Stunned that such a nosy busybody as Rose Polkinghorne could be blushing as ridiculously as a green girl, Corisande wasn’t aware that Donovan had addressed her until he squeezed her round the middle.
“I said, isn’t that right, darling?”
“Oh, yes, of course…my love.” Nearly choking on the words, Corisande was thankfully saved from saying anything more when Donovan continued courteously.
“My bride-to-be will be calling on you this very afternoon, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I’d like Corisande to have the finest wedding gown you can make, and as quickly as you can manage it. Ah, and she’ll need some new gowns, too, the latest fashions, if you please. Send the bills to my agent, Henry Gilbert, and he’ll see that they’re promptly paid.”
Corisande heard a strange sucking sound but no response from Rose Polkinghorne, as if the woman couldn’t quite gather enough air to fill her lungs. Donovan didn’t seem to need a reply as he kicked Samson into a trot and rode on, leaving the poor seamstress to stare after them, her fleshy pink cheeks ablaze while neighbors came running from all directions to cluster around her.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Corisande accused under her breath, grateful that Donovan had eased his viselike hold upon her if only a little. “The whole village will be buzzing like bumblebees in June within the hour—”
“Probably less, from the looks of it, but at least the news is out in the open.”
And too bad that the wind couldn’t carry the wonderful tale straight to Arundale Hall, Donovan thought surlily, wondering how Nigel would react—probably with unbridled relief—once he knew that Donovan had found a willing bride virtually overnight. Well, not exactly willing, but a bride nonetheless.
A bride with fine soft hair that smelled of fresh air and lemons, Donovan found himself musing, which made him frown. So, too, did the fact that he found Miss Corisande Easton fit quite nicely in his arms, her shape lithe and slender, the feel of her firm rounded bottom bouncing against him having jarred his senses more than a time or two during their ride to Porthleven. He’d felt her high, pert breasts, too, swelling against his arms whenever he’d shifted the reins…
“Which house is yours?” he barked irritably, thinking now that he should have let Corisande ride her spotted pony.
“The parsonage, of course, near the church and adjoining school,” came her stiff reply. She pointed to the plain brick spire rising above the scattered rooftops that sloped all the way down to the harbor. “At the edge of the heath on the other side of the village. And if you want us to appear the happy couple, you’d best use a lighter tone. When the wind isn’t blowing from the sea, every sound carries—”
“I stand corrected.”
Apparently even that statement did not please her for she bristled in his arms, her spine as straight as a flagpole.
“See here, I don’t like this arrangement any more than you do. It was your brilliant idea, after all, so at the very least you could speak to me civilly, as I’m trying to do to you.”
Donovan didn’t reply, wondering if she planned as well to keep her outrageous temper in check. Given what he’d seen of her earlier, he doubted it, but he had no time to dwell on the unpleasant matter further as they approached the parsonage. An attractive two-story stone house with bright blue shutters and creeping geranium vines already halfway up the walls, the place had a warm friendly look to it that helped to somewhat ease his mood.
“Didn’t you say something about having sisters?”
“I’ve three, all younger than I.” Corisande hoped, too, that they were still hard at their studies in the more modest stone building on the other side of the church. The last thing she wanted right now was to be besieged by their wide-eyed stares and questions. Her father was foremost on her mind as Donovan drew their mount to a halt while Biscuit trotted obligingly into the tiny stable and the comforts of his stall.
What would her father say? she wondered. Might he protest the marriage? She would be twenty this September, yet still a year shy of being able to marry without his consent. Of course, she had always done exactly as she wished…
“By the way, you never told me how old you are.”
She met Donovan’s eyes, so lost in thought that she hadn’t realized he had dismounted. As he reached up to help her down, his hands easily encircling her waist, she said breezily, “Twenty-one.”
