“I have no doubt of it.” Indeed, the industrious woman had worked wonders with the place in the span of one day. Donovan had scarcely recognized the entry hall when he had returned to the house late that afternoon: Sparkling marble floors, no dust to be seen anywhere, furniture he’d thought no better than kindling polished and looking like new. Even the grounds and stable had been spruced up, and repairs made, Henry Gilbert overseeing a good-natured crew of tinners who had been more than happy to work on their Sunday off.
Anything for Corie Easton, they’d said to a man.
Yes, the transformation was bloody amazing…and what would be more amazing was if he’d have a bride to bring home tomorrow. Now that would be a true miracle.
“If there’s nothing else, my lord…”
Donovan looked up. His thoughts were in such an unpleasant furor he wasn’t surprised he’d forgotten the somber-faced butler was still hovering at the door, and the man probably ready to drop on his feet at this late hour. “Get yourself some sleep, Ogden. Well done.”
“Thank you, my lord. Good night.”
Ogden was gone as silently as he had come, a good quality in a spy, Donovan mused dryly. Not furtive, just unassuming. The kind of servant one could easily forget was near until it was too late, the damage done. Then again, if there was no more role to play…
Cursing to himself, Donovan lunged to his feet and went to the window where he stared out at the darkness.
If Corisande failed to meet him at the church, he’d only brought her mutiny on himself.
Good God, he had caused his own damned torment by holding that child! He’d never felt more wretchedly impotent, overwhelmed by frustration and rage that he was sitting in a poorhouse in Porthleven, Cornwall, instead of back in Spain looking for Paloma along with the men he’d hired to help in the search.
Yet he hadn’t needed hours of riding across the heath to tell him that his fury had been misplaced, Corisande unjustly bearing the brunt of his pain.
She’d had every right to be angry at him. He’d acted abominably, his temper getting the best of him, and then to call her a shrew…
“She is a bloody shrew,” he muttered wryly, wondering how long it had taken her to finish her calls and if she was home safe and sound.
Add to that exasperating, quick to anger, stubborn…impassioned, intelligent, determined, and wholly given to thinking of others before herself.
Yes, Corisande Easton was made of far sterner stuff than he deserved—no matter she was only a temporary bride—if she showed up at the altar tomorrow morning and agreed to be his wife.
Chapter Eleven
“It’s quarter past eleven, my lord—”
“I know that, Gilbert!” Donovan snapped, ready to wrap Henry’s gold pocket watch around the man’s scrawny neck.
Growing more uncomfortable by the moment, Donovan shot a glance at the church entrance, then back at the animated group sitting in the front pew in their finest clothes and bonnets—Estelle and Marguerite, who were alternating between grinning at him and blushing, Linette, who couldn’t seem to sit still, the girl forever twisting around to see if Corisande was coming, and Frances, who was plucking at her sleeve, the bellflower-blue kerseymere apparently not lying straight enough to suit her.
Meanwhile, the Reverend Easton was puttering between the altar and the sacristy, apparently unconcerned that his daughter was fifteen minutes late for her own wedding…if, indeed, the poor fellow even remembered whose wedding he’d come to perform. Yet right now, that was the least of Donovan’s concerns.
Frances had told him at five to eleven that Corisande’s calls had run quite late the night before, which had made her sleep longer than usual. Thus she’d missed entirely her early morning appointment with Rose Polkinghorne for the final fitting of her wedding dress, the poor seamstress frantic when Corisande finally appeared that she wouldn’t have the work done in time.
It hadn’t helped that the fine pearl buttons ordered from Penzance had yet to arrive and— bloody hell! Why was Donovan recounting this entire mess in his mind? The fact remained that Corisande was not here and probably had no intention of arriving for the wedding, or else she planned to show up in one of her drab pea-green dresses with her bun askew and tell him he could jump off a cliff for all she cared, his inheritance be damned—
“My lord, my lord! Look!”
