“I—I tripped,” came a weak faltering voice that didn’t sound anything like Corisande at all. “I hit the wardrobe and—”
“I know, Corie. Shh, don’t talk for a moment.” Donovan scooped her up in his arms, trying to assure himself that there was little cause for alarm as he carried her to the bed. It was only a small bump, and after a full night’s rest she’d be as good as new and eager to spar with him again, he had no doubt.
Yet she felt so limp in his arms, so helpless, and he didn’t like it at all. Strangely, it made him feel helpless, too, which was even more bloody unnerving. Just like earlier in the day when those pilchard barrels had been crashing toward her and he’d been too far away to do anything but cry out her name.
“Easy, Corie, lie still now,” he commanded softly, placing a down pillow beneath her head and then pulling the covers to her chin. “I’ll get a wet cloth for that bump and some water for you to drink.”
“Yes, water. Please, water,” she agreed in a raspy voice that had grown somewhat stronger. “No more champagne. No more sherry.”
“Sherry?”
She didn’t answer, moaning softly to herself as she rolled her head from side to side until suddenly she froze, her fingers digging into the covers. “The bed! Oh, God, what’s happening to the bed? It’s spinning—”
“It’s not spinning, woman, you’re spinning,” Donovan cut her off dryly, realizing now exactly what she’d been talking about.
It must have been a damned good amount of sherry too. One glass of champagne wouldn’t have made her feel so ill, or caused her to trip over her own feet, though it had probably made things worse. No wonder his surliness hadn’t riled her. The chit was as pickled as a mackerel!
And, just as he’d feared, in the next instant he was racing to bring the washbasin to the bed before she was sick all over herself. Donovan held her head and swept her long hair out of her face as she leaned over the edge of the mattress and retched and moaned, and retched some more.
Finally, when she was done, he was able to leave her to get rid of the basin and fetch wet cloths and a goblet of water; Corisande drank so thirstily that he thought she might become ill again, so he took the glass away. After wiping her face and mouth, he pressed a fresh cloth to her forehead, the bump as big as a robin’s egg now and quite tender. She sucked in air through her teeth and cried out, trying to push his hands away.
“Dammit, you need this for the swelling! Lie still or you’ll only start spinning again.”
That dire warning seemed to work as she sank back onto her pillow and grew quiet, so quiet that several moments later he thought she’d fallen asleep. Sighing heavily, Donovan left her side and climbed back into bed, but he didn’t lie down, propping some pillows behind him to sit staring at what was left of the fire.
So much for his wedding night. He might have a temporary marriage, but he couldn’t say the evening hadn’t been memorable. In fact, he doubted he’d ever forget it.
First she’d wanted to whack him over the head with a shovel.
Then she’d nearly driven him to distraction with a body any man might kill for.
And lastly, she’d walked smack into a wardrobe and nearly scared him half to death, only to come very close to being sick all over him.
Bloody hell, he deserved a drink. And fortunately there was one more glass of champagne.
“So mean. So mean…”
Donovan turned to find Corisande had rolled over onto her side and was clutching her pillow, her body curled into a ball.
“Corie?”
“So mean! Bess…”
He couldn’t tell if she was awake or dreaming, her words coming in half-whispers that sounded hoarse, distressed. Sliding closer, he laid his head down close to hers and prodded gently, “The housemaid, Corie? Bess, the housemaid?”
In answer, she clutched her pillow more tightly, a broken sigh slipping from her lips. It sounded so sad, Donovan couldn’t help but move closer, drawing her into his arms. He held his breath, but she didn’t resist, instead pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
“What did she say, Corie?” he whispered, freeing one hand so he could stroke her silky hair. A second ragged sigh broke from her throat, this one even more heartrending than the last.
“Ugly…”
He tensed, anger filling him. “Bess said you’re ugly?”
“Scar…”
Her voice had sunk to a whisper. As she pressed even closer, Donovan could feel a warm wetness where her face was buried against his shoulder.