She held her breath as he lifted her to the ground, as much disconcerted by the strength of the man—she wasn’t the daintiest of females, after all, but he handled her as if she were light as air—as the way he was studying her face. If he thought she had just lied, he said nothing as if mulling her response, until, an interminable moment later, he released her with a shrug.
“Then I won’t bother asking your father for your hand.”
She wanted to exhale with relief, nervous elation sweeping her. She really knew little about the intricacies of annulments, except that they were sometimes difficult to obtain, at least for common folk. And though she supposed enough coin could buy a man like Donovan Trent anything he desired, including an annulment, she didn’t want to take any chances.
If he somehow planned to trick her, then she had already won the upper hand. She did know that marriages could be annulled if one of the parties was underage and consent wasn’t obtained from the parents. Just this last winter a young heiress from Penzance had been returned to her family for that very reason, and the wily fortune hunter who’d enticed her to run away with him had fled to the Continent. Now Corisande had her own way out of their agreement if she needed one, and, no matter if her father performed the marriage, she could always plead his state of confusion…
“I still intend to meet the good reverend, though. Are we going to stand here staring at each other or get on with—”
“For someone who supposedly swept me off my feet, you’re an abhorrent tyrant.” So said, she brushed past him, but he caught her cloak and yanked her back, pulling her into his arms.
“You’re right, I’m not playing my part very well, am I?” His tone was low and mocking, but there was nothing contrived about his embrace when he drew her closer, his fingers brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
Staring up at him, Corisande gulped, his lips so close to hers that she could do nothing but focus upon them, his mouth hard-looking and yet quite appealing, and slightly opened as if he were about to speak. Yet he didn’t speak, instead lowering his head while Corisande’s heart began to beat like a snare drum, lowering, lowering, until his dark stubbled cheek was flush against hers, his day’s growth of beard chafing her while his warm breath tickled her ear, a most disconcerting combination.
“There, isn’t this better?”
His taunting whisper made her tense, but she gasped when she felt his lips lightly graze the sensitive spot just behind her ear, sparking delicious tremors all the way to her toes. Without thinking, she arched her neck, his lips touching her there, too, but still so lightly that his breath felt heavier than his kiss, and so hot, like nothing she had ever…
“You’re playing your part very well, Miss Easton. So well I’d almost think you might be enjoying yourself, but of course, that can’t be true. I commend you, nonethe—”
“Cad!” Mortified, her face burning, Corisande tried to push away from him, her fists balling at his chest. He held her fast, and so tightly that she could barely move, his voice filled with caution.
“I wouldn’t struggle if I were you. It will only confuse our young audience.”
“Audience?” Corisande froze, craning her neck to see beyond him. To her horror, a small cluster of children were peeping curiously from around the corner of the church, a few of the older ones giggling and shoving each other. Yet when they realized that she had seen them, they turned and fled, squealing, in the direction of the school, while Corisande groaned.
“Must be luncheon time, since they’re not at their books.”
“Yes, and if my sisters hear—” Corisande didn’t finish. Do
novan’s hold upon her loosened enough that she managed to twist free. As she hurried toward the house, she knew he was right behind her—the man surprisingly quick and agile given his size—and he caught up with her at the front door.
“Allow me.”
She merely glared as he opened the door, hating his false gallantry, hating him even more, and swept inside without a second look. Again he was close behind her, through the narrow front passage and into the formal parlor with its corner cupboard that held her mother’s carefully dusted best china and glass and treasured collection of china cows, cats, and birds.
“Don’t stomp so or you’ll break something,” Corisande warned, even though Donovan wasn’t walking that heavily. He certainly dwarfed the small room, his dark head nearly touching the ceiling, which made her think how out of place he looked in such modest surroundings.
That only made her angrier, for the tinners with their miserable one-room huts would consider the Easton parsonage a grand place, Donovan’s country house a veritable palace despite its unkempt condition. She could just imagine the grandeur of his brother the duke’s home, the magnificent house and gardens kept up with profits gained by shortchanging the tinners. Fuming about the injustice of it all, she headed down the hall leading to her father’s study. To her surprise, the door was ajar, which was odd considering her father rarely emerged on Saturdays until his sermon was written, usually well after supper.
