The agent blinked, clearly confused. “But, my lord, you already—”
“Do as I say, man. And while you’re there, tell the tinners their wages have been doubled and that they can expect a good share of wheat for their families on Monday morning. Now, go—oh, and Gilbert, one more thing.”
“Yes, my lord?” Looking thoroughly bewildered, the agent distractedly brushed some straw from his coat.
“If the men ask the reason behind their sudden change of fortune, tell them to thank Miss Corisande Easton when next they see her. The good parson’s daughter’s friendly visit has helped me to see the error of my family’s ways.”
Corisande caught the hint of sarcasm in Donovan’s voice, her back stiffening when he glanced at her as Henry Gilbert mounted his horse. If she hadn’t witnessed the two men’s incredible exchange with her own eyes, she’d never have believed it. But it seemed Donovan was dead serious about his proposed business arrangement. As Gilbert rode from the stable, Corisande felt her stomach do a strange flip when Donovan came toward her.
“What’s been done can easily be undone, Miss Easton, I think you understand,” he said in a gruff half whisper that oddly enough made her stomach do another flip. “Unless, of course, you and I reach an agreement. Become my bride and see the tinners profit for years to come, or have things stay just the way they are. It’s up to you.”
Corisande stared at him, wanting nothing more in that moment than to tell this despicable, arrogant, condescending—and altogether too handsome for his own good—son of a duke what he could do with his accursed agreement. But the image of that vermin Jack Pascoe being banished from Arundale’s Kitchen stopped her biting retort, even more so the thought of the tinners having a decent wage again and grain for flour to take home to their families.
And fair trading certainly couldn’t compare with what Lord Donovan Trent was offering, no matter how much she might wish it to be so. The sale of smuggled goods had brought some relief to the parish, no one could deny, the earnings used to purchase everything from cloth to medicine. But it never seemed enough, the need so vast. Now at least the tinners would have a way to help themselves as well. How, then, could she say no?
“Very well, my lord. We have an agreement. I will become your temporary bride.”
Corisande was startled by the look of relief that passed over Donovan’s face, but it was gone quickly.
“For no longer than you said,” she added, feeling a good measure of relief herself when he nodded. “A few weeks—”
“As soon as the inheritance is mine and transferred to my London bank where my brother and his solicitor can’t touch it, our agreement will be annulled. Thus I’ll have what I want, you’ll have what you want, and we can go our separate ways.”
It all sounded so clear-cut, really, and the fact that he hadn’t said “marriage” only relieved her further. But it did little to soothe the anger she felt that he hadn’t agreed to help the tinners without this damnable union.
“You know I despise you,” she couldn’t help telling him, just so there would be no misunderstanding. She wasn’t surprised when he shrugged his massive shoulders, confirming her opinion that, indeed, all the Arundales were ruthless, coldhearted cads and only out for their own gain.
“A small price to pay.” Then, just as brusquely, he warned, “Our arrangement is to be kept secret. No one must ever know the truth. No one, or you can be assured that—” He didn’t finish, but Corisande knew he was referring to the tinners’ wages. “Are we understood?”
She nodded, again biting her tongue.
“Good. We’ll be married as soon as I secure the license.”
“But—but that could be only a matter of days,” Corisande blurted out, stunned. “It will seem strange … to the villagers, I mean, the tinners, my father, my sisters, everything happening so fast—why, we only met this morning! What will I say?”
To her astonishment he smiled, a slow, charming smile that made him look three times as handsome and sent the oddest thrill tumbling to the pit of her stomach. Until that moment, she would have doubted he was capable of such an extraordinary thing.
“Tell them … tell them that I simply swept you off your feet.”
“Impossible! No one will believe me—at least no one who knows me well.”
“Then we’ll have to show them, won’t we?” His smile faded as he came closer, standing so near to her now that she could feel his physical presence as surely as if they were touching, his eyes holding hers. “You may despise me, Miss Easton, but you and I now have a part to play, the happy couple eager to be wed. If I know my brother, Nigel, he’s arranged for spies—”
“Spies?”
