With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “So I’ve been told.” Donovan accepted the bottle from the young girl and poured a generous amount in the glass Corisande held out to him, watching silently as she urged the housekeeper to drink. Frances coughed a few times as she swallowed, her pale eyelids fluttering, but within a moment she’d downed the entire amount, her color much improving.

  For good measure, Donovan poured her a second glass, then helped himself to a healthy swallow, the rich, amber liquid providing molten warmth all the way to his stomach. He needed fortification, too, surrounded as he was by a near fainted housekeeper, a bride-to-be with the temper of a shrew, a trio of girls who could but stare at him, and a scruffy-looking dog, more rat than canine, that persisted in sniffing ominously at his boots.

  Oh, yes, let him not forget that poor wretch, the Reverend Easton, puttering near dotty as a hatter in the garden, and his new temporary family was complete. It was enough to make a man drink, and he did, taking another good swallow, grateful at least that the brandy was far better than passable.

  “Your father has a commendable taste in spirits,” he said to Corisande, not missing the slight flaring of her eyes. “French, best quality. Haven’t tasted the like since my regiment captured an enemy general outside Madrid. The fellow was fleeing with his beloved supply on a packhorse. Hated parting with it.”

  “It was a gift from a parishioner.” Surprised to hear that Donovan had been an officer in Spain and yet eager to change the subject, Corisande turned her attention back to Frances, who’d downed the second glass without any assistance at all and was now fairly glowering at her. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Ais, so I am, Corie Easton, even if ‘ee gave me one of the biggest shocks of my life! Marrying, are ‘ee? An’ I’ve never before even seen the man!” Frances glanced at Donovan, saying in apology, “Pardon me, sir, ‘ee were kind to help me, an’ I’m sorry to have come at ‘ee with my rolling pin. Corie’s like one of me own brood, she is, though she’s always been one to do exactly as she pleases. An’ now just proves it.” The housekeeper looked back at Corisande, her voice heavy with disapproval. “An’ what poor manners ‘ee have, too! You haven’t even told me your man’s name—”

  “Lord Donovan Trent, Frances, if you’d only let me speak,” interrupted Corisande, exasperated. “His brother is the Duke of Arundale. I know it’s terribly sudden—quite unexpected, but—”

  “You’re going to marry him, Corie?” Estelle had scooped up Luther, hugging her little dog close as she gazed uncertainly at Corisande. Before she could answer, Donovan sank to his haunches in front of the child, his expression, to Corisande’s amazement, grown almost tender.

  “Yes, we’re to be married—very soon, I’m pleased to say. You needn’t worry about your sister. I’ll take good care of her. Now tell me, is your name as pretty as Linette’s?”

  “Estelle Marie?” The little girl looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “I s’pose, but I think Marguerite’s is the prettiest of all. ‘Course, she’s not always as nice as her name. Just this morning she tromped on poor Luther’s tail—”

  “Estelle Easton!”

  “It’s true, Marguerite, and you know it! You pulled my hair too!” Linette chimed in, while Corisande was certain she’d never seen Marguerite more chagrined. In the next instant the pretty fifteen-year-old blushed bright pink to her roots when Donovan smiled at her, though Corisande could see it didn’t reach his eyes, his massive shoulders rigid as he rose.

  “Sometimes I don’t get along very well with my brother either.”

  He didn’t say any more, but even if he had it would have probably been drowned out by the sudden fierce pounding at the front door, a booming male voice demanding entrance.

  “Oh, Lord, Constable Curtis!” Frances heaved rather tipsily to her feet and rushed from the kitchen, Linette, Estelle, and Luther scurrying after her while Marguerite remained planted to the floor. That is, until she realized that she was the only one left in the kitchen besides Donovan and Corisande. Her blush deepening, she looked about her distractedly as if she weren’t sure which way to turn.

  “Papa’s in the garden, Marguerite. By the geraniums. Why don’t you see how he’s doing?”

  “Oh—oh yes, Corie. Of course I will.” Smiling gratefully, Marguerite skipped over the spilt milk and fled outside, her rich auburn curls flying.