Donovan did look, the fierce throbbing in his temple all but forgotten as Corisande entered the church, tense relief pouring through him that she was, indeed, dressed from head to toe in white. She paused, their eyes meeting across the pews, and it seemed to him that she looked suddenly relieved as well. Then she was hurrying down the aisle toward him, but instead of going to meet her, Donovan could but stare, stunned.
He had known beautiful women, but in that moment Corisande rivaled them all, no untidy ragamuffin now as the bright sunlight pouring through the windows made her a shimmering vision in silver and white.
A vision made all the more startling in the soft clinging drape of her dress, the satin so thin and delicate as to reveal a most tempting female shape, long, long legs, wondrously curved hips, a narrow waist, that Donovan’s pulse began to pound.
Good God, this was hardly the time to be wracked by lust, in a church no less, her father the vicar only feet away, and for a woman he had no bloody intention of touching!
Matters were only made worse as Corisande drew closer. Donovan’s eyes were drawn to the seductive swelling of her breasts against her low décolletage—he hadn’t forgotten the feel of those pert breasts pressing against his arm—and the beauty of her bare throat brushed by tendrils that shone a rich burnished auburn next to her white skin. He would never have guessed her hair was so long, falling almost to her waist beneath a sheer lace veil that covered her head and framed her face, her cheeks glowing pink with color, her eyes—
“Oh, Lord.”
“My lord?”
“Nothing, Gilbert, nothing,” Donovan muttered, leaving his agent’s side to greet the woman whose lovely eyes were filled with outrage as if she’d just read his lustful thoughts. He held out his hand to her, wondering almost resignedly if she might still renounce him, especially now, but Corisande took his hand with a stiff smile and allowed herself to be led to the altar.
“No need to be nervous, my love.” Donovan clasped her hand tightly, as much to warm her icy palm as to remind her to try to relax in front of her family. “You look beautiful. Those extra fifteen minutes were more than worth the wait.”
An extra interminable fifteen minutes that had been hell for her, Corisande fumed, all of them spent wondering while Rose Polkinghorne hastily sewed and pinned her into this ridiculous dress, if Donovan would even be at the church.
She’d been told a pair of fancy carriages had rumbled past Rose’s house, but she refused to believe Donovan had driven the smaller one until she saw him in the flesh. Ha! She needn’t have worried. He might have lost his temper yesterday but he showed no ill effect today, looking more the handsome Don Juan than any man should in his fine claret-colored wedding coat and leering at her to boot!
Uncomfortably reminded of the lecherous squire Druella Simmons had married last week—was it only a week ago?—Corisande was glad Lindsay wasn’t here to witness this wedding, even if it was a ruse. As for not feeling nervous, was he mad? Heaven help her, she’d have to be on her guard now, Donovan proving with those treacherous dark eyes that he was hardly a man of his word.
“Here, Corie. I brought you some flowers from the garden. I hope you like them.”
Corisande turned to accept the bouquet of fragrant purple veronica from Marguerite, who gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and then returned to Frances’s side at the front pew. All of her sisters were beaming at her, yes, even matter-of-fact Linette was smiling, too, which caused a painful tug at Corisande’s heart.
She hated terribly to deceive them, but it was for a very good cause.
So many families would be helped by this sham
marriage. It was time to look forward and, instead of grumbling over the injustice of it all, simply bear the next few weeks of Donovan’s company with as much grace as possible.
She had been strident these past days, and shrewish, yes, she could admit it after thinking long and hard yesterday about her behavior, and God knows she didn’t want to jeopardize an agreement that would make life better for so many throughout the parish. Lord Donovan Trent might be a Don Juan, but she would show him that she honored her word even if he could not. Play the rapturous bride? With pleasure!
“I believe your father’s ready, darling.”
Corisande glanced up from her sweet-smelling bouquet to see, indeed, that her father was drawing near with his opened prayer book in hand.
Doing her best to ignore the stab of guilt that she was deceiving the man she held so dear, she turned to Donovan as her father reached them and bestowed upon him a gloriously blissful smile that would have done Lindsay’s flair for the dramatic proud. “Oh, my lord, I’m so happy this moment has come at last! So truly, truly happy.”
