“Very well, I’ll close the damned door. No bloody sense in the servants overhearing more than they know already.”
Donovan thrust himself from his chair so suddenly that Corisande gasped and stepped backward, her heel entangling in the hem of her dress. He was there to catch her almost before she felt herself falling, looking at her quizzically as he firmly took the shovel from her hand.
“You’re jumpy tonight, wife.”
Corisande tensed, the infuriating wryness in his voice enough to vanquish the fuzzy cloud settling over her brain. “If I’m jumpy, it’s only because you’ve made me so! Now let go of me!”
“As you wish.”
He did, too, and before Corisande had a chance to regain her balance she fell backward, landing with a startled cry on her bottom. That drew no response from Donovan as he returned the shovel to its hook by the fireplace, then went to shut not only the door to his bedchamber, but her door as well.
Within a moment he was back, looking mildly surprised that she was still sitting quite ungracefully on the floor, her dress twisted about her knees. When his gaze fell to her white-stockinged calves, lingering there, Corisande scrambled to her feet and stood somewhat dizzily, glowering at him. Damn that sherry and damn him too!
“There. Now at least we have some privacy. Perhaps now, too, you’re in more of a frame of mind to talk.”
Oh, she was in a fine frame of mind, all right, but before she could utter a single word, Donovan put up his hand.
“Allow me, Corie. I don’t know what you overheard from those two maids—it was the maids, yes?”
She nodded through clenched teeth.
“As I thought. By God, I’m going to strangle that Gilbert!”
“Gilbert? What are you talking about?” Corisande demanded as Donovan began to pace in front of her, his strides reminding her of a restless beast prowling a cage.
“The only way those chits could have known anything was if Gilbert told them. He knew I was coming to Cornwall to find a bride, thanks to a recent letter from my brother, who also informed him that the Trents of Hampshire were in dire need of an heir.”
“So you did trick me!”
“No, I didn’t trick you! Nigel could have all the heirs he wanted if he’d only sleep with his wife, but I can hardly blame the man. Charlotte is a fright.”
“That’s unkind.”
“But true. Nigel didn’t choose her, my bloody father did…” Sighing with exasperation, Donovan ceased his pacing and shoved his fingers through his hair. “That’s not the point anyway. Simply put, Corie, I didn’t marry you to father an heir. I told you I needed the money. My inheritance. That’s all I want out of this mess, nothing more. As far as I’m concerned, Nigel and his grand scheme for an heir can go to hell!”
Stunned by the raw vehemence in his voice, Corisande watched as Donovan began to pace again, even more restlessly than before.
“So now you know what you overheard tonight isn’t true, and by God, as soon as I see Gilbert I’m going to—”
“Why are you still blaming Henry? It wasn’t he who told Bess about this heir business but Fanny, the scullery maid. And Fanny was told by some fellow named Wilkins.”
Donovan stopped to stare at her incredulously. “Wilkins?”
“Yes, your brother’s solicitor.” Corisande felt her cheeks growing warm as she debated what else was seemly for her to reveal, and how to politely say it. She cleared her throat. “It seems that Fanny and Wilkins shared a glass or two of wine and then…”
“Oh, good God!” Donovan circled in front of the fireplace and then brought his hands down hard against the mantel, bracing himself there as he scowled into the fire. “That little bespectacled…”
He didn’t finish although Corisande could imagine what he must be thinking, which wasn’t exactly what she was thinking. Suddenly a giggle burst from her throat, then another, which made her clamp her hand over her mouth when Donovan turned to look at her, a black brow raised.
“I said something funny?”
Corisande lowered her hand, grinning like an idiot, she knew, and which she blamed wholeheartedly on the sherry. “No, but Meg did. It seems Fanny told her this Wilkins likes being called, well…lambkins.”
“Lambkins?”