  That left Corisande alone, at least for the moment, with a man whom she was growing to despise more and more. She grabbed a broom and a dustpan and set to work cleaning up the mess on the floor, her back turned purposely to Donovan.

  “Would you like some help?”

  “Oh, my, no, I think you’ve helped enough already. Charmed them all quite handily, I’d say. Rose Polkinghorne, Frances, my very impressionable sister Marguerite—”

  “Jealous?”

  She whirled, stunned. One look at his sarcastic expression and she turned right back to her task, deeming his ridiculous comment not even worthy of a reply. Her heart was racing, though, which only made her madder as she emptied the dustpan into a bucket. She was almost finished when he spoke again.

  “You missed a shard…over there by the cupboard.”

  “I see it, thank you.” Corisande scooped up the last bit of broken crockery, then straightened to glare at him, no longer able to contain herself. “Forgive me if I sound overly rude, but don’t you have somewhere else you can go? You’ve obviously accomplished your aims—met my family, spread the word about our impending wedding, even ordered me a gown—”

  “Which leaves the license and a ring.”

  “A ring too?” Corisande’s tone was mocking as she plunked the broom and dustpan beside the bucket. “Goodness, my lord, you’re going to a lot of trouble for a vicar’s daughter. You should be glad you didn’t meet my friend Lindsay instead, and convinced her to play your wife. You might have felt the need to spend even more coin for your sham wedding.”

  “Lindsay?”

  “Yes, Lindsay Somerset, gone to London for the Season only three days ago. Her father is Sir Randolph, a baronet—”

  “I wouldn’t have wasted my time with her. No marriageable young woman of the gentry would agree to such a plan, not if she wanted her reputation left intact for a true marriage.”

  Donovan knew at once he’d gone too far at the stricken look on Corisande’s face, but the thing had been said. He couldn’t take it back. Nor did he have a chance to soften the blow as Frances bustled into the kitchen, a plump arm hugging Estelle on one side and Linette on the other while Luther barked and spun in circles around their feet.

  “Ais, what a day this has been! I told the constable an’ the good doctor that all was well, Corie, but they’re waiten at the front door, hoping for a word with Lord Donovan. They want to wish him well, an’ you too. ‘Tesn’t every day that a duke’s son comes to Porthleven an’ picks a bride from one of our very own.”

  Donovan looked to Corisande, but she still stood staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what he had said. He could swear he saw pain in her gaze, too, but it was gone so quickly when he went and took her by the hand, her lovely brown eyes now sparking with fury, that he was certain he must have imagined it. Yet she came with him willingly—although she was ominously silent—as he led her from the kitchen and down the hall, the hubbub outside the parsonage growing louder as they passed through the parlor.

  “Saints in heaven, have ‘ee ever heard such a stir, Corie?” Frances said excitedly from behind them. “It sounds as if the entire village is here!”

  It looked like it, too, Corisande seethed to herself as they stepped into the sunshine, a sea of faces there to greet them. People she’d known since she’d taken her first steps and babbled her first words come to see the man she’d be marrying within the week, the man who’d blatantly stated just a few moments ago that he cared nothing for her reputation.

  Such outrage filled her that she was tempted to expose the ruse right then and there—they should know Lord Donovan Trent for the h
orrible, self-centered man he was!—but she remained silent as a stone. Her thoughts flew to the sweat-soaked tinners, toiling fathoms underground, who by now must surely know of their change in fortune. She kept silent and smiled like a besotted idiot as good wishes were thrown her way, while Donovan was deferred to and bowed to and fawned over until at last she felt as if she might retch if she witnessed another moment of such spectacle.

  Donovan must have sensed her mounting fury, for he led her abruptly to his horse and drew her into his arms for all to see. She stiffened, but at the dark warning in his eyes, she forced herself to relax as he brushed his lips upon her forehead.

  “Don’t forget, Mrs. Polkinghorne awaits you, my love. Tell her I want the dress finished by Monday morning for our wedding at eleven. I’m off to Helston to see the bishop about a license, but rest assured I’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow. In fact, I’ll be counting the hours.”