At once, Donovan looked so startled that Corisande wanted to laugh, but the wedding ceremony had begun, their small number of witnesses rising to their feet. Corisande had heard the service performed so often since childhood that she listened with half an ear, not wanting to focus upon sacred words that to her, right now, meant nothing.
She answered where she must, taking care to look adoringly at Donovan as they repeated their vows, then blessedly the short ceremony was over, the marriage register signed, the delicate gold band like a cold weight around her finger. What wasn’t cold were Donovan’s lips when he drew her into his arms and kissed her, his mouth, so warm and insistent, moving intimately over hers.
At first she thought to pull away, but that wouldn’t do, no, not with everyone watching. Instead she melted against him just as any happy bride would do, her arms winding around his neck as she began to kiss him back.
She really wasn’t sure if she was doing it right, having no prior experience except for the other day, but she decided she must be close when she felt him tense as if in surprise—although she wasn’t tense, not at all. She felt quite wonderful, dizzy almost, this kissing business more than pleasant and something over which she’d be damned if he had all the control. Two could play—
“All right, enough. There’s no need to overdo it.”
Corisande snapped open her eyes, Donovan’s terse whisper hardly what she would have expected from the happy groom. Nor would she have expected his look of irritation as she slid her arms from his neck, but it was gone in the next instant as Frances rushed forward. The housekeeper dabbed at her eyes with a white silk handkerchief while Linette, Estelle, and Marguerite all clamored round to give Corisande a hug.
“Oh, Corie darlin’, Lord Donovan. I’m so thrilled for ‘ee both! What a lovely wedden—”
“But you’re crying, Frances!” piped up Estelle, looking momentarily concerned.
“Ais, child, don’t mind me. I always cry like a new babe at weddens, I do. Means nothing more than I’m happy too.”
“Yes, my lord, Lady Donovan, allow me to offer my sincerest congratulations!” enthused Henry Gilbert, although the agent’s eyes grew alarmed when Corisande frowned at him, as much for him cutting into their little group before she could speak to Frances or her sisters as that she despised the man. She couldn’t help it. The skinny little weasel had caused so much hardship these past three years…
“It appears, Gilbert, that my new bride has been rendered speechless with happiness,” Donovan suddenly spoke up with a firm squeeze to Corisande’s elbow. “Perhaps if she knew how hard you worked earlier this morning, handing out bags of grain to the tinners until your fingers were raw, she might find it in her heart—”
“Yes, thank you, Henry, truly,” Corisande cut in sweetly—oh, no, even Donovan’s infuriating little warnings weren’t going to rile her!—as she glanced from him to the agent, who despite her soft words took a few cautious steps backward.
“I—I’ll wait outside with the carriages, my lord.”
“That will be fine, Gilbert. We won’t be long.”
Confused, Corisande looked back to Donovan as the agent hurried down the aisle, his long blue coattails flopping against his skinny legs. “Surely we’re not leaving already. Frances has made a lovely meal, rabbit pie and plum pudding—”
“I’m afraid Grace Twickenham, my new cook, has prepared a special wedding breakfast for us as well. I’m sorry that I neglected to tell you sooner but—”
“Ais, Corie, we’ve no problem here,” Frances interjected with a wide grin. “‘Tes a fine idea to go to your new husband’s house an’ a fitting one too. An’ I know the girls wouldn’t mind at all seeing such a grand place, would ‘ee?”
“Oh, Corie, can we?” Marguerite’s eyes shone with excitement while Estelle hopped up and down.
“I want to go to Donovan’s house! I want to go to Donovan’s house!”
“You shouldn’t call him Donovan,” chided Linette in a half whisper, looking askance at her younger sister. “At least not until he says it’s all right—”
“He’s your brother-in-law now, Linette. Of course you must call him by his Christian name.” Corisande threw another radiant smile at Donovan. “Isn’t that right, my love?”
Donovan nodded, silenced as much by the stunning beauty of Corisande’s smile as his vexation that he could be so strongly affected by it.
