Lord Haven's Deception

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Wasn’t it?

  Granted, he had known her for too short a time to know if what was between them was love, but he was certain that there was a budding of something, something that waited only for a tiny push to grow into a deeper feeling than the blend of physical desire and blooming warmth. Should he give it that opportunity? Did she feel it too?

  He filled the pail and carried it into the cottage for her. Pammy had evidently not unmasked him, for Jenny treated him just as she had the day before, and he would know the difference immediately if she knew him to be Viscount Haven. Mary was spinning and she looked up from her wheel and said, “That was quick, Jenn—ah, Gerry. I might o’ known.” A wry smile twisted her mouth when she saw the full pail that he plunked down on the table.

  “Mary,” Gerry said. “If you do not mind too much I would like to steal your cousin away for another walk.” He turned to Jenny. “Would you walk with me? ’Tis a fine day, and early spring is often not so kind here in Yorkshire. One must seize the day—carpe diem, as the old vicar used to command his pupils.”

  Jenny nodded wordlessly and retrieved her shawl from a hook on the back of the door. Gerry held it open for her and together they stepped back out into the sunshine. He glanced back in to say good-bye to Mary but she was busy, a frown over some snag in her wool pulling her face into a grimace.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary moved from her spinning wheel to the door and watched Jenny and Gerry stroll off together, not missing the way Gerry took her arm and tucked it possessively close to his own body. They were like magnets she had seen demonstrated once; their attraction was mutual and powerful. But how would it end?

  She thought back to the conversation of the night before. Jenny was hiding something. Mary could not believe that it was anything terrible or sinful, but how did she know? When she found Jenny, scared and cold and shivering in her barn that late night, and with a torn dress as well, her only thought had been pity and a desire to protect her, nurture her. The girl had been through some kind of ordeal, that was clear. Mary had first thought she might be a barmaid who had been attacked or raped, or a servant of some kind fleeing a lecherous master. But living with her for a few days now Mary knew she was no maidservant of any sort, even one in the elevated position of lady’s maid.

  The girl was gentry, but if that was so, what was she doing out on the moors at night alone? And why was she content to bide at Mary’s humble cottage, when it was clearly all so new to her? She did not know the first little thing about housekeeping, though she seemed eager to learn. Who was she?

  When she had first seen Gerry’s reaction to Jenny, that instant attraction and flare of interest, Mary had to admit to herself that her only feeling had been one of relief. She would never ever let her old friend know the burden his silent adoration of her had been. It would have been bad enough if Mary had believed it genuine, but she had felt all along that Gerry, with a tender, loving heart too often hidden by an outwardly dour demeanor, had just been lacking a proper object for his affections. He was a man of strong passions, though he kept them subdued with a strength of will and stern morality that did him credit. He needed a woman to love, a feminine companion to adore and care for and look after, but it would never be her. Aside from their vast differences in station and wealth, she just did not love him in that special way and he deserved that, needed it.

  But now things had come to a difficult pass and Mary quite frankly did not know what to do. Attraction was swiftly becoming something more between them. She had seen it in his eyes, in the way he had looked at her as they exited the cottage. She did not know the young woman well enough to know what she felt for Gerry, but in his case he was smitten and could easily tumble into love, and yet Mary was lying to him, letting him think that Jenny was her cousin when really she had no idea who or what the girl was!

  It was unconscionable and Mary was deeply ashamed to have lied. There were so many questions in her mind, questions that had no answer. Thinking that Jenny was Mary’s cousin, was Gerry just transferring his affection for his old friend onto a more receptive female? Would he feel the same if he knew her to not be Mary’s cousin?

  And what was Jenny’s motive in all of this? It could be that she, being in some sort of trouble, saw Gerry as a potential knight errant, to rescue her from her dilemma. Mary would not for the world have Gerry used that way. And yet they were both adults. This attraction would likely exist no matter who they thought the other was.

  In fact, once Jenny knew Gerry was in truth not a simple farmer but a wealthy and powerful viscount, she would likely do all in her power to cultivate his attraction and growing affection for her. What girl would not?

  She stared up the moor to where the two were now just small figures moving so close to one another they appeared to be one. She rubbed her arms and shivered. Ah, it was all a mess, and she would not hide from her own part in making it thus. Mary closed the door and went back to her spinning wheel. One thing was clear. The concealment must end; she must tell them both the truth and let things sort themselves out how they might. And her first duty was to her old and valued friend, Gerry. She must take him aside and tell him the truth, that not only was Jenny not her cousin, but she had never laid eyes on the girl before just a few short nights ago. He would be angry. He had a right to be, and hurt, too, but she hoped he would forgive her.

  And then she would leave it up to him to tell Jenny the truth. It would be a much more pleasant surprise for her, no doubt, for she would find that her country swain was in reality a powerful and rich man. Whatever trouble she was in he could likely fix it.

  Unless she was, after all, married and running away from an abusive husband. There was very little remedy in law or religion for that. Mary started the even foot movements of the treadle of her spinning wheel and concentrated on just the right positioning to get the even texture and thickness her wool was known for throughout Lesleydale and the entire North Riding.

