Lord Haven's Deception

by Donna Lea Simpson

  In other words she was perfect, and he was smitten. He hardly knew her yet, but already he felt more at home than he ever had with any lady outside his family or other than Mary.

  Why couldn’t Miss Jane Dresden have been like this girl? He had never met the lady in question, but her manners and personality had been described to him; she was, he had been told, a perfect pattern card of what a lady should be. That meant, from his observation in London, prim, proper, careful, unnatural, fussy, prudish; everything that this girl, Jenny, was not.

  He turned away from the thought of the unfortunate Miss Dresden. The knowledge that she was out there somewhere, alone and scared, plagued him night and day. But he had spent the last two days looking for her; surely he was entitled to this brief break from worry! He sighed and stared into the fire. At that moment Mary called them to the table.

  As they ate cold mutton and homemade bread with honey, Haven wondered how to ask Mary if she had seen or heard anything to do with the missing girl, without revealing himself to be the viscount. He had meant to bring up the topic immediately, but had been distracted by the addition to Mary’s household. He glanced up. At the sight of Miss Jenny’s tongue delicately licking a drop of honey off her fingertip, he felt his groin tighten and swiftly looked away. It had been a year or more since he had allowed himself the relief of a convenient woman, and for most of that time he had forgotten about his physical needs, burying himself in exhausting work. He must distract his mind from the delectable sight of Mary’s younger cousin or he would not be fit for company.

  He cleared his throat. Better to talk about his troubling search for Miss Jane Dresden. Surely he could just mention it in a general way, without identifying his reason for being involved. “Mary, I near forgot. There has been a spot of trouble in the village, at the Tippling Swan. I’m perplexed, I’ll admit. I meant to ask you if you have seen or heard of a young la—”

  At that moment Mary’s cousin’s plate slipped sideways for some reason, and her bread went flying onto the floor. “Oh, no,” she cried. “How clumsy!” In her quick move to pick it up, her mug of buttermilk tipped, sending a stream of the creamy beverage over the scarred surface of the table and down onto Mary’s pristine floor.

  Gerry hastened to pick up her bread, tangling hands with Miss Jenny as he did so. Mary swiftly grabbed a rag and started sopping up the buttermilk. In the ensuing laughter and chatter the baby awoke from her nap and started wailing, meaning it was time for Mary to feed her. He glanced at Mary settling into her chair by the fire with Molly, and turned to her cousin. Picking up his cap, a disreputable hat he used for his farming chores, he twisted it in his hands and said to Mary’s guest, “Miss Jenny, would you do me the honor of walking with me? If you haven’t been to the area before, I would be pleased to show you around.”

  “I never have been this far north,” she said shyly. She looked over to Mary. “Do you think . . . should I—”

  “Go on wi’ the two of you,” she said with an understanding smile. “Gerry, show her the Lesley.”

  Gerry felt his heart pounding as he opened the door for the young woman. He was aware as he never had been in his life that he felt something for her that no other woman had inspired. But he hardly knew her! Had he created her out of some deep desire in his own soul, or was she what he hoped and thought she might be? She advanced down the path ahead of him pulling her shawl up over her shoulders, and he admired the sway of her hips under her simple blue dress. Miss Jenny was, to his mind, an amalgam of Mary’s simple honesty and charm, mixed with her voluptuous and natural sensuality, but with a dash of, for lack of a better term, “essence of lady” thrown into the mix. She was utterly enchanting, everything from the top of her lovely brown curls to the tip of her small feet, and she took his breath away.

  “Shall we follow Mary’s orders and take in the sights of the Lesley?”

  “I would be delighted,” she said, taking the arm he held out for her as naturally as if they were in Hyde Park of a London afternoon in the Season, ready to stroll along the Serpentine.

