“You know I can’t go,” Corisande interrupted gently, trying not to be affected by the disappointment shining in Lindsay’s blue eyes.
Cerulean blue, her wildly imaginative friend liked to call them, not out of vanity but simply because she enjoyed the sound of the exotic word upon her tongue.
In fact, Lindsay Somerset didn’t have a vain bone in her body, an amazing thing considering she was one of the loveliest young women in Cornwall. Her flawless skin, waist-length blond hair that was practically white, and hourglass figure was the stuff of King Arthur’s legends. No, if anything, her only fault lay in her being too kindhearted for her own good.
Lindsay had earned Olympia’s heated censure countless times when she had been caught taking food from the Somerset pantry to feed the parish’s hungry tinners and their families, or been discovered selling her own shoes to purchase coal to warm some unfortunate soul’s freezing cottage.
Corisande’s causes had become Lindsay’s; Corisande couldn’t have wished for a friend more loyal and true. Yet Lindsay’s life would have been much easier under Lady Somerset’s roof if she’d been less caring. For that reason, for Lindsay’s sake, Corisande was almost relieved to see her go.
“If you’re thinking you can’t go because you haven’t the money,” Lindsay began, clearly making one last valiant attempt to sway her, “I already told you I would share everything I have—”
“It’s not the money,” Corie broke in again, though, in truth, as a vicar’s daughter she had virtually no coin to her name.
“Well, don’t dare tell me it’s because you wouldn’t fit in,” Lindsay said with reproach, her beautiful sky-blue eyes flashing now. “You’re so pigheaded, Corie Easton!”
“Like you,” Corisande said with fondness.
“Maybe so, but you’re worse. Complicated, uncompromising, and full of the silliest notions. Like only pretty girls should go to London. You’re pretty, Corie, prettier than most no matter—”
“And you’ve always been far too generous when it comes to judging your friends,” Corisande cut in, the back of her hand brushing against the pale, grooved scar bisecting her cheek as she swept windblown hair out of her eyes. Wanting to change a subject that didn’t bother her nearly as much as Lindsay thought it did, she added, “London is no place for someone like me. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself there.”
“You could have fun. See new things, meet new people, have wonderful adventures—oh, I can’t wait to get to London!”
Corisande was glad to see that excitement now lit Lindsay’s lovely face, her friend’s eyes dancing with anticipation. Lord help her, if Lady Somerset did anything now to thwart Lindsay’s dreams, Corisande couldn’t say what she might do.
At the very least, she’d give that insufferable woman a tongue-lashing sure to straighten her sausage curls, something she’d longed to do for years, although Lindsay had prevented her every time. Lindsay simply loved her father too much to make his life any more miserable than it already was, again giving little thought to herself.
Just as Lindsay was doing now, insisting that Corisande accompany her even though she knew that Lady Somerset would never approve. If Corisande stepped one foot into that coach, Lady Somerset would have just the ammunition she needed to cancel the entire journey. Corisande’s friendship with Lindsay had always been a thorn in the old bat’s side, Corisande’s zealous determination to help the parish’s poor and needy hardly a pastime Lady Somerset considered suitable for a baronet’s daughter.
At least she agreed with the woman on that score, Corisande thought as she glanced at Lindsay, her friend’s eyes fixed expectantly to the east, as if she could see the roofs of London all the way from Cornwall. Not because helping those less fortunate than herself wasn’t suitable for Lindsay, but because she finally had the chance to do something for herself. To make her own dreams come true.
When she’d told Lindsay that only pretty girls should go to London, she had meant merely that Lindsay with her peerless blond beauty was born for such a glittering world, a fact Corisande didn’t begrudge her in the least. How could she? To experience life outside of Cornwall was all her indomitable friend had ever wanted to do. Just as staying in Cornwall where she was needed was what Corisande wanted to do. God knew, she had plenty of responsibilities to keep her busy, and with times being so harsh thanks to this damned interminable war with Napoleon and now America, too—
“Don’t, Corie. I know that look on your face.” Lindsay’s voice held fresh reproach as she squeezed Corisande’s arm. “You’ve got that tiny little frown between your brows, and I won’t have it. You’re not supposed to be thinking about all the things you have to do.”