  She must tell the truth and shame the devil.

  • • •

  Jane glanced over at Gerry. His brow was furrowed and he was deep in thought. They had climbed the high moor again, standing for a few moments—mostly so she could catch her breath, as the walk was long and she was not accustomed to it as he was—at the top to survey the valley of the Lesley, but now they had descended and were walking among the burgeoning trees, the color of their new leaves an incredible, brilliant green, like the most lovely, translucent peridot.

  She thought back to all the lonely evenings spent in London ballrooms and Bath parlors, all the hours of idle chatter and fatiguing gossip, and she knew that in all of her dreams of a man—a real man, not one of the posturing London bucks or beaux—she could never have conjured Gerry, the perfect blend of earthy country manners and compelling intelligence. They had talked the whole of the way, up and down moors, speaking of farming in Yorkshire, of all topics, for his knowledge of sheep farming was deep, not surprising since it was his life. But they had moved from there to other things. He was intelligent, well-read, with an interest in the most amazing array of topics, including astronomy, history, science and even politics.

  He knew the arc of the stars in the earth’s nightly travels, and had promised to show it to her one night. He had an opinion on the Poor Laws, could debate Mary Wollstonecraft and Jeremy Bentham, and had his own opinions of the Wars of the Roses and the true causes. He was amazing, a compendium of useful knowledge, esoteric information, and deeply held conviction. That he was delighted by her own erudition on these topics was a lovely surprise. She had expected him to be horrified, as many in London had been, by her wide-ranging knowledge of and interest in politics, but he seemed to truly appreciate an intelligent response. It was refreshing. How he thought a lady’s maid came by such information as she displayed, she did not know. Nor care. She would never be anything but what she was with him, even if she was concealing her identity.

  But now he was silent.

  She sighed and let herself l
ean against him as they strolled among the swaying, whispering trees toward the banks of a silvery gill, one of the narrow, undulating streams that fed the Lesley. When he stopped in the unneeded shade of a twisted, gnarled old oak, she looked up at him questioningly. Her heart was at peace and she was ready to accept whatever her life should bring, now.

  “Jenny,” he said hesitantly. He released her arm and turned her to face him. She leaned back against the trunk of the tree and looked up into his honest blue gaze.

  “Yes, Gerry?”

  He touched her hair, stroking it back from her cheeks, and she felt a shiver rush through her at the gentleness of his touch. How could such broad, strong hands be rough in texture and yet so gentle at the same time? His fingers trailed down her cheek and cupped her chin. His sturdy, powerful body moved closer until she could feel his heat infusing her with warmth. She gazed up into his eyes still, reading there tenderness and affection and something else, something deeper and more elemental, more to do with the night secrets that were whispered between man and woman, lover to lover.

  “Jenny,” he whispered.

  Pinned, trapped against the gnarled trunk of the tree, the first touch of his lips was almost frightening, the intensity startling, the raw twist of restrained passion that surged from him through his lips a bewildering shock. Her eyes closed, she was a prisoner of the delicious sensations that raced up her spine and down to her fingers. Without thought she put her hands on his strong shoulders and felt the flexing muscles beneath her fingers.

  His lips, soft at first, moved over her chin and cheek and up to her hair and her ear; her whole body trembled as her fingers moved, as if of their own accord, up to thread through his thick, soft hair. He smelled of clean air and wool and wood smoke: delicious, enticing, beckoning.

  He was muttering her name over and over, “Jenny, Jenny,” like a chant against her skin, and when he took her lips again, his heavy body moved closer, pinning her until she could feel the rough texture of the bark at her back and the unyielding muscle of his legs and torso against her front. It was thrilling and frightening and astonishing. The world had shrunk to this one space, the two of them and the delectable desire that throbbed between them.

  His hands moved down from her shoulders, down her back until he was holding her firmly against his body and she could feel him, feel his need for her and the power of his passion. A shudder shook his body and he broke the contact, releasing her from his arms. She opened her eyes and gazed at him, numb with shock at the sensation of his body stirring to life against her.

  “Pardon me, Jenny. I didn’t mean to take advantage.”

  She couldn’t say a word. She just stared at his face, tracing his lips, letting her gaze lock, finally, with his. So this was it, this was what falling in love felt like. Or was this merely the physical manifestation of the dangerous attraction between man and woman? Perhaps this was the reason young ladies were so protected, this urgent siren call that beckoned the unwary to wander near the lip of the abyss, the deep chasm of temptation.

  But no, though the attraction between them was powerful she could not believe it was only physical, for she felt a connection with Gerry. Where the touch of other men’s hands and lips had inspired distaste, this felt right and good and meaningful. And for him too, she thought. She searched his eyes, seeing tenderness and honesty in their blue depths; she concluded that his desire for her was a clean, sweet thing, nothing to be ashamed of.

  For the first time in her life she had met a man with whom marriage would not be a distasteful duty, but a thrilling adventure. Loving him, caring for him, taking care of him—she reached out and touched his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard stubble against her sensitive fingers. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it, nipping at the fleshy part near her thumb. A wild, tumultuous thrill of sheer joy raced through her. Life was good, the world was beautiful!