Hearing Donovan say it only made Corisande giggle again, and this time she simply couldn’t stop. It was so ridiculous! Grown people wanting to be called such silly names? She wasn’t laughing by herself, either. A slow grin spread over Donovan’s face, nothing like that devilishly charming smile at all, but something more boyish and, oddly, much more appealing.
He began to chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at the fire and then back to her, while she had to hold herself around the middle, she was giggling so hard. Her ribs hurt!
“Oh, Lord.” Her words had come out with a gasp, and finally she bent over slightly at the waist to catch her breath. When she threw back her head, still laughing to herself, she saw that Donovan wasn’t chuckling anymore, just staring at her with a strange look on his face.
Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped her arms slowly to her sides, the room grown silent but for the soft crackling of the flames.
“You should do that more often, Corie. Laugh. Smile. It becomes you.”
She didn’t know what to say. There really didn’t seem to be anything she could say. Rubbing her lips together nervously, she glanced beyond him to the door leading to the sitting room. It had been closed, too, which made her grow even more flustered, a sudden gush of words jumping to her lips.
“I should go…to my room, I mean. It’s late and—and I’m very tired. Good night, Donovan.”
Hugging her arms tightly around her middle, Corisande went to walk past him, nearly jumping out of her skin when he reached out and blocked her way.
“You can’t go, Corie. You have to sleep in here tonight, with me.”
If he had said she must walk on water, she couldn’t have been more surprised.
Or more alarmed than she’d ever felt in her life, and she tried to bolt past him toward the door. His arms were around her before she could blink, strong massive arms that held her still against his body though she struggled mightily, a big hand clamping over her mouth when she inhaled to scream.
“Easy, Corie, you haven’t let me finish! We have to share the same bed. It’s our wedding night, but I’m not going to touch you, woman! How many times must I assure you of that? You’ll have your side, and I’ll stay on mine—and for God’s sake, that bloody mattress is wide enough so we won’t even be lying close to each other! We have to make things look convincing to the household, remember?”
She’d already ceased struggling well before he had finished, embarrassment flooding her as he slowly drew his hand away from her mouth. “Of—of course, I knew that.” she stammered, trying to cover for behaving so ridiculously and yet trying not to look in the direction of that huge canopied bed. “Our wed-wedding night.”
“Exactly. Now, your valise is over there behind the screen if you’d like to change.”
“Change?” she parroted, once again feeling quite stupid when Donovan smiled wryly and released her.
“Unless you want to sleep in your wedding dress. I doubt that would be very comfortable.”
“No, no, probably not,” she said half to herself, only too grateful to be free of Donovan’s unsettling embrace. Without meeting his eyes, she rushed to take refuge behind the screen like a terrified mouse looking for its hole, which only made her feel more chagrined. Staring blindly at her valise set upon an embroidered stool, she fought to regain her composure.
Whatever was the matter with her? For heaven’s sake, she’d faced tougher trials! This situation wasn’t dangerous or life-threatening, no, not like coming face to face with armed Customs men in the dark of night, or braving boiling surf to help drag to shore a near-drowned fisherman. It was the sherry, and it was her own blessed fault for drinking so much of the stuff, making her act like a ninny, a dimwit, a flus
tered goose!
“Would you like some champagne, Corie? It might make you feel better.”
“Oh, Lord.” Now what was she to do? Tell him no, thank you, she’d already downed half a bottle of spirits in the drawing room? Then he’d think she was a drunkard and—oh, she didn’t care what he thought! Champagne might actually make her feel better, she decided, her fingers still trembling as she began to pull clothing out of her valise and scatter it about her. “Yes, yes, all right. That would be nice.”
“Have you ever tasted champagne before?”
She was tempted to say no, not wishing to reveal any more about herself than was absolutely necessary—theirs was a business arrangement, after all—but then she shrugged. “Once. At Lindsay’s twentieth birthday this last February.” Corisande smiled to herself as the cork popped, the sound bringing back uproarious memories. Lord, how Lindsay had made her laugh! “We borrowed one of Lady Somerset’s precious bottles for the occasion and had ourselves quite a giggle.”