  That said, he bent his head to kiss her cheek, and Corisande seized her chance, flinging her arms around his neck and drawing him down so she could hiss into his ear, “Bastard! You think you’re so very, very convincing, don’t you—”

  She didn’t get to say more as Donovan’s lips covered hers so suddenly that she gasped aloud, but the warm pressure of his mouth stifled that sound too. It couldn’t stifle the astonishment rippling through the crowd, however. Corisande’s ears burned as she heard embarrassed coughs and children giggling.

  Yet still Donovan kissed her, his mouth moving over hers as with a strange hunger until she felt lightheaded, her face on fire, and her body going almost limp against him. Only then did he raise his head, Corisande fluttering open her eyes to find that lazy, charming smile upon his lips and wry amusement—amusement!—in his darkened gaze.

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  He released her before she could respond and mounted Samson while Marguerite came rushing over to her side, her sister fairly breathless.

  “Oh, Corie, you’re so lucky! He’s so dashing, so handsome…”

  And so mistaken if he thought she was some naive country miss he could toy with, Corisande fumed as Donovan rode away, Marguerite half swooning beside her.

  Oh, yes, bloody mistaken, and she couldn’t wait to set him straight. In fact, she was counting the hours.

  Chapter Eight

  It was late by the time Donovan arrived home, so late that when he let himself in the massive oaken front doors, neither of the two housemaids were there to receive him.

  He wasn’t surprised. Imagining the shiftless pair had long since retired to their rooms in the attic, he was grateful at least that they had left a lamp burning in the immense entry hall. The dim, flickering light shrouded in shadow a dilapidated interior that must have at one time been quite grand.

  Henry Gilbert had told him that the estate had changed hands many times in the past century before being bought by Donovan’s father, the last owner an elderly viscountess who had wanted a more modest country house closer to London. She’d cared little about the ancient abandoned mine at the northeast corner of her property, not seeing its potential as had the Duke of Arundale. After he ordered the sinking of deeper and deeper shafts, a rich lode of tin ore was struck, making Arundale’s Kitchen one of the most profitable in west Cornwall.

  Not that his father had spared many shillings on the upkeep of the house and grounds, Donovan thought disgustedly to himself. Nor to pay a fair wage to the miners—no, tinners, as Corisande had so graciously corrected him. As graciously as a spitting cat. But at least he had found the perfect way to silence her in a pinch, his bride-to-be quite kissable for a shrew.

  Quite bloody kissable.

  Frowning, Donovan shook off the memory of Corisande’s soft parted lips and moved to the sweeping staircase. He switched his course at the last moment and headed for the library instead, wondering if Gilbert had purchased the few items he had requested that morning on the way to the mine. Soap, shaving paste, and a razor to start. The house was bare of such simple necessities, and he hadn’t enjoyed a good shave since his short overnight stay at Arundale Hall.

  He had asked for paper as well, pens, ink, and more candles and lamps to light the place, especially the library. And good brandy, of course, if Gilbert could find it. Obviously not too difficult a task, considering the superb quality of the spirits Donovan had tasted at the parsonage.

  He was no fool. Smuggling had to be rampant along this godforsaken coast, given the high taxes levied upon so many goods to help pay for the war. A sizable portion of the Reverend Easton’s parishioners were no doubt chin-deep in the running of contraband from France to Cornwall. How else could such fine brandy have found its way to a vicar’s cupboard?

  Donovan wished he had a strong dose of that brandy now as he opened the door to the library, anything to help him stomach writing a letter to Nigel about his impending marriage. He might have found a way out of his miserable predicament, but what he had to do to gain his inheritance still chafed like hell. No, he wouldn’t allow himself to sleep until that letter was done. He’d be damned if he would allow a new day to start on such a galling note—

  “What the devil?” Donovan came to a halt at the sight of Henry Gilbert fast asleep in a tattered wing chair drawn close to the fireplace. A fireplace that, amazingly enough, wasn’t cold, black, and empty but filled with fat logs that burned brightly, the lively hiss and crackle of the flames a welcoming sound in this drafty place. Gilbert’s discordant snoring, however, was anything but pleasant, the agent’s mouth hanging open and his bony elbows dangling over the arms of the chair.

