for a marriage of love. She would settle for the cottage and a destiny taking care of her mother, a quiet retreat after a life spent despising London society and the Bath elite.

  She straightened her back and dared to speak. “It is a deal, then,” she said. “I will go to Yorkshire with you, Lady Mortimer, and I will give this viscount a fair trial as a possible husband.” And would hate him on sight and reject him; that was the foregone conclusion. “If I decide against marriage, I shall come back here and Mother and I can choose how to proceed.” Her mother gave a weak murmur of assent and Lady Mortimer nodded smartly. But for all that she had achieved her objective, she was uneasy about it. The ordeal was not over yet, and though she had no intention of marrying this hateful Lord Haven, yet she had a sense that it would not be as easy as living out the three weeks agreed upon and then coming home.

  But she would face each difficulty as it came. She had gained her point, for now. She would go to Yorkshire, meet the despised viscount, reject him, and then hasten home to her mother and plan her real future. She frowned at Mr. Jessup, who still clung to Mrs. Dresden’s thin hand; his answering expression was a sly smile that filled her with foreboding. She would definitely hasten home. Her mother was ever hesitant and always took more than a month to consider any new course of action. Jane would have enough time to head off any foolish whims her mother might have.