“…ugly. So cruel. They don’t know…don’t know…”
He said nothing as her voice trailed away, her breathing so deep and regular he knew she was fast asleep.
While he lay there, his throat so tight that he could barely breathe. He didn’t want to move, not right now. He didn’t want to wake her.
Instead he gathered her close and rocked her gently, as a father might cradle a hurting child.
Corisande half opened her eyes, a blurred shadow passing in front of her. Groaning at the dull throbbing in her head, she was barely aware that the indistinct shape had stopped and now hovered over her.
“Oh, you poor, poor dear. To be sick on your wedding night? Such a shame. Nerves will sometimes do that to a bride. I’ve tea for you, and a nice hot bath is ready, my lady. Shall I help you to sit up?”
Corisande recognized the brisk, capable tones of Ellen Biddle even before she could focus clearly upon the housekeeper’s kindly face. What was that the woman had said about nerves? About her being sick? She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a hoarse croak, her tongue as dry as wool and practically useless.
“Oh, my, yes indeed, you need tea, my lady. Here, if you’ll raise yourself just a bit—that’s right, now I’ll plump these pillows for you. There.”
Corisande was amazed; one moment she’d been lying flat on her back feeling wretchedly helpless and disoriented, and now she was comfortably reclining while Ellen poured her a steaming cup of tea from a white china pot decorated with tiny blue flowers. Comfortable at least, but for the painful ache above her right temple. Corisande flushed with chagrin as fuzzy memories came rushing back at her.
Oh, dear, had she really tripped and fallen headlong into that wardrobe? And now that she thought about it, she vaguely remembered becoming ill but little else after…
“Sugar? Cream?”
Corisande shook her head, to which the housekeeper gave a concurring smile.
“Plain is how I like my tea too. Well steeped, hot, just the thing to start the day. Here you go, my lady.”
Corisande no sooner accepted the teacup and took her first sip than the housekeeper was bustling across the room, her plain black dress and starched apron rustling efficiently. A spare middle-aged woman with premature gray hair beneath her neat white ruffled cap, Ellen Biddle had to be one of the most energetic souls Corisande had ever seen.
“A pity, but it seems the sunshine has left us today.” With firm no-nonsense tugs, Ellen drew aside the forest-green velvet curtains at the windows flanking the balcony doors and tied them back with thick gold-braid ropes. “The fog broke a short while ago, but I fear not the clouds. It looks certain to rain, maybe even storm. Wretched weather for traveling, but there it is. At least you had a fine day for your wedding, my lady.”
“Traveling?” Relieved that she had regained the use of her voice, Corisande stared in confusion as Ellen came back around the bed. “I don’t recall anyone saying—”
“Oh, my, no, I didn’t mean you, my lady, or His Lordship.” The housekeeper’s face drew into a sudden frown. “Good riddance, is what I say. Those two girls were a handful of trouble. Well, not so much Meg, although she followed along after Bess like a silly milk cow. A pity too. She was a good worker. But His Lordship said that she and Bess must go this very morning, and Fanny too. I warned the girl her loose tongue would bring her trouble, but—”
“Lord Donovan… I—I mean, my husband sent them away?”
Incredulous, Corisande had to believe it must be so when Ellen firmly nodded.
“Oh, yes, indeed. His Lordship came to see me before the sun was up, quite angry he looked too. Said he’d have no servants in this house speaking ill of you, my lady. Said those three must be gone before you opened your eyes this morning, and so they were, sent packing to catch the mail-coach in Helston just after dawn. Meg and Bess bound for Weymouth and Fanny back to Arundale Hall where she’ll have to explain herself to His Grace, no doubt. I believe Lord Donovan sent along a sealed letter.”
Corisande leaned her head back against the pillow as Ellen paused to refill her teacup; memories swam before her now, fresh and vivid.
The unsettling conversation she’d overheard between the housemaids, Bess discussing her so callously, and how furious Donovan had been, threatening Henry Gilbert with injury to life and limb until Corisande had told him that Fanny—
“I must apologize for those girls, my lady.”