“In the guise of servants, yes, whom I imagine have been paid quite well to serve as his eyes and ears. If they suspect that things are not what they seem … if anyone begins to suspect …”
He took her hand, and she jumped, flushing hotly, but if he noticed he made no mention of it. Instead, he led her to the stall where a magnificent gray stallion swung his sculpted head to look at them. “Beautiful, isn’t he? I just bought Samson in London. Come, we’ll ride together.”
“But Biscuit, my pony—”
“He can run alongside. How long of a ride would you say it is to your home?”
“My home?”
“Of course. A prospective groom should meet his bride’s family, wouldn’t you say?”
Speechless, Corisande had no answer as he shrugged into his coat and then mounted; she numbly accepted his assistance when he hoisted her up in front of him.
In minutes they were galloping across the gorse-covered heath toward Porthleven, Donovan’s arms locked around her, his incredibly hard thighs pressing against her hips, Corisande certain she might have just made the biggest mistake of her life.
Chapter 6
Corisande was even more certain as they reached the main road to the village, people she’d known all her life popping their heads from doorways and cottage windows or wheeling around in their gardens to stare openmouthed as she and Donovan rode by. And, as her luck would have it, one of them was Rose Polkinghorne, the plump, apple-shaped woman knocking her starched white cap askew in her haste to reach her gate and wave them down.
“Oh, Lord.”
“An acquaintance, my love?”
Corisande snapped her head around to face Donovan, his pleasant expression belying the tension she suddenly felt in his body. “Don’t you dare call me—”
“Keep your voice down, woman, and plant an adoring smile on your face,” he interrupted her in a low growl that demanded her immediate compliance. “We’re playing a bloody part, remember? Swept off your feet? Now, who is that frenzied lady?”
“Mrs. Rose Polkinghorne.” Corisande forced a smile that felt more like a tight grimace. “The village’s best seamstress and the most flagrant gossip this parish has ever known.”
“Perfect. Just the woman to hear our happy news.”
Corisande groaned to herself as Donovan veered his stallion toward the neat whitewashed cottage on the left, all the while doing her best to keep the smile pasted upon her face even when Donovan tightened his arms possessively around her waist. So possessively in fact, that even Mrs. Polkinghorne noticed, the woman’s bright blue eyes bulging in surprise as she glanced from Donovan to Corisande.
“Oh, Lord—”
“Leave this to me,” Donovan silenced her with a curt aside even as he nodded cordially to the gaping woman.
Leave this to him? Corisande fumed, as affronted by his tone as by his overweening confidence. Arrogant bastard! Did he think that he could just blow like a rogue sou’westerly into the parish and find himself readily accepted? He was a stranger, for heaven’s sake, while she’d lived here all her life, and yet he obviously didn’t think he even needed a proper introduction-
“Ah, Mrs. Polkinghorne, you’re looking very well today. It is Mrs. Polkinghorne, is it not?”
Is it not? Corisande silently mimicked Do
novan’s gallant tone, glancing over her shoulder to glare at him. Instead, she found herself staring in awe, her breath caught, the man smiling as charmingly as he had done in the stable and looking even more handsome in the bright midday sun. But he wasn’t smiling at her, she soon realized with an unexpected bit of annoyance when Mrs. Polkinghorne’s flustered stuttering broke the spell, the woman fumbling in vain to right her ruffled cap.
“Why, y-yes, sir, it is, indeed, an’ so nice of you to say so. Th-that I’m looking well, I mean. Oh, yes, kind of you to say, uh …”
“Lord Donovan Trent.”
“Oh, my, Lord Donovan. Of the Arundale family?”
“The same, but I regret to say, Mrs. Polkinghorne, that my bride-to-be and I have little time right now to chat. Isn’t that so, my darling?”