“I wasn’t,” Corisande fibbed, although it was hard to forget that the cutter Fair Betty was due to drop anchor at a secluded cove near Porthleven harbor late tonight, which meant she would be busy helping to oversee the landing and dispatching of smuggled tea, silk handkerchiefs, and brandy until the wee hours of the morning
“Yes you are! There’s that frown again!” Lindsay blurted out, looking wholly exasperated. “You promised me, Corie. We were just going to enjoy ourselves this afternoon. No thinking about the villagers’ problems or the tinners’ problems—”
“I know, or their children’s grumbling bellies.”
“Or worrying about your father.”
“Or wondering whether poor Frances has been chased from the house yet by one of Estelle’s pranks.”
“Or whether your two other sisters are behaving themselves.”
“And least of all,” Corisande said wryly, her temples beginning to throb, “wondering if the king’s excisemen might be on the prowl tonight when we’ve a ship coming in from Roscoff.”
“That, the very least of all!” Lindsay rolled her eyes heavenward as if realizing the impossibility of a carefree afternoon. Then, just as suddenly, a wide grin broke over her face. “I know what we’ll do.”
Corisande watched, bemused, as Lindsay hoisted her skirt and clambered on top of a large lichen-covered rock. Once settled, she patted the place beside her.
“I know you don’t like to sit still for very long, Corie, but let’s rest here a while. I want to talk about husbands.”
“Husbands?”
“Exactly. And we already know what kind we don’t want.”
“No lecherous-eyed pigs for one,” Corisande quipped as she bunched a handful of her own frayed woolen skirt and climbed up next to Lindsay.
“Or disgusting white whales.” Lindsay gave a light laugh, only to become serious suddenly. “And I’ll have no man, ever, who would allow my stepmother to govern our lives.”
Corisande wasn’t surprised by the steely determination in Lindsay’s voice. Lady Somerset might have finally decided that it was time Lindsay found herself a husband, but Lindsay had her own ideas as to what sort of man she wanted to wed.
“Someone Olympia couldn’t intimidate,” Lindsay continued softly. “Someone who wouldn’t hesitate to stand up to her.”
“That rules out most eligible bachelors, I would imagine,” Corisande said half under her breath, unfortunately voicing a sad reality for Lindsay. Her stepmother had an uncanny gift for making grown men wilt like thirsty potted plants in her presence.
“Oh, no, I’ll find him,” came Lindsay’s fervent response, her eyes meeting Corisande’s. “I damned well won’t marry until I do. I swear it—in fact, we both should swear!”
“Lindsay, what…?” was all Corisande managed to say as Lindsay jumped to her feet and hauled Corisande up beside her, both of them nearly toppling from the rock. Laughing, they regained their balance, Lindsay grabbing Corisande’s hands as she faced her.
“Say it with me, Corie. Neither of us can wed anyone less than the man of our dreams. Ready?”
Corisande felt foolish, but she nonetheless decided to play along, never ceasing to be amazed by her more romantic-minded friend’s antics. “All right. Neither—”
“You have t
o really believe it,” Lindsay cut in, exasperated, as if guessing Corisande’s thoughts. “Otherwise our pact won’t mean a thing. You don’t want to end up with a husband like Druella’s, do you?”
Corisande knew she would never allow such a dreadful thing to happen, oh, no, not to herself. For Lindsay’s sake—who could say what sort of undesirable character Olympia Somerset might wish for a son-in-law?—she squeezed her friend’s hands and shouted with her at the top of their lungs after Lindsay counted to three, “Neither of us can wed anyone less than the man of our dreams!”
“There, that should do it,” Lindsay pronounced as the wind carried away their words. Grinning from ear to ear, she looked quite pleased with herself. “It will be our secret.”
“Secret? They probably heard us all the way to Arundale’s Kitchen.” Thinking sourly of the tin mine that had earned such a name because of the hot, moist air at its deeper levels, Corisande turned to jump off the rock, but Lindsay caught her arm.
