With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “Miss Easton, I’m not—”

  “You’re a blight on humanity, is what you are, Your Grace.” Corisande cut him off, so furious now that she shoved him with the flat of her hands, to no effect. The big lout was as solid and immovable as a boulder and scowling again, too, but by God, she would have her say!

  “I suppose you’re planning to give that bastard Jack Pascoe an extra month’s wage for saving you so much money over the years, aren’t you?” she accused, glaring at him.

  “Actually—”

  “Did it ever occur to you to consider the suffering that man has caused since Gilbert hired him to manage your mine? The crushed hopes? The tears? He’s cut wages, a bit here and a bit there—with your father’s blessing and now yours, no doubt—so many times that I’ve lost count! And the men’s pay was never enough to afford them more than a dirt floor hut at the start! Now you’ve cut the wages so low that there’s scarcely coin to keep the thatch roofs over their heads, let alone broth on the table—”

  “Dammit, woman, if you don’t cease your shouting, I’ll soon be deaf—”

  “Deaf and lucky, too, if you manage to squeak by the gates of heaven with all the terrible sins on your head! But you’ve a chance to make things right, if you’ve got a shred of decency at all, starting with dismissing Jack Pascoe this very day and raising the men’s wages. I can’t believe a man would want to journey through life known as a cruel, tightfisted tyrant when instead he could earn himself some respect—”

  “For the last time, Miss Easton,” Donovan interrupted, having to half shout himself to be heard over her harangue, “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not the bloody Duke of Arundale, as you so delicately put it—surely language one doesn’t often hear from a vicar’s daughter.” He gave a dry snort. “But then, I’ve never seen any vicar’s daughter like you.”

  To his surprise, she had no reply to that sarcastic remark, instead blinking at him as if he’d just knocked the wind right out of her sails.

  “You—you’re not the duke?”

  “No. My brother, Nigel, wears the title, and he can damned well have it. I only wish he’d been here to enjoy your tirade rather than me.”

  She immediately bristled, and Donovan braced for the worst. “Oh, so you think I’m just airing my lungs, do you, Lord…?”

  “Donovan Trent.”

  “Well, then, Lord Donovan, everything I’ve said applies to you as much as your titled brother! You’re all one and the same as far as I’m concerned. Blackguards, scoundrels, villains of the worst degree to deny food to hungry children and pregnant women! Despoilers, base criminals…”

  While her vehement list grew longer, Donovan felt his own temper boiling because she’d lumped him together with his late father and Nigel. Hell and damnation, he’d been at war in Spain these past years, with no knowledge of his family’s actions!

  What was worse, the chit had tried, judged, and executed him before he’d been able to get in a single good word for himself. Wouldn’t her face flare red if she knew he’d already called for the changes she demanded, though he’d be damned if he was going to explain himself to her now, the untidy baggage.

  It was obvious she cared passionately for her cause to berate him up and down like a veritable harpy, but let her find out for herself that the Trents of Hampshire weren’t all cut from the same wretched cloth—yet, hell, she’d probably still distrust his motives anyway, given who he was. What in blazes did he care what Miss Corisande Easton thought of him? As soon as he found a way out of his current predicament, he’d be gone from Cornwall so fast that…

  Donovan didn’t finish the thought, his eyes sweeping over the incensed young woman standing before him as if seeing her for the very first time.

  By God, of course! It could work, though it irritated the hell out of him that he’d have to go to such lengths to gain his inheritance, damn his father’s soul. He’d do anything if it would help him find Paloma. Why not use this situation to his benefit? This woman wasn’t gentry, but a country-bred parson’s daughter couldn’t be said not to come from good family, oh, no, indeed.

  “…uncaring, selfish creatures who should crawl under the nearest rock for shame of everything they’ve done! Better yet, you deserve every curse that could befall a household. Fire, pestilence, the pox—”

  “Are you betrothed, Miss Easton?”