What the hell was she up to? One moment she’d looked angry enough to spit, then the next she was playing the eager bride to the hilt, no, overacting was a more apt description. Overacting as shamelessly as a second-rate actress, and he wished she would stop.
He had gotten quite used to her frowns, her angry glances, her name-calling, and constant indignation, albeit she’d usually behaved well enough when others were around, but these damned smiles were another matter altogether, heating his blood and making his pulse pound. And when she’d kissed him…
“Well, I suppose we should be on our way if everyone is agreed.” Somewhat unnerved by the way Donovan was staring at her, his dark eyes the veriest black, Corisande added, “If that’s all right with you, darling. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your new cook.”
“Ais, now, we don’t want to do that!” Frances blurted out to Corisande’s relief, the housekeeper breaking the unsettling current between her and Donovan. “Come on with ‘ee, girls. We’ll quick put away the meal and then settle ourselves in one of those fine carriages, shall we?”
“No, no, I want to ride with Corie and Donovan!” Estelle protested as Frances took her small hand. “Please, Corie…”
Corisande opened her mouth to say yes, deciding suddenly that she didn’t relish the thought of being alone with Donovan all that way, only to have Frances firmly reply before she could utter a word.
“Silly lamb! There’ll be times aplenty to ride with your sister an’ her husband, never ‘ee fear. But not on their wedden day.” With that, Frances and her crestfallen charge headed down the aisle accompanied by Marguerite and Linette while Corisande, sighing to herself, turned back to Donovan.
“I…I should see about my father. Sometimes it takes him a while…” She didn’t wait for a response—the man was still staring at her!—but half fled to the sacristy. “Papa? Did you hear? We’re all going to Donovan’s—”
She didn’t finish, her father to her surprise having already changed from his vestments and meeting her at the door with a gentle yet somehow sad smile on his face, his eyes slightly wet.
“Papa, are you all right?”
“You look…you look like your mother today, Corisande. All in white…so beautiful.”
She swallowed hard, unable to say anything for the longest moment. Then suddenly Donovan was beside them, his voice sounding as deep and strong as her father’s had been broken and shallow.
“I’d be honored, Reverend Easton, if you would accompany us to my home.” Donovan glanced at
Corisande. “Our home.”
She stiffened—the lies, oh, the lies!—but at once reminded herself of her new resolve. “Yes, Papa, please come with us.”
To her surprise again, he nodded; she’d fully expected him to refuse their invitation, preferring the solitude of his study. She had hardly seen him these past few days, well, except for Sunday service and then again late last night when she’d returned to the parsonage to find him outside in the garden, sitting upon the bench with his head in his hands. She hadn’t disturbed him; she had seen him like that many times before.
Strangely enough now, though, he seemed almost eager as the three of them walked together down the aisle, and Corisande took note that her father’s step seemed less slow and labored. Perhaps the wedding had heartened him, which made her feel guilty all over again, but she quickly shoved away the thought.
Once outside, she watched him crinkle his eyes at the bright midday sun, this lovely third day of April the warmest the season had yet offered—Joseph Easton even smiling when Marguerite waved gaily to them from the second and much larger carriage.
“Frances said I could wait here, Corie. Isn’t it grand?”
Corisande didn’t have a chance to answer as Donovan’s voice sounded beside her.
“Gilbert! Help me with the good reverend.”
At his command Henry came running, Corisande ignoring the sensation of interested stares upon them from dozens of onlookers on the street and at their windows as she watched the two men lead her father to the carriage. It was then that she noticed Estelle running from the parsonage as fast as her short legs could carry her, her sister grinning from ear to ear and clutching Luther to her breast.
“Frances?” Corisande called to the housekeeper, who appeared in the doorway with Linette in tow. “Did you…?”
“Ah, Corie, the poor child looked so glum when we came out of the church. She asked if she might bring the dog, an’ I didn’t have the heart to say no. Would ‘ee?”
In truth, Corisande didn’t mind at all, but she couldn’t help wondering what Donovan might say. He hadn’t seemed very fond of Luther the other day when the tiny mutt had been circling round his boots…yet did she care?
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