“Oh, no, we’re not done yet. You have to close your eyes and pretend he’s standing right in front of you, just as you imagine him to be—”
“Lindsay!”
“Come on, Corie, it will be fun. Here, I’ll go first!”
Lindsay closed her eyes and tilted her face upward as if she were looking at someone. “Oh, Corie, he’s so handsome.”
“Of course he’s handsome, silly.” Corisande gazed wryly at her beautiful friend. “But that isn’t the most important thing. What kind of man do you want him to be?”
“A valiant man, an adventurer,” Lindsay murmured dreamily, making Corisande smile to herself. “Someone who’ll show me new places. Grand, exciting places! There’s so much more to the world than Cornwall. I want to see it all! I want to experience things I’ve only read about in Papa’s books!”
Corisande felt a twinge of sadness, but quickly stifled it. She’d always known Lindsay might one day leave Cornwall and not return. If that meant her dear friend would be happy, she would simply have to bear it.
“He’ll want me with him, of course. Always by his side.” Lindsay hugged her arms to her breasts. “And we’ll be hopelessly, deliriously in love. Nothing will be more important to him than our life together…” Sighing deeply, she opened her eyes and smiled at Corisande. “Your turn.”
Corisande squeezed her eyes shut, feeling that her ideal man was going to seem bland as paste next to Lindsay’s—which in truth was fine with her. Trustworthy, dependable. A companion to help her, nothing more. She could not yet envision his face, but it mattered little if he was handsome or not—
“No fair keeping it to yourself, Corie. You have to say what you want aloud,” Lindsay urged with impatience.
“Well, I’d want a man who cares about the things I do,” Corisande began firmly, starting with what mattered most to her. “Someone who’s willing to work side by side with me to help ease the lives of those around us.” She threw a small smile in Lindsay’s direction. “Now that you’ll be busy traveling the world, of course. And he must care just as much as I do about righting wrongs. God knows, there’s enough injustice in this parish to make the angels weep—”
“But what of love, Corie? Wouldn’t you like for a man to just sweep you off your feet?”
Corisande was taken aback, but she should have expected such an unsettling question from Lindsay.
To be that much in love with someone? Her father had deeply loved her French-born mother, which was probably why he’d become an eccentric shell of a man at her death eight years ago. The same vicious fever that had claimed Adele Easton had taken Lindsay’s mother as well. While Sir Randolph had remarried, much that he must rue the day, Joseph Easton had not. No, Corisande wasn’t sure at all if she wanted a love that could bring such pain. In fact, she didn’t want to fall in love with anyone, something she hadn’t even told Lindsay. Just thinking about her father…
“I’d certainly have to respect a man first before I would ever marry him,” she answered, skipping over the topic of love altogether. “He would have to be honorable, selfless—”
“Sounds dull as a saint.”
Corisande gave a small laugh as she opened her eyes. “Well, not so dull that he’d be afraid to take chances. Fair trading’s no occupation for the faint of heart.”
“And you’re certainly not the woman for any fainthearted man, no matter what you say,” Lindsay said with a snort. She released Corisande’s hands and jumped nimbly to the ground. “You’d have suitors buzzing around you like honeybees if you’d just learn to curb your temper.”
“And you might have been happily married several times over if you’d settled for a husband of good Cornish stock, but no, only a bold adventurer with a daring gleam in his eye will do!” Corisande countered, jumping down next to Lindsay. They both stared at each other for a long moment, then burst out laughing.
“I’d say we’re done with making secret pacts for the day, wouldn’t you?”
Corisande nodded, looping her arm through Lindsay’s as they set out once more along the cliff.
“So I’ll be twenty going into my first Season,” Lindsay said with a jaunty toss of her head. “Better that than some foolish green goose of a girl who doesn’t have a clue what she wants.”
“So I’m known for my temper.” Corisande gave a nonchalant shrug as she looked out across a sunlit Mount’s Bay. “At least it’s helped me to get things done.”
Just as she’d be venting her legendary spleen first thing tomorrow morning, Corisande thought to herself. She’d already decided to ride out to Arundale’s Kitchen as soon as she saw that Lindsay was happily settled in her coach and bound for London.