  Just the touch of her arm tucked tightly against his side sent a thrill racing through his body. And yet it was not just her physical affect on him that he was astonished by. He had met girls who attracted him before. There had been a barmaid in Lesleydale whom he had been mad for and had lusted after. But she had been a forward lass, taking him by the hand one night and leading him to her tiny closet up the stairs. They had carried on a liaison for a few weeks and her lusty lovemaking taught him much, but such forward ways could not inspire love in him beyond the physical. And he had known that the girl would easily move on to another lover after he parted ways with her, as she had done with her last lover, and would do with her next. Since then he had found comfort in the arms of many a barmaid, and once or twice a voluptuous widow in the village.

  He felt that same pulse of physical attraction for Jenny, but there was a difference. It would never be with her, he knew already, a quick tumble between the sheets, no matter what her class. A swell of resentment coursed over him at the fanciful whims of fate. She was a lady’s maid and he was a viscount; there could never be anything for them beyond this, a walk in the brilliant spring sunshine.

  And so, he admonished himself, he must enjoy what he could and not resent what he could not have. It was a waste to walk with this lovely girl and brood over what could never be for them: marriage, children, a little cottage like the one they walked away from this moment. Grieving over the vagaries of life would not change a thing. He smiled over at her. “I shall show you the natural wonders of Yorkshire and hope to convince you that it is, as I believe, the most beautiful place on earth.”

  From the cottage door Mary watched them. What had she done? She was lying to both those poor idiots and she didn’t know why. Or, if she was honest, yes she did. She had lied to Gerry about Jenny because of a look of fear and wariness in the girl’s eyes. She was hiding from something or someone and it was Mary’s instinct to shield her, even from the gentle probing of her old and dear friend Gerry. As Mary’s cousin, no one would look at her twice.

  And she had lied to Jenny, or at least omitted to inform her that this was his lordship, Viscount Haven, because she had caught the mute appeal in Haven’s eyes the minute he had seen the beauty at Mary’s fireside. She had never seen Gerry so happy as he was the moment he had offered to be a guide to Jenny and held the door open for her.

  It went against the grain to lie to anyone, least of all her dear childhood friend, but it was done for better or for worse. How would it end? And who was Jenny?

  Chapter Five

  The day was brilliant with sunshine, but chilly, with a swift wind that caught at her hair and lifted it, tumbling it into confusion. They walked down the path away from the cottage and Gerry rushed ahead to unlatch and open the gate for his companion. She smiled shyly up at him, her bashfulness returning now that they were alone. She looked to him as to the direction they were to take, and he offered his arm once again. Warmth rose to her cheeks as she took the proffered arm and allowed him to guide her to the west, along a beaten path that led up over a high moor and down into the valley of the Lesley.

  He looked down at her feet, admiring the flash of shapely ankle he saw as her skirts swished with each step. “Will your shoes stand the walk, Miss Jenny?”

  She nodded. He pondered what to say, what to talk about to bring her back out of her shyness. But the feel of her close to him was sending his senses reeling and he feared he would not be able to string five words together into a sensible speech. As they strolled in silence, the wind whipping pink into her cheeks, he battled his growing attraction to her. This was ludicrous, to become so enamored of a girl with whom he could have nothing more than this day. And on what was his infatuation based? A few words, a look, a sweetness of expression? ’Twould never do, and he knew it. His common sense acted like a cold rain, slowing his pulse, cooling his fevered brow.

  He took a deep breath. He would treat her
like the new friend she was, as he would any relative of Mary’s. “Have you ever seen a shepherd round up his flock?” he asked cheerfully.

  She shook her head. “I have not, Mr. Neville.”

  “Could you not call me Gerry?” he asked, pleaded, almost.

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Please.” He turned her to face him and took her gloveless hands in his. They were small and cold, and he rubbed them, trying to warm them. “I’m practically brother to Mary and you’re Mary’s cousin. Can you not think of me as kin? Well, not as kin, exactly,” he stammered. The way he felt about her was not cousinly and he did not want her thinking of him with that much ease, no matter what his resolutions concerning her were. “But just as near-relation? And call me Gerry?”