Stunned that such a nosy busybody as Rose Polkinghorne could be blushing as ridiculously as a green girl, Corisande wasn’t aware that Donovan had addressed her until he squeezed her round the middle.
“I said, isn’t that right, darling?”
“Oh, yes, of course … my love.” Nearly choking on the words, Corisande was thankfully saved from saying anything more when Donovan continued courteously.
“My bride-to-be will be calling on you this very afternoon, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I’d like Corisande to have the finest wedding gown you can make, and as quickly as you can manage it. Ah, and she’ll need some new gowns, too, the latest fashions, if you please. Send the bills to my agent, Henry Gilbert, and he’ll see that they’re promptly paid.”
Corisande heard a strange sucking sound but no response from Rose Polkinghorne, as if the woman couldn’t quite gather enough air to fill her lungs. But Donovan didn’t seem to need a reply as he kicked Samson into a trot and rode on, leaving the poor seamstress to stare after them, her fleshy pink cheeks ablaze while neighbors came running from all directions to cluster around her.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Corisande accused under her breath, grateful that Donovan had eased his viselike hold upon her if only a little. “The whole village will be buzzing like bumblebees in June within the hour—”
“Probably less, from the looks of it, but at least the news is out in the open.”
And too bad that the wind couldn’t carry the wonderful tale straight to Arundale Hall, Donovan thought surlily, wondering how Nigel would react—probably with unbridled relief—once he knew that Donovan had found a willing bride virtually overnight. Well, not exactly willing, but a bride nonetheless.
A bride with fine soft hair that smelled of fresh air and lemons, Donovan found himself musing, which made him frown. So, too, did the fact that he found Miss Corisande Easton fit quite nicely in his arms, her shape lithe and slender, the feel of her firm rounded bottom bouncing against him having jarred his senses more than a time or two during their ride to Porthleven. He’d felt her high, pert breasts, too, swelling against his arms whenever he’d shifted the reins …
“Which house is yours?” he barked irritably, thinking now that he should have let Corisande ride her spotted pony.
“The parsonage, of course, near the church and adjoining school,” came her stiff reply. She pointed to the plain brick spire rising above the scattered rooftops that sloped all the way down to the harbor. “At the edge of the heath on the other side of the village. And if you want us to appear the happy couple, you’d best use a lighter tone. When the wind isn’t blowing from the sea, every sound carries—”
“I stand corrected.”
Apparently even that statement did not please her for she bristled in his arms, her spine as straight as a flagpole.
“See here, I don’t like this arrangement any more than you do. But it was your brilliant idea, after all, so at the very least you could speak to me civilly, as I’m trying to do to you.”
Donovan didn’t reply, wondering if she planned as well to keep her outrageous temper in check. Given what he’d seen of her earlier, he doubted it, but he had no time to dwell on the unpleasant matter further as they approached the parsonage. An attractive two-story stone house with bright blue shutters and creeping geranium vines already halfway up the walls, the place had a warm friendly look to it that helped to ease his mood somewhat.
“Didn’t you say something about having sisters?”
“I’ve three, all younger than I.” Corisande hoped, too, that they were still hard at their studies in the more modest stone building on the other side of the church. The last thing she wanted right now was to be besieged by their wide-eyed stares and questions. Her father was foremost on her mind as Donovan drew their mount to a halt while Biscuit trotted obligingly into the tiny stable and the comforts of his stall.
What would her father say? she wondered. Might he protest the marriage? She would be twenty this September, yet still a year shy of being able to marry without his consent. Of course, she had always done exactly as she wished …
“By the way, you never told me how old you are.”
She met Donovan’s eyes, so lost in thought that she hadn’t realized he had dismounted. As he reached up to help her down, his hands easily encircling her waist, she said breezily, “Twenty-one.”
She held her breath as he lifted her to the ground, as much disconcerted by the strength of the man—she wasn’t the daintiest of females, after all, but he handled her as if she were light as air—as the way he was studying her face. But if he thought she had just lied, he said nothing, as if mulling her response, until, an interminable moment later, he released her with a shrug.
