With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “No, Gilbert, my proposal’s been accepted. It would be dishonorable not to proceed.”

  “But her temper, my lord—”

  “A passionate spirit, nothing more. Stands up for what she believes in, an admirable trait, really. Very impressive.”

  “But she wanted to kill me! She would have, too, if you hadn’t been there. You saved my life!”

  Donovan sighed, growing weary of defending a young woman whom he imagined wouldn’t think twice about taking a pitchfork to him either. “Enough, Gilbert. I’m sure now that Miss Easton’s cause has been championed, she’ll be as docile as a spring lamb. In fact, I guarantee it. She would tell you herself that she couldn’t be more pleased about our marriage. You’ve nothing to fear from my bride. Nothing at all.”

  Donovan hoped he didn’t sound as doubtful as Henry Gilbert looked at that moment. Corisande, as docile as a lamb? That thought was so preposterous that he considered another glass of brandy, but he’d had plenty enough already to see him through the vexing task that lay ahead. Without saying more, he sat down at the desk and drew pen and paper toward him while Gilbert, recognizing Donovan’s cue that he wanted to be left alone, headed for the door.

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I’ve placed the other things you wanted in the master suite. If there’s nothing else—”

  “Jack Pascoe.” Donovan looked up, his expression grim as he met Gilbert’s eyes. “Was he gone from the mine as I’d ordered?”

  Henry Gilbert nodded, swallowing hard.

  “No trouble?”

  “None, my lord. I imagine he’s already left to find work in another parish. He’s no family here.”

  “Good. Take yourself home, then. I’m meeting Miss Easton tomorrow morning at church, so you’ll have to post this letter for me. You’ve done well today, Gilbert. See that it continues.”

  Another mute swallow and the man was gone, leaving Donovan to stare at the blank page before him.

  Resentment, ah, it was thick and deep enough to choke him, but he had only to think of Paloma—was she safe? Was she well? God help him, it had been months since he’d seen her. Would she even remember him?—and he began to write, furiously.

  To find his little daughter he would write a hundred such letters. A thousand! Anything!

  Soon, if the fates were willing, he’d have his money and be heading back to Lisbon, his father, Nigel, and their bloody plans for him be damned.

  Chapter Nine

  “Maybe he’s not coming, Corie. Maybe Lord Donovan’s changed his mind—”

  “Shh, Marguerite, for the last time. I’m sure he’ll be here any moment. Now please keep your voice down! The service is about to start. And tell Linette and Estelle to stop squirming!”

  Corisande frowned down the mahogany pew at her two youngest sisters, both girls twisting in their seats to peer behind them—at least until Marguerite hissed for them to face front and sit still. They obeyed but only for an instant, first Linette and then Estelle glancing over their shoulders as if they couldn’t help themselves. When Marguerite joined them, Corisande sighed with exasperation and gave up, keeping her eyes trained forward even if they could not.

  She’d be damned if she was going to watch for Lord Donovan Trent to make his grand entrance into the church like the conquering hero. In fact, she hoped he wouldn’t come at all. Already she felt as if every eye in the packed sanctuary was trained upon her, a low flurried buzz of conversation and speculation taking place behind white-gloved hands and fluttering fans.

  She’d never seen the church so crowded, no, not even on Easter Sunday. There had been no need to erect the cardboard figures her father insisted upon using to fill the normally empty back pews, a curious practice begun not long after her mother had died and her father’s unsettling eccentricities had frightened away—at least temporarily—many of his flock. It seemed every parishioner from Porthleven to Arundale’s Kitchen, including much of the local gentry, had made the trek to service—no doubt having heard the big news and come to gape at her and marvel at her astounding good fortune.

  Oh, she’d overheard some choice comments already, begun the moment Donovan had ridden away yesterday afternoon.

  “A duke’s son, truly? And Corie Easton? Don’t mistake me, she’s a good, hardworking girl, we all know it to be true. Helped us all, she has, time and again. But that temper! Lord help him, the poor man will need the patience of ten saints!”