She doubted she would get a wink of sleep tonight with Oliver Trelawny’s ship due in from Brittany and then Lindsay leaving so bright and early, but the news she’d received only a few hours ago fairly screamed for her attention.
This time that damned mine captain, Jack Pascoe, had gone too far, cutting the tinners’ wages by a full half because they’d fallen behind in their work due to bad weather. Was the man mad? How did he expect the tinners to feed their families, to clothe and shelter them on what had already been a mere pittance?
A pity it wasn’t the mine owner who’d be the target of her tongue-lashing. It was clear from worsening conditions that the new Duke of Arundale possessed the same ignoble qualities as his recently deceased father.
Corisande had itched for three years to tell that miserly old bastard what she thought of a man who could pay his workers so little that they were forced to live with their families in wretched hovels…but the weasel had gone and died. Now she would just have to save her choice words for his son the duke—if only he’d show his face in Cornwall. In fact, she dreamed of the day—
“Corie, you’re frowning again!”
Chapter Two
Arundale Hall, Near Christchurch, Hampshire
“I say, Donovan, your scowl could wake the dead. Buck up, old man! Things could be worse, you know. Father could have named a bride for you in his will rather than granting you a choice.”
Nigel Trent, Duke of Arundale, realized his attempt to put a good face on the situation had failed completely as his younger brother’s scowl grew blacker. So black that the owlish-looking solicitor at Donovan’s right seemed to shrink in his chair, the poor man nervously adjusting his spectacles.
“Uh, perhaps, Your Grace, I should leave the library to allow you and Lord Donovan some time to discuss—”
“Good idea, Wilkins,” came a low growl that seemed to make the very draperies shiver. “And you can take that damned will—”
“Yes, yes, you’d best leave us,” Nigel intervened, though the slight little man was already halfway across the room, his precious documents hastily snatched from the desktop and clutched protectively to his chest. As the door closed behind Wilkins, Nigel leaned back in the polished leather chair that had been his father’s until two short months ago and studied his brother, who had lunged to his feet and now
stood at the wide bow window with his back to the room.
A massively broad back stiff with tension, Nigel noted, sighing to himself. In that respect, Donovan had changed little. Nigel had seen him take such a stance in nearly every encounter with their father, an iron-willed, hard-gambling, blustering titan of a man who had done his damnedest to rule every aspect of his sons’ lives.
But while Nigel had succumbed to the late Duke of Arundale’s domination, unashamedly taking the easier path to afford himself some peace, Donovan had confounded his father’s wishes from the moment he could talk.
That is, until now. The old bastard had finally won, and, at least in this matter, Nigel couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. The dukedom was at stake, after all.
“So I’m to bloody wed.”
Nigel met Donovan’s deep brown eyes—nearly black, really, depending on the light—and wondered again at the changes in his brother. Donovan was a big man, nearly a full head taller than Nigel, but his four years as an officer under Wellington had left him leaner, harder, lending him a most forbidding air, well, at least when he was angry.
And he was furious now. No wonder poor Wilkins had fled. Nigel had half a mind to retire from the library, too, until his brother had calmed himself, but he might as well be done with the unpleasant business now that it was started.
“Yes, Donovan, as the will clearly states, you must wed. If you want your inheritance. I had no hand in this matter, mind you, it was all Father’s doing, but I think it’s for the best. As you know, Charlotte and I remain childless, and if anything should happen to me—you being the heir presumptive, of course, it’s damned important that the Arundale line continue—”
“Perhaps, dear brother, if you could stomach sharing your wife’s bed more often, that problem could easily be remedied.”
It was a cruel cut, Donovan knew as he turned back to the window, an uncomfortable silence descending upon the room. Nigel hadn’t chosen his bride, an endlessly whiny young woman of bland intellect, sour breath, and formidable fortune. Their father had chosen her seven years ago, just as he had attempted three years later to choose a “suitable” bride for Donovan once it became clear that Nigel was having difficulty producing an heir.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 207