  Startled, Corisande stopped in mid-sentence and gaped at the man. She’d been expecting some reply, her heated attack clearly riling him as his swarthy face had grown darker. But this? “I—I don’t see that you having the pox has anything to do with my being betrothed. Or that my personal affairs are any of your business.”

  “That’s what we’re discussing now, Miss Easton. Business. A business arrangement, to be exact.” To her amazement, he took her by the elbow and half pulled her along with him until, some forty feet from the stable, he seemed satisfied and stopped beneath a tall, stately elm to face her, keeping his voice very low. “Are you betrothed or not?”

  She felt her face burning as with fever, why, she wasn’t sure. She really shouldn’t answer—didn’t have to answer, but for some strange reason she slowly shook her head.

  “Can’t say that I’m surprised,” came his wry response, which only made Corisande bristle again.

  “If you mean to insult me, my lord—”

  “No, I mean to ask you if you’d be my wife.”

  She gulped, flushing now all the way down to her toes. Before she could say a word, he continued, his tone very matter-of-fact and more than a little brusque.

  “It’s merely a business arrangement, Miss Easton. Nothing more, I assure you, and one I believe you’d be a fool to refuse. A very temporary marriage in exchange for the improved well-being of the miners and their families—”

  “Not miners,” she interrupted stiffly, finding it difficult to believe a thing she was hearing. It was all so incredible, how could she? “We call them tinners here.”

  “Very well, tinners. As I was saying, a temporary marriage that will be annulled no more than a few weeks after the wedding, my father’s will stipulating that I cannot receive my inheritance until I’ve taken a bride. I don’t want a bride, and I don’t want to be married, especially if I’m being forced into it. I’m only complying because I need the money. That’s why I’m here in Cornwall.” Donovan waved his arm in disgust at the house and surrounding estate. “Do you think I’d have come to this ramshackle place for any other reason? Now, you want my help for the tinners, and I need a bride. You look intelligent enough to recognize a mutually profitable situation, Miss Easton. What is your answer?”

  Corisande met his eyes, which had become as black as midnight in this shaded spot. “Truthfully, my lord, you’re the last man on God’s earth I’d consent to wed, or ever trust for that matter. Don’t count on me to help you win your bloody inheritance.”

  With that, she wrenched away her arm and turned, gasping when she was suddenly pulled back to face him.

  “So your concern for the tinners and their hungry families is merely skin-deep, I see.”

  “Not at all,” she answered tightly, lifting her chin. “I simply don’t believe that you’re a man of your word. That you won’t lend help simply out of charity for those less fortunate than yourself is perfect proof of your gross lack of character. How do I know that your promised support for the tinners wouldn’t be just as temporary?”

  “My inheritance includes the controlling share of Arundale’s Kitchen, Miss Easton. Therefore anything I say to be done, will be done. Since you’re so distrustful of my word, I’ll have a legal document drawn up that would ensure the tinners continue to be paid fairly.”

  “That is all well and good, sir, but as you said, your word means little to me. Perhaps if I saw that you truly intend to help the tinners…oh!”

  Corisande’s heart flew to her throat as Donovan grabbed her by the hand and began to stride toward the stable, making her run to keep up with him. He let go of her as
soon as they were inside the doors, the stable quiet but for the low nickering of the horses and a faint wheezing coming from one of the stalls. She watched wide-eyed as Donovan reached into the dirty straw and pulled Henry Gilbert out by the seat of his pants, the agent coughing and sputtering as he gulped fresh air.

  “Is—is she gone, my lord? God bless me, that was a close call—” Henry Gilbert didn’t finish, gaping at Corisande with teary, bloodshot eyes—the manure smell emanating from the man so ripe that she felt her own eyes begin to water. “But—but she’s still here, my lord! Right there, standing right behind you!”

  “Get on your horse, Gilbert,” Donovan ordered, hoping that the agent wouldn’t say too much and give everything away. Later he’d speak to the man about keeping his mouth shut, but right now it was impossible with Corisande only a few feet away. “Don’t worry about Miss Easton or her pitchfork. I want you to ride to the mine and dismiss Jack Pascoe at once, then hire on a man the tinners trust.”