  “Such a handsome young gentleman too. Not that Corie isn’t pretty in her own right. But, oh, my dear, that scar on her face. What a pity. Doesn’t seem to bother the man, though.”

  That thoughtless remark had sent Corisande hurrying into the parsonage with her three sisters and Frances in tow. All of them peppered her with questions that required ridiculous answers in keeping with a young woman who’d just been swept off her feet by most likely one of the most eligible gentlemen in Britain.

  “Aren’t you excited, Corie? It’s so romantic!”

  That from Marguerite, of course, who seemed satisfied when Corisande gave as giddy a smile as she could muster.

  “Where will you live, Corie?”

  At Lord Donovan’s house—the crumbling eyesore, she’d added mutinously to herself. Linette’s second question quickly followed: “Can we come and live there too?”

  “Of course not, ‘ee silly girl,” Frances had said with a fond laugh. “‘Ee have a good home here with your papa. An’ I’ll be stayen to watch over ‘ee, so never you fear.”

  And lastly, just before Corisande managed to escape upstairs to her room, came another breathless query from Marguerite that Corisande had hoped to avoid.

  “Oh, Corie, it must feel so wonderful to be in love. Really, truly in love. Tell me what it’s like, will you?”

  “It—it’s all so new,” she’d fumbled, hating the deception, hating to lie to her family. “I haven’t even had a moment to think, Marguerite. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

  She had fled then, sinking against her door with enormous relief. Indignation had gripped her, too, and she had gone straight to her small writing desk set before the lace-curtained window and penned Lindsay a long letter telling her everything.

  Someone had to know the bloody truth! Corisande wouldn’t be able to bear it otherwise. And she could trust Lindsay to hold her tongue. She could trust her dearest friend with her life.

  And she most certainly didn’t want Lindsay to hear from someone else that she was getting married—and for her to think that Corisande had found the man of her dreams virtually overnight—oh, no! She had made it quite clear in the letter that Donovan was self-centered to his core and cared about nothing but himself, hardly the upstanding, principled man she envisioned marrying one day. She’d mentioned, too, what Donovan had said about her reputation, his words still smarting like a slap

  “Oh, Corie, he’s here! He’s here!”

  Corisande stiffened at Marguerite’s announcement, allowing herself only the merest glance over her shoulder as her three sisters wriggled excitedly like fresh-caught pilchards beside her.

  What she saw made her breath stop, and no doubt every other woman’s in the congregation, as the most handsome man she’d ever seen strode down the center aisle toward them.

  If Donovan had been dressed casually yesterday, this morning he looked every inch the gentleman, from his clean-shaven face and startlingly white cravat to the tailored lines of his dark blue coat, fawn-colored breeches, and black riding boots polished to a bright sheen. Suddenly she felt quite shabby in comparison, her dove-gray cloth dress a poor cousin to the colorful concoctions Rose Polkinghorne was making for her.

  None had been ready, and so she had worn her very best, which obviously wasn’t good enough—oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she care anyway? That cad! That bounder! It wasn’t as if she gave a halfpenny for what Lord Donovan Trent thought of her!

  Her face burning, Corisande slid over reluctantly just as Donovan reached the pew, her sisters bumping into each other as they
slid down too. In the next instant, Donovan was seated beside her, his hard thigh pressing against her leg, which made her cheeks feel hotter still.

  “Forgive my tardiness, my love,” came his low aside as the congregation erupted into a full-throated hymn. “The servants my brother hired for me arrived early this morning. The whole place was in an uproar.”

  “You mean your brother’s ‘eyes and ears’?” Corisande whispered back, certain that her retort would be masked by the resounding singing. “How bloody lovely.”

  “My thought exactly.” Indeed, waking up to a houseful of Nigel’s spies hadn’t been Donovan’s idea of a rousing good morning. He had not only found Ogden moving silent as a ghost about his bedchamber, the somber middle-aged butler laying out finely tailored clothes that Nigel had ordered made for him—another detail seen to weeks before Donovan had returned to England!—but in virtually every other room was a servant either dusting, scrubbing floors, or cleaning windows. Even the two sullen housemaids had been enlisted, the pair working harder than Donovan had thought possible.

