With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  There. It had been said, however indelicately. In her father’s church on Sunday morning no less! Corisande felt much better—no matter that her face was on fire—and stared indignantly at Donovan even as he stared straight back at her. For a long moment, he said nothing, then a wry half smile touched his lips.

  “Clearly my attentions yesterday offended you.”

  She reddened further, dropping her gaze to the crumpled glove in her hand. “That, and what you said about why you wouldn’t have wasted your time with Lindsay.”

  Again Donovan grew silent, so silent that Corisande couldn’t help looking up to find that his smile had disappeared, his dark eyes burning into hers.

  “My words were thoughtless, I admit. But I have every confidence that your strength of spirit will carry you through any trial our temporary union might cost you.”

  “How kind of you to say—” Corisande began tightly, thinking the man could be very glib as well as charming, only to have him wave her to silence.

  “I’m not finished. As for the other, I cannot promise that I won’t kiss you again, given that we’re soon to be ‘happily’ wed and must appear as such to the good people of Porthleven. But those occasions might be less frequent if you would keep your hot temper in check—”

  “That’s very difficult for me.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  “Considering who you are, of course,” Corisande added bluntly. “If it wasn’t for the tinners—”

  “I know, I know. You wouldn’t be suffering my loathsome attentions.” Donovan sighed heavily, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “It seems we’re talking in circles here, except for me to say that I have no plans to seduce you.”

  “That I’m very glad to hear,” Corisande spouted, although for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why her face was feeling so bloody warm again. It truly felt like fire when Donovan continued, his voice growing brusque as his gaze swept her.

  “I meant that as no insult, of course. You’re quite an attractive young woman—that pale gray color suits you very nicely, by the way. But we’ve a business arrangement, Corie, nothing else.”

  “I—I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me Corie,” she stammered, wondering where her composure had suddenly flown, wondering if she’d ever felt her heart beat any faster. “Only my family and friends—”

  “I will call you Corie,” he interrupted firmly, “since it would be strange for me not to. Everyone else does. Besides, the nickname suits you. Corisande is lovely, but—it’s French, isn’t it? Your sisters’ names too.”

  “Our mother was French, but as I told you yesterday, that’s none—”

  “I know. None of my bloody affair. Good God, do you know you’re one of the most exasperating…!” Donovan didn’t finish, shaking his head as he looked away.

  Which was fine with Corisande. She desperately wanted this uncomfortable line of conversation to end, desperately wanted her face to stop burning and her heart to stop racing, and definitely wanted this perplexing man out of her life.

  “I’ve work to do,” she said stiffly, turning back to her task of inspecting the pews. “You needn’t wait for me. Frances makes a lovely Sunday dinner, unless, of course, you’ve other plans. Which I’m sure you do. There must be a hundred things that need to be done, considering we’re to be married tomorrow, and I imagine sons of dukes are very busy people—”

  “Not at all,” he broke in gruffly, making her start. “My plan is to spend the whole blessed day with my lovely bride-to-be, just as any eager bridegroom would do. I’ve spies at the house, remember? Why would I want to go there?” He leaned against a pew, the whole massive length of him, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do what you must, then we’ll go over to the parsonage together.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not going home for dinner. I spend Sunday afternoons at the poorhouse, then I make calls for my father well into the night, so if you’re hungry, you might as well join Frances and my sis—”

  “I’ll wait for you, woman! What more do I have to say?”

  “Well, you don’t have to shout.” Her spine as rigid and straight as a poker, she huffed away, grumbling, “Swept off my feet? Ha! More like lost my mind—”

  “I heard that.”

  She frowned and clamped her mouth shut, determined not to say another word.

  Chapter Ten

  Which was impossible, really.

  Donovan was such an infuriating man, much of what he said provoking her, that she soon gave up any notion of holding her tongue.

  “You may keep the parish accounts now, Corie, but I imagine there are already those among the congregation wondering who will tend to such things once we’re married.”