“I…I thought he’d be here,” she said more to herself than Donovan as she walked into the room. It was then she noticed the candle guttering on the desk, not so odd a thing of itself, but in her father’s study, a sight unseen in many years.
One of the small windows was opened slightly, a thin shaft of sunlight falling upon her father’s spread papers, the blue shutter outside ajar as well. A shutter that had remained locked since her mother’s death, as if her father, by keeping his study closed up, could somehow share with his wife the darkness of the tomb.
“Might your father be at the church?”
She started, whirling, having practically forgotten about Donovan. He dwarfed this room, too, standing so tall and broad-shouldered, his shadow gigantic upon the wall.
“Maybe…I don’t know.”
“Well, I hear someone humming in the kitchen. Your mother?”
His question, although innocent, made her stiffen. “My mother died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have guessed since you never mentioned her—”
“That’s Frances humming, our housekeeper.” Unsettled by the husky sincerity in his voice, Corisande knew she’d cut him off rudely, but she didn’t want to discuss such private matters with this man. She’d already told him so, too!
She turned back to the window, meaning to shut it against the breeze to keep candle wax from spattering the desk. Instead, a movement outside caught her eye, her father suddenly appearing at the edge of the garden that bordered the heath.
He looked strangely distressed, pressing his hand to his chest as he leaned upon a budding apple tree.
Chapter Seven
“Papa? Papa, are you all right?”
Her heart thundering, Corisande didn’t wait for an answer but fled past Donovan and down the hall into the kitchen.
“Corie? Oh, my, ‘ee startled me!” Frances precariously juggled a plate of freshly baked leek tarts in one hand and a pitcher of goat’s milk in the other as Corisande swept past her and lunged for the back door. “What is it? A fire?”
“It’s Papa, Frances! I think something’s wrong.”
Corisande heard a crash of crockery, but she didn’t turn around even when Frances wailed, “Lord help us, not the good parson! An’ dark strangers in the house, too! Who are ‘ee to be followin’ after Corie, eh? Eh?”
Corisande didn’t have to hear Frances’s indignant shouts to know that Donovan was not far behind her. She could sense him hard on her heels, which struck her as odd. What did he care for Joseph Easton’s welfare? Her thoughts jumped back to the crisis at hand as she raced through the garden, only to discover her father wasn’t standing where she’d last seen him. Instead, he was pruning a hedge of purple veronica, already in full flower, nearer to the house. Pruning!
“Papa, didn’t you hear me calling? Are you all right?”
He looked up, his hair brilliant white in the sunlight, his hazel eyes confused. “What? You were calling me?”
“Of course I was, Papa! From the window in your study. It was open, the shutter too.”
He made no response, as if he hadn’t heard her, taking another swipe at the rich green foliage with the pruning shears. Yet Corisande could plainly see that his face was flushed and sweaty, as if he’d recently exerted himself. She shaded her eyes and looked out over the vast heath scattered with gnarled trees bent and twisted from the wind, wondering if he might have simply gone walking and perhaps taken himself too far. He seemed all right now, though more distracted than usual…
“Perhaps, Corisande, this isn’t a good time.” Donovan’s voice was surprisingly quiet as he drew alongside her, his expression somber. “We could talk to your father tomorrow.”
“Yes, I…” Corisande stopped, shaking her head. “No, we should tell him now. I don’t want Mrs. Polkinghorne to be the one to give him the news—”
“News? Is there news?”
Corisande was startled that her father seemed suddenly aware of their conversation, his eyes falling upon Donovan.
“Yes, Papa. Good news. Happy news.” She swallowed, hating to lie to her father. “Lord Donovan Trent has asked me to marry him, and…and I’ve accepted. I know it’s sudden, but, well…you’ll perform the ceremony, won’t you, Papa?”