“Then I won’t bother asking your father for your hand.”
She wanted to exhale with relief, nervous elation sweeping her. She really knew little about the intricacies of annulments, except that they were sometimes difficult to obtain, at least for common folk. And though she supposed enough coin could buy a man like Donovan Trent anything he desired, including an annulment, she didn’t want to take any chances.
If he somehow planned to trick her, then she had already won the upper hand. She did know that marriages could be annulled if one of the parties was underage and consent wasn’t obtained from the parents. Just this last winter a young heiress from Penzance had been returned to her family for that very reason, and the wily fortune hunter who’d enticed her to run away with him had fled to the Continent. Now Corisande had her own way out of their agreement if she needed one, and, no matter if her father performed the marriage, she could always plead his state of confusion …
“I still intend to meet the good reverend, though. Are we going to stand here staring at each other or get on with—”
“For someone who supposedly swept me off my feet, you’re an abhorrent tyrant.” So said, she brushed past him, but he caught her cloak and yanked her back, pulling her into his arms.
“You’re right, I’m not playing my part very well, am I?” His tone was low and mocking, but there was nothing contrived about his embrace when he drew her closer, his fingers brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
Staring up at him, Corisande gulped, his lips so close to hers that she could do nothing but focus upon them, his mouth hard-looking and yet quite appealing, and slightly opened as if he were about to speak. But he didn’t speak, instead lowering his head while Corisande’s heart began to beat like a snare drum, lowering, lowering, until his dark stubbled cheek was flush against hers, his day’s growth of beard chafing her while his warm breath tickled her ear, a most disconcerting combination.
“There, isn’t this better?”
His taunting whisper made her tense, but she gasped when she felt his lips lightly graze the sensitive spot just behind her ear, sparking delicious tremors all the way to her toes. Without thinking, she arched her neck, his lips touching her there, too, but still so lightly that his breath felt heavier than his kiss, and so hot, like nothing she had ever…
“You’re playing your part very well, Miss Easton. So well I’d almost think you might be enjoying yourself, but of course, that can’t be true.
I commend you, nonethe—”
“Cad!” Mortified, her face burning, Corisande tried to push away from him, her fists balling at his chest. But he held her fast, and so tightly that she could barely move, his voice filled with caution.
“I wouldn’t struggle if I were you. It will only confuse our young audience.”
“Audience?” Corisande froze, craning her neck to see beyond him. To her horror, a small cluster of children were peeping curiously from around the corner of the church, a few of the older ones giggling and shoving each other. But when they realized that she had seen them, they turned and fled, squealing, in the direction of the school, while Corisande groaned.
“Must be luncheon time, since they’re not at their books.”
“Yes, and if my sisters hear—” Corisande didn’t finish. Donovan’s hold upon her loosened enough that she managed to twist free. But as she hurried toward the house, she knew he was right behind her—the man surprisingly quick and agile given his size—and he caught up with her at the front door.
“Allow me.”
She merely glared as he opened the door, hating his false gallantry, hating him even more, and swept inside without a second look. But again he was close behind her, through the narrow front passage and into the formal parlor with its corner cupboard that held her mother’s carefully dusted best china and glass and treasured collection of china cows, birds, and cats.
“Don’t stomp so or you’ll break something,” Corisande warned, even though Donovan wasn’t walking that heavily. But he certainly dwarfed the small room, his dark head nearly touching the ceiling, which made her think how out of place he looked in such modest surroundings.
That only made her angrier, for the tinners with their miserable one-room huts would consider the Easton parsonage a grand place, Donovan’s country house a veritable palace despite its unkempt condition. She could just imagine the grandeur of his brother the duke’s home, the magnificent house and gardens kept up with profits gained by shortchanging the tinners. Fuming about the injustice of it all, she headed down the hall leading to her father’s study. To her surprise, the door was ajar, which was odd considering her father rarely emerged on Saturdays until his sermon was written, usually well after supper.
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