  “Thankfully you and I won’t be married very long,” Corisande retorted, as Donovan followed her outside into a balmy spring day after she’d completed her duties. “I’ll explain to any who ask, of course, that careful thought must first be given to electing a competent churchwarden and that I don’t mind at all filling in while they deliberate. By that time, sir, we will be happily annulled. Things will go on just as if you’d never been here.”

  A pleasant notion indeed, Corisande thought as she hurried down the stone church steps, not waiting for Donovan.

  Of course, she’d never considered that her marrying one day might affect things, because her husband would fully share in her work, not want her to stop. He wouldn’t be a privileged aristocrat like Lord Donovan Trent who thought only of himself and his own amusements, oh, no—

  Corisande gasped as Donovan suddenly caught her hand and pulled her up short, his strong fingers enmeshing with hers.

  “I said I would wait for you, not run after you like a pup. Now, shall we slow our pace to a promenade and proceed together to the poorhouse?”

  She wanted to rant at him, half for startling her and the other half for pure spite, but passersby in the street made her force a smile instead and say through gritted teeth, “As you wish, my love.”

  He smiled back, all white teeth and masculine charm, and settled her hand comfortably in the crook of his arm, which only angered her further. She took some comfort in gloating over how totally out of his element Donovan would be at the poorhouse, like a pilchard out of water as he was surrounded by orphaned children, the aged, and the infirm. He would probably flee for the nearest door, sickened by the smell of filled diapers and the sight of drool…

  “Here we are,” Corisande announced almost gaily in front of a neat two-story brick building, eager to see his handsome face turn green. She even took his big hand and led the way up the few stairs, her move clearly surprising him as he raised a thick black brow. As soon as she opened the front door, she felt almost giddy as the smell of curdled milk porridge and mackerel and potato pie greeted them, hardly palatable fare for a highborn gentleman such as he.

  “Ah, Corie, I wasn’t sure you were coming today.”

  Corisande smiled at the thin, kind-faced woman who rushed forward to greet them, then turned to Donovan. “Mrs. Eliza Treweake, the good governess here. Eliza, Lord Donovan—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about him,” Eliza gushed before Corisande could finish, the woman’s bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled warmly at Donovan. “Such an honor for you to come and visit us, my lord. I’m so happy for you both too. A wedding tomorrow? How wonderful!”

  “Yes, it is wonderful,” Donovan agreed pleasantly, giving Corisande’s hand a firm squeeze. “And such a pleasure to meet you, dear lady.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry we’re late, Eliza.” Pointedly tugging her fingers free from Donovan’s, Corisande stepped further into the entrance hall as the sounds of children laughing and spoons clattering against china carried from behind the closed doors to the dining room. “There was so much to do at the church today. We had such a crowd.”

  “Ah, no trouble, no trouble. I hope you don’t mind, but we already began our meal. The children were so hungry we couldn’t wait.”
<
br />   Corisande nodded in understanding and followed Mrs. Treweake through the broad double doors, knowing Donovan was right behind her. Although she was fuming again at the insufferable man who took every opportunity to torment her, she was able to feel a bit smug again, too, at the lively commotion that greeted them.

  At one end of the long oaken table sat the older folk, most contentedly focused upon their generous helpings of Cornish pie and mashed turnips while a dozen boisterous children of varying ages squirmed upon wooden benches set along the sides. At the far end, an attendant bustled around three gurgling babies in high seats, and it was between these littlest ones and the wriggling children that chairs were brought for Corisande and Donovan.

  Plates heaped high and steaming cups of watery tea soon followed, as Mrs. Treweake took her place at the quieter end of the table between poor Alice Ripper, who was blind and quite feeble, and a crippled old tinner by the name of John Thomas.

  “Enjoy your Sunday dinner, my lord.” Corisande knew she was grinning like a fool into her food as Donovan picked up his fork, but her smile soon became a look of pure amazement when he began to eat with gusto, clearly enjoying his meal.