Corisande looked at Ellen, but the woman seemed reluctant to meet her eyes as she set the china pot back upon the tray.
“I don’t know what all was said between the three of them, but…well, it troubles me to no end to think your upset last night might have been caused…”
Ellen didn’t finish, instead glancing down uncomfortably at her hands, which led Corisande to guess that the housekeeper had probably heard—Ogden and the other remaining servants as well, for that matter—much of Fanny’s gossip on their way to Cornwall. Yet something told her that she would never have heard a word of such talk from this woman’s mouth. Ellen Biddle had a strong air of decency about her that made Corisande doubt, too, that she could possibly have agreed to be a spy…but Corisande supposed she could never be sure.
“It was a simple case of nerves, Ellen, nothing more,” she said, deciding it was a good time to show that if she’d overheard anything, she’d granted it little credence. “Certainly no reason to trouble yourself. All the excitement, the long day. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, yes, of course, my lady.”
“So it’s not worth discussing any further. Have you seen my husband?”
Ellen at once looked relieved that their conversation had taken a swift turn although her clear gray eyes held a touch of what Corisande could swear, to her dismay, was pity.
“In the library, my lady. I believe he plans to leave shortly with Mr. Gilbert. His Lordship said he wouldn’t be home for luncheon—he mentioned something about business at the mine, but surely by supper—”
“Oh, dear, I have to wait to see him until supper?” Corisande broke in with mock alarm, hoping to show the housekeeper, too, that her wifely devotion to Donovan had not been shaken. “You must go to him, Ellen, right this minute, and tell him I’ll be downstairs as soon as I can to say good-bye.” She set her teacup with a clatter onto the tray. “Did you say I’ve a bath ready?”
“Yes, my lady, in your bedchamber. I’ve also hung up your clothes in the wardrobe, but your wedding dress…” The housekeeper cleared her throat delicately. “I fear your wedding dress is beyond repair.”
Her face suddenly burning, Corisande chose to skip over that subject altogether. She threw aside the covers and rose somewhat shakily, not surprised when Ellen caught her arm to steady her. She didn’t want the woman’s help, however well-meaning, this business of having servants constantly hovering around her quite unsettling. And now she had to contend with them feeling sorry for her too; Lady Donovan, the poor little country simpleton, so naive, so trusting, so blind. Oh, she couldn’t wait to have her normal life back again!
“I’ll be fine, Ellen. Really. You don’t have to stay to wait upon me. And I’d be so disappointed if I miss my husband…”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll see to it right away.” Having swallowed the cue, Ellen hustled away only to pause at the door. “If you need anything, my lady, there’s a bell pull in your chamber. Someone will come straightaway, well, at least we’ll do our best. We’re rather shorthanded now. If you know any local girls who might wish for employment here at the house, I’d welcome your recommendation.”
Corisande sighed to herself as the housekeeper disappeared, thinking that there were many women in the parish who would leap for joy to have steady work to help their families. But to give someone a job that would last only a few weeks? Maybe days, if she got her wish and that inheritance came soon from Hampshire. It would be cruel to build such hopes. Ah, but she couldn’t think of it now. She had to hurry if she was going to catch Donovan. She had a few things to say to him, and they didn’t include a pleasant good-bye.
Corisande felt her cheeks growing hot again as she hastened from his bedchamber and into her own without a backward glance, grateful to be gone from the place. Grateful, too, in a way that she had become ill. Oh, she hoped she’d retched and retched. That must have repulsed him and kept him far, far away from her! Maybe she should drink a good strong dose of sherry every night.
A sharp queasiness in her stomach made Corisande quickly abandon the idea. The high-backed metal tub placed before a freshly stoked fire looked quite inviting as her knees suddenly felt a bit wobbly too. Within a moment, she had stripped out of her nightgown and settled with a long sigh into the steaming bathwater that smelled heavily of lavender oil.