“So Lindsay is younger than you, then.”
“No—” Corisande froze, wanting to kick herself. “I mean, yes, she’s—”
“Here’s your champagne.”
Corisande took the long-stemmed crystal goblet Donovan held out to her above the screen, hoping he hadn’t heard what she’d said. She didn’t want him to know that she was younger, well, she supposed it didn’t really matter now that they were married. Oh, why couldn’t her thoughts stop tumbling over themselves? And where was her nightgown? How could she possibly find anything while holding this silly glass? It was so full, she would surely spill champagne over everything…
Wholly exasperated, Corisande drained the goblet in two long swallows and set it upon the floor behind her, then began to dig once more through her valise. She came up triumphant this time, grateful at least that Rose Polkinghorne hadn’t yet stitched her a new nightgown. Hers was sturdy white flannel with a plain collar that came up to the chin. She wouldn’t have to worry at all about anyone ogling her tonight.
Corisande pulled the pins from her hair and whipped off her sooty veil, wondering what Donovan was doing as she draped it over the top of the screen. He had gotten so quiet of a sudden. Ah, no matter. She began to work at the back of her dress, her fingers searching for the pearl buttons, until she remembered with a start that there were no bloody pearl buttons. That’s why Rose Polkinghorne had had to sew her into this dress. No time to do anything else…
“Oh, no.”
“Problems?”
Corisande frowned. Was the man forever listening for her every word? She rested her head against the screen, her heart starting to pound. Now what was she going to do?
“I think I can help.”
She looked up and almost wished she hadn’t as she gulped, swallowing air.
Donovan was standing stripped to the waist just beyond the screen, his powerful-looking shoulders more broad than she could have imagined, his chest matted with black hair that narrowed to a thick trail down the center of his taut, muscled abdomen and then disappeared into his breeches. Thank heaven, he still wore his breeches! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord—
“I noticed you had no buttons at the church. Frances had said they failed to arrive from Penzance so…” He shrugged. “There’s really only one thing we can do.”
“Do?” she echoed, staring stupidly as he held out his hand to her. Before she even realized what she’d done, she placed her palm in his warm one and felt him drawing her from behind the screen, drawing her closer and closer, until suddenly he spun her around so she was facing the other way.
“It will look better anyway…to the servants.”
Corisande felt his hands gripping the satin fabric at her shoulders and her underlying shift, then she heard a rending sound that seemed to echo around the room. A rending that went all the way down to her hips, and she cried out as cool air touched her skin. Clutching what was left of her dress to her breasts, she fled back to the screen, not daring to look behind her.
Which was probably a good thing. She wouldn’t have liked the look in Donovan’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like what seeing her bare flesh had just done to him.
With a low curse, he walked back to the bed and continued to strip from his clothes, hoping Corisande would have the sense not to peek at him behind the screen. If so, she might faint dead away; he doubted she’d ever seen a man afflicted with his current plight. He was so hard it hurt, his turgid member standing at full attention as he cursed again his brilliant idea to rip her out of her dress.
When he’d seen the lovely curve of her back and the dimpled flesh above her buttocks…sweet rounded buttocks—ah, God, why was he torturing himself? And there had been no stays, no stays at all, which meant those saucy breasts were nature’s own tantalizing design. With a pained grunt, he climbed into bed and yanked the covers to his waist, then reached for his glass on the side table and downed the champagne in one gulp.
Oh, yes, he’d gotten his wish, and it was fast becoming a bloody nightmare!
First she’d had to start laughing, her eyes alight and sparkling as he’d never seen them, her gleeful grin causing the strangest tug at his heart, and then he’d even encouraged her to smile more often! And now this…this madness seizing him, his lower body full and heavy and throbbing and no promise of release in sight. If she came from behind that screen in some clingy, semi-transparent muslin nightgown with her pink nipples showing through, he couldn’t say what he might—
“Donovan?”