  The agent blinked, clearly confused. “But, my lord, you already—”

  “Do as I say, man. And while you’re there, tell the tinners their wages have been doubled and that they can expect a good share of wheat for their families on Monday morning. Now, go—oh, and Gilbert, one more thing.”

  “Yes, my lord?” Looking thoroughly bewildered, the agent distractedly brushed some straw from his coat.

  “If the men ask the reason behind their sudden change of fortune, tell them to thank Miss Corisande Easton when next they see her. The good parson’s daughter’s friendly visit has helped me to see the error of my family’s ways.”

  Corisande caught the hint of sarcasm in Donovan’s voice, her back stiffening when he glanced at her as Henry Gilbert mounted his horse. If she hadn’t witnessed the two men’s incredible exchange with her own eyes, she’d never have believed it. Donovan seemed dead serious about his proposed business arrangement. As Gilbert rode from the stable, Corisande felt her stomach do a strange flip when Donovan came toward her.

  “What’s been done can easily be undone, Miss Easton, I think you understand,” he said in a gruff half whisper that oddly enough made her stomach do another flip. “Unless, of course, you and I reach an agreement. Become my bride and see the tinners profit for years to come, or have things stay just the way they are. It’s up to you.”

  Corisande stared at him, wanting nothing more in that moment than to tell this despicable, arrogant, condescending—and altogether too handsome for his own good—son of a duke what he could do with his accursed agreement. The image in her mind of that vermin Jack Pascoe being banished from Arundale’s Kitchen stopped her biting retort, even more so the thought of the tinners having a decent wage again and grain for flour to take home to their families.

  And fair trading certainly couldn’t compare with what Lord Donovan Trent was offering, no matter how much she might wish it to be so. The sale of smuggled goods had brought some relief to the parish, no one could deny, the earnings used to purchase everything from cloth to medicine. Yet it never seemed enough, the need so vast. Now at least the tinners would have a way to help themselves as well. How, then, could she say no?

  “Very well, my lord. We have an agreement. I will become your temporary bride.”

  Corisande was startled by the look of relief that passed over Donovan’s face, but it was gone quickly.

  “For no longer than you said,” she added, feeling a good measure of relief herself when he nodded. “A few weeks—”

  “As soon as the inheritance is mine and transferred to my London bank where my brother and his solicitor can’t touch it, our agreement will be annulled. Thus I’ll have what I want, you’ll have what you want, and we can go our separate ways.”

  It all sounded so clear-cut, really, and the fact that he hadn’t said “marriage” only relieved her further. His words nonetheless did little to soothe the anger she felt that he hadn’t agreed to help the tinners without this damnable union.

  “You know I despise you,” she couldn’t help telling him, just so there would be no misunderstanding. She wasn’t surprised when he shrugged his massive shoulders, confirming her opinion that, indeed, all the Arundales were ruthless, coldhearted cads and only out for their own gain.

  “A small price to pay.” Then, just as brusquely, he warned, “Our arrangement is to be kept secret. No one must ever know the truth. No one, or you can be assured that—” He didn’t finish, but Corisande knew he was referring to the tinners’ wages. “Are we understood?”

  She nodded, again biting her tongue.

  “Good. We’ll be married as soon as I secure the license.”

  “But—but that could be only a matter of days,” Corisande blurted out, stunned. “It will seem strange…to the villagers, I mean, the tinners, my father, my sisters, everything happening so fast—why, we only met this morning! What will I say?”

  To her astonishment he smiled, a slow, charming smile that made him look three times as handsome and sent the oddest thrill tumbling to the pit of her stomach. Until that moment, she would have doubted he was capable of such an extraordinary thing.

  “Tell them…tell them that I simply swept you off your feet.”

  “Impossible! No one will believe me—at least no one who knows me well.”