  “Nothing like an honest day’s work to tire a man,” Donovan muttered dryly, wondering how a fellow so slight could make such a racket. He moved to wake him, but a full decanter of brandy flanked by a pair of cut-crystal glasses set to one side of the marble mantelpiece caught his attention. Reminded with a grim jolt of the letter he must write, he decided rousing Gilbert could wait. A moment later, the brandy was poured and snaking a warm path down his throat, a vintage almost as fine as the Reverend Easton’s.

  “Good man, Gilbert. Good man.”

  Donovan’s loud-spoken compliment had the desired effect, Henry’s snores coming to an abrupt halt as he blinked open his eyes. Upon seeing Donovan, the agent lurched at once to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair.

  “Oh—oh, my lord! I had no idea—”

  “Sit down, Gilbert, and get your bearings. I don’t want you tumbling into the fire.” As Henry obliged him, plopping bleary-eyed and silent into his chair, Donovan sat himself on the edge of the worn desk and took another deep drink. “I take it you were waiting for me to return?”

  “Why, yes, my lord. I thought you might like to know that all was done to your satisfaction. I hired a new man to captain the mine, Jonathan Knill’s the name—”

  “The tinners will work for him?”

  “Gladly, my lord. Knill’s well liked, his family long known in the parish.”

  “Excellent. And the tinners’ pay?”

  “Doubled it just as you asked, which drew quite a cheer from the men. And when they heard a share of wheat would be doled out to each family on Monday morning, enough good couldn’t be said—”

  “About Miss Easton, I hope,” Donovan cut in as he rose to refill his glass. He poured a brandy for Gilbert, too, the agent accepting it with a look of some surprise. Donovan doubted that his father had ever shared a drink with the man, or any employee for that matter. “She made quite an impression on me this morning, enough for me to ask her to be my wife. But I suppose you’ve already heard that we’re to be married.”

  Before he answered, Henry took a good swallow of brandy, his hand slightly shaking as he lowered the glass. “Yes, my lord, the talk in Porthleven was of little else but you and Corisande Easton. But of course, I knew from His Grace’s letter that you might be seeking a bride—”

  “My brother wrote you a bloody letter?” Donovan knew he had roared like a tyrant, but he couldn’t contain himself at t
his news. “About my personal affairs? By God, when?”

  “I…I just received it a week past, no more.” Henry Gilbert’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, but he managed to rush on. “His Grace asked that I assist you in any way I could—in making introductions to some of the local gentry, of course, if needed. The letter stated that the Arundale family is in desperate need of an heir, thus your haste today in choosing a bride is quite understandable.”

  “Quite,” Donovan echoed tightly, reining his anger as best he could. It was damned difficult—how thoroughly Nigel had seen to every detail, and before Donovan had even agreed to come to Cornwall!—but he now had the perfect explanation for his odd behavior in the stable that morning. “So it must be equally understandable to you, then, why I want Miss Easton to reap full credit for my decisions made earlier in the day. It made her happy, you see, to think that it was her own doing, and thus endeared her all the more to my proposal of marriage. She doesn’t know, of course, that an Arundale heir is of the utmost importance—as you say, a matter of haste. Any young woman would find the matter most indelicate, perhaps even unpleasant—”

  “Of course, my lord, have no fear that I’ll not honor your confidence. It is the very least that I can do.”

  Donovan had to summon all his will not to scowl as Gilbert gave him a conspiratorial wink. Instead he raised his glass, and the agent quickly followed suit.

  “A toast, then, to my coming marriage.”

  They drank, downing the brandy in one swallow—well, Donovan did. Henry Gilbert began to cough and wheeze, his thin shoulders hunched and his eyes watering as Donovan pounded him several times on the back.

  “Are you all right, man?”

  “Yes, my lord, thank…thank you. I was fine until I thought of how close I came to being skewered this morning. Forgive me for saying so, Lord Donovan, but I don’t envy your choice of a bride. Perhaps you should reconsider. Take a few more days. There must be other young ladies who would gladly—”