  For once in her long, constricted, restrained life she gave into impulse and pushed past him. She dashed away from the tree, looking back at him and saying, “If you want another kiss, sir, you will have to catch me!” She laughed out loud at the look of astonishment on his handsome face and turned, picking up the skirts of her maidservant dress and racing off along the soft-turf bank of the gill. She felt young and free, lighthearted and happy for the very first time in her life. It was magical!

  Gerry, in the powerful clutches of restrained passion, took a moment to respond, but a surge of desire raced through him as he watched her fly along the bank. The thrum of primitive instinct, the urge to capture and make her his own, raced through his blood, and he ran, chasing her. But she was quick and light on her feet for such a city-bred lass.

  Her laughter floated back to him as he thudded along the bank. And then, to his horror, he saw her tumble, and she fell to the ground.

  “Jenny!” He raced to her and fell at her side, only to see her grinning up at him, panting, but unhurt. He covered her mouth with his own and their gasping breaths were exchanged and mingled as they kissed and breathed and kissed some more. The soft turf beneath them felt remarkably like a bed, and the lust that had throbbed through his body pulsed back, more powerful and more frantic. It knifed through his groin, almost doubling him over with its power.

  Lord, but he wanted her! Tamping down his animal urges, anxious not to frighten her with his passion, he clenched his fists and pulled back, gazing down at her lovely face, pink-cheeked from exertion, her gray eyes sparkling. Was she inviting him to make love to her? What would she do if he—

  He let his fingers trail the skin of her heaving bosom, above her neckline. She shivered and looked up at him, the delight in her eyes replaced by a question. He flattened his hand over the swell of her ample breast and felt her jump. Her eyes widened and she moved away from him in one swift movement. Ashamed, he swallowed back his desire and let her go.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. I’ll not take advantage of you. Slap me if you wish; I’ll understand.”

  She shook her head shyly. “I’ll not slap you, Gerry. Just behave and there will be no need.”

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, relieved in an odd way. There would be no heady lovemaking on the banks of the gill; it would have been a pleasure and a blessed relief for his body, but what it meant was that she valued herself above a quick and furtive tumble on the riverbank. He lumbered to his feet and offered her his hand. “Now, Miss Jenny, will you walk quietly with me or must we race along the bank like ewe lambs again?” He deliberately chose a light and teasing tone for his words.

  She smiled and sighed. “We shall walk, sir,” she said primly.

  He took her arm and they strolled. How different this country courtship was from any other relationship with a female he had ever had. There had been, in his life, the inevitable barmaids and serving wenches. They offered themselves to him as the lord of the manor, asking in return only lovemaking and gifts, which he gladly bestowed. He had stopped that years before though, realizing he was merely lucky that there were no by-blows born from those fleeting physical unions. For some time now he had been celibate, unwilling to make of any woman a mother to his child unless she was also his wife. He was not one to take mistresses and he could not see a casual relationship with any of the local widows, though there were those who had cast their eyes and their suggestions his way.

  But every relationship of that sort was tainted with conflicting hopes and desires. Inevitably differing assumptions would lead to hurt feelings and ultimately a painful separation when expectations were not met.

  With Jenny there was an honesty—

  No. There was no honesty. He would not mislead himself, no matter how much he might lie to her. There was no honesty as long as she thought he was Gerry Neville, local farmer. Would her feelings change when she found out he was Lord Haven? Would doubt of his intentions cloud her eyes and her heart turn away from him? He didn’t know and he was afraid to learn. Perhaps he was even more afraid that her finding out he was Viscount H
aven would make him more desirable in her eyes.

  Jane felt Gerry’s hand seek out hers and clasp it in the warm confines of his palm. Her heart was still pounding and she didn’t think she would soon forget the churning—it was almost stomach-turning, oddly enough—of desire that simple action, his hand on her breast, had inspired. She had not wanted to turn him away. She had wanted him to continue, wanted him to slide his fingers under the bodice of her dress and touch her in intimate ways.

  But it would not have been right for so many, many reasons, so she had found the strength for both of them and turned him away. What did she want from Gerry Neville? More, certainly, than an end to her maidenhood. If it was marriage he sought and not just a quick tumble on the turf, would she say yes?

  The warbling of a lark drifted on the breeze and the little gill chuckled and burbled like Molly in a happy mood. She glanced at her companion, saw his brow furrowed again, and she wondered what he was thinking. If he asked her to marry him—and many proposals had been received by ladies after less time spent with a man—would she say yes? Why not? She had not been raised to think she would find love in marriage, but with Gerry she thought there was every chance it would seek her out and steal into her heart; perhaps the process had begun already with this country walk and stolen kisses.

  She did not measure him as the kind of man to trifle with a lady’s heart. And yet, she didn’t even know if he had the wherewithal to marry. Perhaps marriage would be many more years off for a farmer who must depend on the erratic market for his goods to make his fortune. Or on the goodwill of his master, the mighty Lord Haven.