  “Then we’ll have to show them, won’t we?” His smile faded as he came closer, standing so near to her now that she could feel his physical presence as surely as if they were touching, his eyes holding hers. “You may despise me, Miss Easton, but you and I now have a part to play, the happy couple eager to be wed. If I know my brother, Nigel, he’s arranged for spies—”

  “Spies?”

  “In the guise of servants, yes, whom I imagine have been paid quite well to serve as his eyes and ears. If they suspect that things are not what they seem…if anyone begins to suspect…”

  He took her hand, and she jumped, flushing hotly, but if he noticed he made no mention of it. Instead, he led her to the stall where a magnificent gray stallion swung his sculpted head to look at them. “Beautiful, isn’t he? I just bought Samson in London. Come, we’ll ride together.”

  “But Biscuit, my pony—”

  “He can run alongside. How long of a ride would you say it is to your home?”

  “My home?”

  “Of course. A prospective groom should meet his bride’s family, wouldn’t you say?”

  Speechless, Corisande had no answer as he shrugged into his coat and then mounted; she numbly accepted his assistance when he hoisted her up in front of him.

  In minutes they were galloping across the gorse-covered heath toward Porthleven. With Donovan’s arms locked around her and his incredibly hard thighs pressing against her hips, Corisande felt certain she might have just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Chapter Six

  Corisande was even more certain as they reached the main road to the village, people she’d known all her life popping their heads from doorways and cottage windows or wheeling around in their gardens to stare openmouthed as she and Donovan rode by. And, as her luck would have it, one of them was Rose Polkinghorne, the plump, apple-shaped woman knocking her starched white cap askew in her haste to reach her gate and wave them down.

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “An acquaintance, my love?”

  Corisande snapped her head around to face Donovan, his pleasant expression belying the tension she suddenly felt in his body. “Don’t you dare call me—”

  “Keep your voice down, woman, and plant an adoring smile on your face,” he interrupted her in a low growl that demanded her immediate compliance. “We’re playing a bloody part, remember? Swept off your feet? Now, who is that frenzied lady?”

  “Mrs. Rose Polkinghorne.” Corisande forced a smile that felt more like a tight grimace. “The village’s best seamstress and the most flagrant gossip this parish has ever known.”

  “Perfect. Just the woman to hear our happy news.”

  Corisande groaned to herself as
Donovan veered his stallion toward the neat whitewashed cottage on the left, all the while doing her best to keep the smile pasted upon her face even when Donovan tightened his arms possessively around her waist. So possessively in fact, that even Mrs. Polkinghorne noticed, the woman’s bright blue eyes bulging in surprise as she glanced from Donovan to Corisande.

  “Oh, Lord—”

  “Leave this to me,” Donovan silenced her with a curt aside even as he nodded cordially to the gaping woman.

  Leave this to him? Corisande fumed, as affronted by his tone as by his overweening confidence. Arrogant bastard! Did he think that he could blow like a rogue sou’westerly into the parish and find himself readily accepted? He was a stranger, for heaven’s sake, while she’d lived here all her life, and yet he obviously didn’t think he even needed a proper introduction—

  “Ah, Mrs. Polkinghorne, you’re looking very well today. It is Mrs. Polkinghorne, is it not?”

  Is it not? Corisande silently mimicked Donovan’s gallant tone, glancing over her shoulder to glare at him. Instead, she found herself staring in awe, her breath caught, the man smiling as charmingly as he had done in the stable and looking even more handsome in the bright midday sun. He wasn’t smiling at her, she soon realized with an unexpected bit of annoyance when Mrs. Polkinghorne’s flustered stuttering broke the spell, the woman fumbling in vain to right her ruffled cap.

  “Why, y-yes, sir, it is, indeed, an’ so nice of you to say so. Th-that I’m looking well, I mean. Oh, yes, kind of you to say, uh…”

  “Lord Donovan Trent.”

  “Oh, my, Lord Donovan. Of the Arundale family?”

  “The same, but I regret to say, Mrs. Polkinghorne, that my bride-to-be and I have little time right now to chat. Isn’t that so, my darling?”