  “All right,” she said. She looked around her and said, “This countryside is so beautiful, wild and free! I always think that we were meant to live like this and not in stuffy houses in a great city!”

  “I agree. There’s nothing like the open country. Did your mistress live in London most of the year?” he asked as they strolled, arm in arm, up the gentle rise following the footpath.

  He felt her start. Perhaps her last employment was not pleasant; he hoped he had not raised an unhappy subject. She nodded, but remained silent.

  “You didn’t like it? Living in London, I mean.” He felt her shudder.

  “I hated it,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I despise London. It is dirty and smelly and noisy, and the people are rude. And Bath is little better, full of painted old men and ill-tempered dragons with unhappy young girls they try to foist off on those painted old men as brides.”

  He chuckled. “I see we agree on some things, London in particular.”

  “You’ve been to London?” she asked, surprise evident in her voice.

  Damn. He felt her curious gaze on his face and looked down at her. If he was the gentleman farmer he was pretending to be, he would not likely have made that trip; none of his employees, other than his personal servants, had. This lying business was more difficult than it should be. Or perhaps it was meant that way, to catch sinners such as he. “I have been, once. On business. For my—for . . . for his lordship.” Damn, but that sounded awkward. And yet if he were truly the farmer he was claiming to be, it would come easy. How ingrained were the habits of command, and he had not even realized it! Perhaps he was more viscount than he knew, accustomed to the position of power he held in his community.

  “Oh. You . . . you work for the . . . the viscount, I suppose.”

  He didn’t answer. Let her assume what she would, he would not add to his considerable deceit. They came at last to the top of the rise. Below them was the broad spreading valley through which the Lesley wound; numerous trickling gills fed by the rains of two days before quivered in silver flashes down the verdant hillsides and joined the river. They stood together for a moment.

  “It is truly breathtaking,” she said on a sigh, gazing enraptured at the brilliant emerald hillsides that rose to meet azure sky. The valley through which the Lesley wound was below them, with groves of trees delineating its path. “We hear, in the south, that the north is wild, desolate, cold and . . . and treacherous. I was a little afraid coming here. But it’s not fearsome, it’s beautiful!” She spread her arms open wide and turned in a complete circle. “How free I feel! And how happy!”

  His heart did a wild cavort in his chest at the awe and gladness in her voice, and all of his good intentions, all of his sensible resolutions, tumbled away. She was utterly enchanting, and it was not just the voluptuous freedom of her movements and her buxom loveliness, not just the way the wind tumbled her curls and her smile curved the sweet bow of her lips. It was the gay laughter in her voice and the delight on her face. It was the wonder with which she welcomed Yorkshire into her heart.

  Oh, to be the farmer he was pretending to be! They had not known each other two hours yet, but he felt a tenuous thread of connection that was thickening, binding them in a mutual appreciation of the simple joys of his home county. What he would not give to be able to deepen their friendship, courting her openly, falling in love minute by minute and hour by hour! He watched her, gray eyes closed, deeply breathing in the clean, fresh Yorkshire air; if he only could, he’d plan ahead to a life that would consist of simple vows in the village chapel and a cottage near the Lesley, children and home and work. What more did a man need? What was there beyond that, a good woman to plan for, to work for, to . . . He swallowed, squashing back his delightful daydreams.

  Jane opened her eyes to find her companion was staring at her. She caught her breath at the yearning expression on his open countenance and in his brilliant blue eyes. If only, if only— Inwardly she sighed at the idiotic play-acting she was taking part in. Mr. Gerry Neville was a farmer. A superior kind of gentleman farmer, it seemed—in fact, he must be distantly related to the viscount, for they shared a family name, Neville—but still a farmer and the hired worker of another man. And she was the granddaughter of an earl, niece of a baroness, with a family line that was titled in many different directions. If he knew he would back away from her as if she were carrying an infectious disease, such were the barriers between the classes.