  Not surprisingly, Ogden had already been informed of Donovan’s imminent wedding by Henry Gilbert, who had stopped by the house shortly after the servants’ arrival to fetch the sealed letter bound for Arundale Hall. Thus Ogden’s sharing of the news created the unholy commotion of Donovan being accosted by the frantic housekeeper, Ellen Biddle, and Grace Twickenham, the red-faced cook, the moment he went downstairs, both women clamoring to know what special preparations should be made to welcome his new bride.

  A bride who looked about as happy to see him as a condemned criminal bound for Tyburn, Donovan thought dryly, sending a smile beyond Corisande to his three young soon-to-be sisters-in-law. Estelle and Marguerite smiled back readily, but Linette stared at him with some wariness, this serious-faced middle child reminding him most of Corisande.

  “If you please, my lord, you’re only encouraging my sisters to fidget. They should be paying attention to the service!”

  Donovan met Corisande’s flashing brown eyes, glad that the hymn had covered her irritated whisper. It seemed the hours they had spent apart had made her even less inclined to honor the role they must play, and he was determined to remind her. “Of course, my sweet darling, forgive me. We’ll let them pay attention to the service while I pay attention to you. Fair enough?”

  Corisande gasped as Donovan tunneled his arm through hers and pulled her none too gently against him. “What—?”

  “Shh, my love. That’s better. Let’s give your father’s flock what they came to see, shall we?”

  Corisande’s face had never felt hotter; she was mortally aware that everyone in the congregation must surely be staring at them. She tried to slide her arm back through Donovan’s, but to no avail. She was no match for his strength. The overbearing lout held her as if in a vise, and she couldn’t budge.

  “Easy now, dear heart, or you’ll confuse your sisters,” he whispered firmly as the hymn swelled to a close. “I wouldn’t be averse to kissing you right here in front of the pulpit if it will ease your mood. That certainly seemed to work well enough yesterday. What’s it going to be?”

  What’s it going to be? Corisande screamed incredulously to herself, wondering if Donovan would really make good on his threat. Seething, weighing the odds, she had only to glance at the steely look on his handsome face to know he would probably relish such a display. Resignedly she forced herself to relax against him. There was nothing else she could do.

  But she didn’t look at him again for the remainder of the service, not even when he laced his strong fingers through hers and began to rub her palm lightly with his thumb, a curiously soothing sensation. No, not even when he leaned over to whisper in her ear after her father’s sermon was done that he’d heard few vicars preach with such conviction.

  Only when the last hymn was being sung did she glance at him again, and, as if he had been waiting for that moment, he lowered his head to murmur a husky warning for her ears alone, “When you feel a flash of temper coming on, think of the tinners, my love. Henry Gilbert tells me they’re singing your praises. Let’s keep things that way, shall we?”

  She was caught and she knew it, at least while they were in public. Yet there would come a time when they would be alone, oh, yes, and she could hardly wait.

  Corisande’s arm was cramped when Donovan finally released her, wooden pews creaking all around them as parishioners rose to their feet. And just as she had known it would, the ingratiating nightmare of yesterday afternoon was repeated as people swarmed forward to offer good wishes, the local gentry falling all over themselves to welcome Donovan into their midst.

  To her relief she saw Frances rush forward from the back where she’d been sitting with friends and shepherd her sisters away, while in front of Corisande, Druella’s parents, a very rotund Baron and Lady Simmons, came barreling along. The hapless couple was cut off as a path suddenly opened among the parishioners to make way for an imposing figure of a woman, her familiar stentorian voice greeting those on the left and right as if she were the bloody queen.

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Someone you know?”

  Corisande nodded mutely at Donovan as the woman drew closer, her massive corseted breasts reminding one of the wide prow of a warship, her lavender silk dress rustling and her double chin jiggling. Upon her powdered face was an imperious look to which Corisande had long ago grown accustomed, the woman’s narrow, high-bridged nose giving her the ability to look snootily down upon all she surveyed.