  “Wonderful fish pie, Mrs. Treweake,” Donovan offered a few moments later when his plate was almost empty. He glanced over at Corisande, who was staring at him incredulously, and, imagining her thoughts, couldn’t resist adding in a low sarcastic aside, “Surprised, my dear? You shouldn’t be. We Don Juans must keep up our strength no matter what’s put before us. One never knows when an innocent maiden ripe for despoiling might come along. No, one never knows.”

  “Cad!”

  Her emphatic whisper was drowned out as a baby nearby began to wail, the exasperated attendant throwing up her hands as she spun to face Mrs. Treweake.

  “Little Mary won’t eat ‘er porridge, ma’am. I’ve done everything—”

  “Here, I’ll help.” Corisande had begun to rise, but Donovan caught a handful of skirt and pulled her back into her chair.

  “No, no, you finish your meal. I’ll give the girl a hand.” Donovan was on his feet before Corisande could utter a word, her eyes so filled with surprise that he bent down and whispered in her ear, “Your food’s growing cold, my love. Better eat.”

  He almost laughed when she glanced down at her plate then back at him, furious sparks in her gaze. His attention flew to the baby, a chubby little thing with flyaway wisps of dark hair and big brown eyes, when she began to wail afresh. At once he went and scooped the child from her chair, a painful well of emotion gripping him as he held her close.

  “Ah, Mary, the milk porridge isn’t agreeing with you today?”

  He’d spoken in low, soothing tones that, if not completely quieting the child, at least eased her distress to whimpers and slowed her flood of fat tears. Jouncing her gently, he strolled to the nearest window where he shifted her to one arm and pointed at some birds fluttering from shrub to shrub in the small neatly tended garden outside.

  “Those little wrens seem to like the lemon verbena, don’t they? Do you see them, Mary? And such a nice song they make too. Ah, look, there they go!”

  Donovan smiled to himself, taking almost as much delight in watching the child as Mary—grown quiet and wide-eyed, her pudgy little finger pointing too—seemed fascinated by the birds.

  His enjoyment brought him fresh pain as well, and he stared out the window, thinking of another child with beautiful brown eyes, his child, who would be nearly three years old now, that is, if she was still alive…

  “I think Mary might eat now, milord. Would ‘ee like for me to take her?”

  Donovan turned from the window, nodded, and handed the child to the attendant as his eyes met Corisande’s across the room. She was studying him, a tiny frown between her brows, but when he came around the table toward her, she immediately left her chair and went to assist Mrs. Treweake, who was helping one of her elderly charges rise to his feet.

  Donovan retook his seat heavily, the mounting confusion at the table as the children finished their meals and clamored to be excused so they could go play outside making his head pound. With Corisande purposely ignoring him—though, hell, why should that bother him?—and all three babies beginning to wail in unison, startled by the noise, and restless children beginning to run like wild heathens around the dining room, he could take it no longer.

  Corisande was startled, too, when Donovan came up behind her and caught her by the elbow, his low growl grating in her ear as he steered her toward Mrs. Treweake.

  “We’re leaving. Now. Thank the governess for the meal and say what else you must—that we’ve many things to do before the wedding, whatever—but do it quickly, Corie.”

  She bristled, wanting to resist, but his harsh grip on her arm brooked no argument. Somehow she found it within herself to smile as she made a hasty excuse to Mrs. Treweake. The poor besieged woman, surrounded by so many squealing children hopping up and down like rabbits and weary older folk anxious to return to their places before the sitting room fire, looked almost relieved to see them go.

  Corisande was relieved, too, when at last she and Donovan had stepped outside, her cheeks so flame-hot with anger that only fresh air could cool them. Fresh air and an explanation, but that, she saw from the numbers of people strolling in the street and enjoying the sunshine, would have to wait until they were alone once again.