For the briefest instant, she saw a flicker of such clarity in her father’s face—as in those times when she sensed he knew full well about her smuggling—that she truly believed he had grasped the import of her words. From the way he glanced back at Donovan as if taking his measure, even scrutinizing him, she began to wonder if the dark cloud that had settled over his mind years ago might be lifting.
Her shoulders fell when, a brief moment later, he merely turned back to his pruning, mumbling something to himself about how the purple blossoms were half as abundant this year as the last, their scent but half as sweet. Meanwhile Corisande felt close to tears, as close as she’d been for some time, not wanting to admit it but slowly coming to the realization that her father might very well be half mad, not just eccentric.
As he went about his business, finishing the veronica and moving across the garden to his geranium plot, where he sank to his knees in the dirt, she swallowed hard and turned away, her eyes meeting Donovan’s. All this time he had said nothing, but she broke the awkward silence, waving her hand helplessly at her father.
“The Reverend Joseph Easton, my lord. Surely not a man to stand in the way of our agreement.” She moved to walk past him, but Donovan caught her arm and stopped her.
“Has he been like this for long?”
Again she was struck by the stillness in his voice, but maybe he was simply unsettled or even repulsed by what he’d seen. Repulsed? That thought made her stiffen angrily, and she jerked her arm away. “Since my mother died, not that it’s any of your affair. Nor does his malady make him any less a man deserving of respect! My father is much beloved by the people of this parish, tinner, fisherman, and shipbuilder alike, and I’ll not have you—”
“Cease your bloody tirade, woman. I merely asked a simple question,” Donovan said through his teeth, tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Hell and damnation, he had only to open his mouth and she thought the very worst of him! “You’re right, it’s none of my business—as long as he’s capable of saying the proper words when it comes time for the wedding.”
“Oh, he’ll say them, though I’ll be choking on every one.”
“You’d best choke on the rest of your venom too,” Donovan advised dryly, glancing beyond Corisande as Frances came charging through
the kitchen door, the stout housekeeper’s face red as a beet, her rolling pin held high. “And smile prettily, my love. It seems the reinforcements have arrived.”
“You stand away from her there, do ‘ee hear me, stranger?” Frances blustered as Corisande groaned. “Never you fear, Corie, they’re coming soon to help us, Dr. Philcup an’ the good constable! I didn’t know who to fetch first so I sent up a cry for ‘em both an’ came back as quick as I could—”
“It’s all right, Frances. Papa’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Corisande tensed as she felt Donovan draw her possessively into the crook of his arm, but somehow she managed a lighthearted tone. “Put down that rolling pin, will you? I can’t have you cracking the man I’m going to marry over the head—”
“Marry?”
The rolling pin hit the ground with a thud. Frances looked as if she were about to totter, her slack mouth forming words that gave no sound. At once Corisande rushed to her side, but Donovan got there first, lifting the stricken, heavyset woman in his arms with nary a grunt.
“Have you any brandy?”
Corisande nodded. She glanced at her father, but he seemed oblivious to the commotion as he tended his geraniums. She led the way back inside, skirting the puddle of spilt goat’s milk and smashed crockery by the door just as Linette, Marguerite, and Estelle, Luther yapping at her heels, came shoving and pushing into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with Frances?” blurted out Estelle.
“Oh, Corie, is that him? The man you were kissing?” came Marguerite’s excited query, her eyes agog.
“I wasn’t kissing—” Corisande’s sharp retort died at the warning look Donovan threw her; instead, she focused upon helping him seat Frances in the high-backed settle near the open hearth. “Linette, fetch Papa’s brandy from the cupboard, but watch out for that mess. Quickly now!”
The twelve-year-old did as she was bade, her eyes very wide as she brought forth the dusky brown bottle, her gaze more upon Donovan than Frances. “You do look like a Gypsy, just as Johnnie Morton said.”
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