  Just the way she was now staring at Corisande, though her shrewd blue eyes quickly shifted to Donovan as she extended a plump gloved hand.

  “Olympia Somerset, my lord,” she announced before Corisande could introduce her. “What a distinct pleasure to welcome you to Porthleven, although”—she glanced disparagingly at Corisande—“a few days’ notice of your imminent arrival might have allowed my stepdaughter, Lindsay, to be here to greet you as well. Yes, such a pity.”

  Corisande held her breath while Donovan said nothing for what seemed the longest moment, nor did he make a move to offer Lady Somerset the least courtesy. Only when the woman arched a thin painted brow, looking at Donovan somewhat uncertainly, did he take her hand and bow ever so slightly, an audible murmur of relief rippling through the church.

  Wondering at his behavior, Corisande glanced at him to find he had stepped closer to her, a faint scowl on his face and his arm around her back in almost a protective fashion. Unsettled by a sudden rush of warmth, she immediately dismissed the ridiculous thought. Lord Donovan Trent was merely playing his part, convincingly as usual.

  “Allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Donovan,” Olympia added in a tone that gave no hint of her earlier discomposure, stepping aside to reveal a slight graying man who had silently trailed in her wake like a shadow. “Sir Randolph Somerset. We would be so honored if you’d dine with us at Somerset Place, perhaps tonight—”

  “Tonight won’t be possible,” Donovan interrupted smoothly, feeling no small amount of disgust at the woman’s insulting behavior toward Corisande as well as pity for the poor miserable-looking wretch who’d been fool enough to take her to wife. “But perhaps sometime in the near future…after our wedding.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Of course, you must know by now that Lindsay and Corisande are the dearest of friends. Close as sisters, I’d dare say. We’ll almost be like family.”

  Stunned to her toes, Corisande gaped as Olympia gave a regal nod of her head and then swept away, another wide swath opening for the woman like the parting of the Red Sea. Corisande had no time to dwell upon the first public acknowledgement she’d ever heard from Lady Somerset’s lips that she and Lindsay were friends as more parishioners crowded forward to introduce themselves to the son of a duke.

  She was certain nearly an hour had passed by the time the church was emptied, leaving her and Donovan, finally, incredibly alone.

  “Pleasant people. Well, most of them,” he
said as Corisande brushed past him and moved down the center aisle, inspecting the pews both right and left. “Did you lose something?”

  “Not at all. I’m checking to see that no one left anything behind. It’s one of my duties.”

  “Duties?”

  “Of course. I always close the church after Sunday service, then I count and record the tithes in the parish accounts, look over the register—”

  “But what of the churchwardens?”

  Corisande shrugged. “None have been elected for three years. I manage well enough, and the parish trusts me. Things run quite smoothly here.”

  “But your father? Does he help—”

  “My father is already at home in his study, where he’s most comfortable,” Corisande broke in stiffly over her shoulder. “Sunday mornings tire him dreadfully. He puts everything he has left into his sermons. You said yourself that you’d seen few vicars preach as well as my father.”

  “So you heard me. I wasn’t sure—”

  “Yes, I heard you and your ridiculous warning as well.” Corisande swept up an abandoned white ladies’ glove and spun to face him, struck anew by how magnificently handsome he looked in the sunlight streaming through the arched windows and wishing she wasn’t so inclined to notice. “And I don’t need you to tell me to think of the tinners! If not for them, for their families, I wouldn’t be suffering your—your loathsome attentions—”

  “Loathsome? I don’t recall any woman ever complaining before that she found me loathsome.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, being the charming Don Juan you are,” Corisande bit off. “No wonder you don’t want to be married. Why ruin such a blissful existence? Lord knows how many innocent women you’ve despoiled along the way!” Furious now, she wadded the glove in her hand, wishing it was something harder that she could throw at him. “We may have a part to play, my lord, be it a few days or a few weeks until this miserable charade is done, but I’ll not have you thinking I’m some naive country twit eager to be seduced by the likes of you! You may not care in the least about my reputation, but I do!”