He groaned inwardly, cursing for a third time the painful bulge between his legs.
“Donovan, I’m ready to come out now. Have…well, have you finished changing?”
Changing? He almost laughed, but it would have held little humor. He braced himself, saying as normally as he could, “I’m in bed, Corie. There’s nothing to fear. Bring your glass, and we’ll have another sip of champagne, then we’ll go to sleep. Does that suit you?”
He heard no response, but imagined she must have found his reply agreeable for he saw a flash of virginal white from behind the screen. He squeezed shut his eyes.
Oh, God, give him strength. No nipples, please. It had been too damned long…
“Here’s my glass, Donovan. Should I turn out that lamp by the door?”
Chapter Fifteen
Donovan opened his eyes, sheer relief flooding through him and no small amount of incredulity, too, as his gaze swept over Corisande.
Flannel? Good God, he’d seen such stuff on small children but never a grown woman.
Enveloped from her toes to her chin, her slim arms swathed in long cuffed sleeves, her auburn hair flowing down her back, Corisande looked more a hesitant, wide-eyed innocent than the half-naked temptress who had fled only moments ago behind the screen, a very good thing. So what was this disappointment filling him? Hell and damnation, he wanted nothing to do with the chit!
“Yes, turn out the lamp.”
Corisande flinched, Donovan’s voice a surly growl that took her by surprise. He hadn’t sounded so gruff when she had asked if he’d finished changing and…oh, dear. Her eyes dropped again to his bare chest when he leaned forward to take her glass, her heart already beating hard as a drum as she tried to reassure herself that he must have changed into some sort of sleeping wear. She didn’t know what men wore to bed, but surely he wasn’t—
Not even wanting to consider the matter further, Corisande hastily lifted her gaze, but Donovan was already occupied with pouring more champagne. Oh, Lord, she already felt as bloated as a fish. She couldn’t possibly drink any more until she had…oh, this night was becoming increasingly more unbearable and more embarrassing than she could have ever imagined!
“Is…well, could you tell me where the water closet—”
“Over there through that door. By the wardrobe.”
Still pouring champagne, he hadn’t bothered to look at her, and for that Corisande was grateful as she hurried on bare feet across the room. His voice was as gruff, too,
but right now she didn’t care. She felt ready to burst, her head in a fog, her legs feeling wobbly beneath her, and probably the last thing she needed was more champagne.
While Donovan wished he had another bottle as Corisande half stumbled into the water closet and shut the door behind her. Two bottles! If nothing else, that would have numbed him. But he had only the one, and it was empty now, the two goblets filled to the brim. He didn’t bother to wait for her, his champagne gone when she reappeared a few moments later.
“Don’t forget the lamp.”
She glanced at him, but said nothing, which was somewhat of a surprise. Surely his churlish tone must be irritating her, and he certainly wished it would.
A rousing show of temper would probably do them both some good. Help them to get some sleep, too, each hugging their own side of the bed with their backs turned belligerently to the other like two encamped enemies exhausted from battle. Watching her douse the lamp, the room falling into darkness but for the dying orange flames in the fireplace, Donovan wondered what he could say to make her flare up at him. Or maybe all he had to do was make some move toward her…
“Oh…oh, no!”
Donovan heard a dull thud followed by a heavy thunk as if something had fallen, making him throw back the covers. “Corie?”
A low groan greeted him, and Donovan lunged from the bed. His heart pounding, for a moment he couldn’t see her, for that corner of the room was so dark. Then he spied a still white form on the floor near the wardrobe. He rushed to Corisande’s side and dropped to his haunches.
“Corie? What happened?” He got no answer though she moved clumsily this time, her hand flying to her forehead. He did the same, pushing away her trembling fingers to place his palm gently over her brow, a telltale lump already forming above her right temple.
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