  But though there could never be anything more between them than a passing friendship, there was this moment and this day. There was the glorious sun warming her face and the clean breeze sweeping up from the Lesley and the lush grass beneath her feet, softer than the thickest Aubusson carpet. She swore to herself that she would enjoy this day for what it was, a respite from her life, before planning what she was going to do, where she was going to go.

  “Tell me about Yorkshire,” she said. He took her hand in his as naturally as if he had done it a thousand times, and yet she knew she would always remember that first touch and the way her fingers twined around his, callused but gentle as they were.

  “Yorkshire.” He cleared his throat. “Yorkshire is the largest county in England—did you know that?”

  “Every schoolgirl knows that,” she chided, and only realized her mistake when he slued a curious glance in her direction. How would she, an unschooled maid, know what every schoolgirl should know? “I m-mean by that, every child who has ever looked in a book. I was . . . was lucky enough to have an educated mother.”

  “Yes.” There was silence for a moment, and she thought by the intent look on his face that he might pursue her education further, but he returned to the subject at hand. “Well, Yorkshire is the largest county, and all those prissy London folk who damn it as wild should thank us, for we provide more mutton for their table than anywhere else in England. And what many people do not know unless they are dealers, we are the foremost producer of horses for stable and carriage. Many a horse for auction at Tattersalls has been bought first at York.”

  They walked on hand in hand, down the long, slow descent on a diagonal pathway. As she listened Jane wondered idly what her aunt had told them when she arrived at Haven Court, and how the fearful Viscount Haven was behaving. She slanted a glance at her amiable and gentle companion. With his open countenance, ready conversation and cheerful expression, he was the opposite of everything she had heard of her proposed bridegroom. She wondered if the viscount was even now storming about his castle like a thwarted child at Christmas, or was she setting her own charms at too high a price? Maybe he was as relieved that she was gone as she was to be gone. Or perhaps he had not even noticed that she was not there, so wrapped up in his own business that the failure of one prospective bride to show up was a minor nuisance. Maybe he had a string of them lined up, to be paraded past him like prospective servants at the mop fair. She almost giggled at the image.

  That he would be worried for her was out of the question. The Viscount Haven she had heard of in London was a cold-mannered, dour and unpleasant man, with all the charm and personality of a whelk and about as much conversation. She glanced up at her companion. Not like Gerry, who had played with a little baby and brought
a smile to infant lips with his faces and burbling noises, and who now was smiling at her as he told her some amusing detail of Yorkshire life.

  “I am intent on surprising you somehow about my county,” he was saying. “Did you know that . . . let’s see . . . that . . . ah.” His expression grew serious. “Ladies like romantic stories. I have one for you. It is said that during an outbreak of the Wars of the Roses a Lancastrian maiden, in love with a York supporter, was kidnapped by her lover and brought to our own little village of Lesleydale, where the two plighted their troth.” His face shadowed for a moment as he spoke of the kidnapping. He frowned, but then shook his head and continued his tale. “Anyway, the Lancastrian maiden’s father, irate at the abduction of his daughter, came north through the worst of the fighting and demanded his daughter back.”

  “Did he get her?” Jenny asked.

  “No. The girl proclaimed her affection for her Yorkish husband and her determination to stay with him. She loved him too much to ever give him up. So the father—I have often thought he must have been an affectionate sort—stayed and pledged fealty to the York cause, just so he could stay close to his beloved daughter.”

  Jane sighed. What love that proved for a daughter! How would things have been different in her own life if her father had lived? She remembered him only vaguely as an affectionate man, quiet, hardworking, and loving. But her mother had always complained about how she had come down in the world by marrying him, and Jane wondered if she had been so openly bitter during her father’s life. “That’s a beautiful story,” she said, sighing happily. “It is true, ladies do like a love story.”

  “Romantic,” he agreed, grinning and taking her hand again. They walked on. Though the Lesley had appeared close at the top of the moor, there was really a long series of hills and dales between them and the river still.