Which she supposed made sense, considering that the fragrant herb was well-known as a restorative for hysterical women. Ellen Biddle must have poured a whole bottleful into this tub, probably believing that Corisande hadn’t been stricken with nerves as much as a frenzied fit after discovering she’d become an overnight bride simply to serve as brood mare for the heir to the dukedom of Arundale.
Nerves! Had Donovan told the woman that? It was a perfect excuse to explain why she’d been ill, though. Lord, if the housekeeper, and Donovan for that matter, only knew the truth—
“Miss Biddle said you wanted to see me, wife?”
Chapter Sixteen
Corisande shrieked and covered her breasts with her hands, water splashing onto the floor as she sank as low as she could into the tub. It was only then that she realized Donovan had spoken from behind her, and she craned her neck to glare at him.
“How—how dare you! Get out! Get out, I tell you—”
“Enough, Corie.” He gave her no indication that he intended to go anywhere as he continued to lean against the doorjamb to the sitting room, his arms crossed casually over his chest although he looked taut with tension. “There may be fewer servants in the house now, but that doesn’t mean you can raise the rooftop with your infernal shouting.”
“Then don’t creep up like…like a bloody snake behind me!” she sputtered, incensed. “Having to sleep together in the same bed to make things look cozy and proper between us is quite another thing than you standing there watching me bathe. Now please leave!”
With that she faced front and sank down further to her chin, which, to her chagrin, only made her knees rise higher, the tub too small to accommodate her long legs. Yet bare white knees were better than her breasts bobbing in plain view, no matter that Donovan was standing well behind her. She closed her eyes and counted to twenty, then hazarded a glance over her shoulder to discover he had gone.
Oh, Lord, that made her wonder if he had stormed from their suite altogether, and here she wanted to talk to him!
Corisande grabbed one of the thick cotton towels hanging over a wooden rack and wound it around herself as she climbed from the tub, water splattering the rug as she raced to the wardrobe. It was such a relief to see some of her own familiar clothes again. She didn’t bother to dry herself fully but shrugged into a thin linen shift first, then one of her wool dresses, followed by plain white stockings and her sturdy walking shoes.
Her first thought as she hastily gathered her hair into a loose bun was to run downstairs to catch him, but she supposed she should check the other rooms first. He might not have left. She flew into the sitting room, stopping short as Donovan turned dark brooding eyes upon her from whe
re he stood by a tall window.
He didn’t look happy at all, and she imagined that was due to her shrewish outburst. Even if he had interrupted her at her bath, she shouldn’t have shouted at him like a fishwife and called him a snake. That hadn’t been wise, no, not with servants lurking around. In fact, she felt guilty about it, but he had startled her so badly—
“I see you’re feeling none the worse for last night.”
He didn’t sound very happy either, no, not at all, Corisande thought with some apprehension, swiping a damp tendril from her face. “Actually my stomach feels a little odd. I’d never have imagined one could become so ill after bumping one’s head.”
“Helped along by a glass of champagne, of course.”
Corisande looked at him uncertainly, his tone having grown even more brusque. “Well, yes, I suppose I shouldn’t have drunk it so quickly—”
“Or half emptied the decanter of sherry in the drawing room. I suggest if you’ve a mind to drink spirits in the future, you keep it to a minimum, Corie. Nerves will suffice as an excuse for our wedding night, but not again if we’re to make things look as if you’ve been properly bedded. Are we understood?”
She gaped at him, bristling and feeling quite embarrassed by turns. Properly bedded? Lord, she wasn’t going to touch that one at all, but the other…
“I’m not a drunkard, if that’s what you’re thinking and—and, well, I don’t care what you think! Anyone in my place would have done the same thing. You were meeting with Gilbert, and I was left waiting and waiting—and I don’t see why I’m explaining myself to you anyway! If you just came up here to rant at me—” Corisande didn’t finish, suddenly eyeing Donovan warily. “How did you know about the sherry? One of the servants could have drunk—”
“You told me yourself. Just before you got sick.”
She frowned. “That’s not possible. I’d have remembered. I remember tripping and bumping my head.”
“And becoming ill?”
“Yes, of course! I told you my stomach still hurts.”
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