  To that end, she summoned the last ounce of her composure and said pleasantly, “Perhaps you might help me once we’re back at the parsonage, my lord. As I told you earlier, I’ve calls to make for my father, and everything’s ready in the stable. I’ve only to hitch the cart to Biscuit—”

  “Yes, let’s head to the stable. I left my horse there.”

  With that brusque reply, they walked silently the rest of the way, only speaking to greet passersby. When they were almost to the stable, no one else between them and the door, Donovan let down his guard completely, as deep and forbidding a scowl on his face as ever she’d seen. He was tense, too, his hand at the small of her back propelling her forward as if he thought her long legs weren’t carrying her fast enough. She was breathless when they entered the small building, Biscuit nickering to them from his stall.

  Yet Corisande paid no heed to Biscuit as she whirled around, her jaw dropping in surprise to find that Donovan was already hauling a very fine leather saddle onto Samson’s broad back.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Marvelous deduction. Yes, I’m leaving.”

  Affronted by his sarcasm, she felt the heat explode in her cheeks along with her temper.

  “Well, at the very least you could explain why you hustled me from the poorhouse as if I’d done something wrong. Unless, of course, the place unnerved you just as I imagined it would. Babies, old people. Not your sort of company, I’m sure. And I don’t know what point you were trying to make with little Mary—going out of your way to charm everyone as usual. Oh, you looked very convincing, as if you’ve held babies before. I thought for a moment you might even go so far as to try to feed her and then clean a dirty bottom or two for good measure—”

  “Hell and damnation, woman, does your shrew’s tongue never stop?”

  Stunned, Corisande gaped at Donovan, not so much because he had just insulted her but because he looked almost tortured, his eyes strangely desperate. Yet he turned away so quickly to lead his horse from the stall that she wondered if it might have been a trick of light. The stable was always filled with shadows no matter how sunny the day…

  “I thought we were to spend the whole day together,” she said as she followed after him, feeling more stung than she might have imagined that he had called her a shrew. “The whole blessed day, as I recall. What of your brother’s spies—”

  “Spend the rest of the day with you?” Donovan had spun, gripping the reins in his fist as he scowled back at her. “I’d rather be flogged with a horsewhip than endure that pleasure. Not until we’re married shall I force myself to spend another hour in y
our presence.”

  He turned and was gone, striding out into the sunshine as if he couldn’t leave the stable fast enough.

  Which left Corisande alone, well, except for Biscuit.

  “So much for our charade,” she muttered as the piebald pony snorted and shook his shaggy white mane. “The man can’t stomach being around me. Thinks I’m a shrew.” She glanced over at the cart, filled with blankets and medicine and tins of smuggled tea, all the things she needed to make calls on some of her father’s more needy parishioners, and suddenly realized she didn’t quite feel like going anymore.

  At least not by herself. Oh, Lord, she hadn’t actually been looking forward to…

  “Not bloody likely,” Corisande huffed under her breath as the sound of Donovan riding away carried to her from outside. If anything, she’d merely wanted to see him squirm when faced with more unfortunate souls; yes, of course, that was it. Squaring her shoulders, she went to lead Biscuit from his stall. “The surly bounder. I doubt now he’ll even show up for the wedding. Probably decided to find himself another temporary bride.”

  Which she hoped for the tinners’ sake, Corisande had to admit grudgingly to herself, wouldn’t be true.

  “Will there be anything else, my lord? Another brandy?”

  Donovan shook his head, waving Ogden away without a word as he stared into the fire. Then upon second thought, he decided to speak up just before the butler closed the library door.

  “All is in readiness, Ogden? I want everything to be as near perfection tomorrow as possible.”

  “It will be as you desire, my lord. Grace has yet to leave the kitchen for the night—the wedding breakfast has her most preoccupied—and Ellen Biddle is seeing to last details as well. I can vouch for her highly, Lord Donovan. She is an excellent housekeeper.”