Not surprisingly, Ogden had already been informed of Donovan’s imminent wedding by Henry Gilbert, who had stopped by the house shortly after the servants’ arrival to fetch the sealed letter bound for Arundale Hall. Thus Ogden’s sharing of the news created the unholy commotion of Donovan being accosted by the frantic housekeeper, Ellen Biddle, and Grace Twickenham, the red-faced cook, the moment he went downstairs, both women clamoring to know what special preparations should be made to welcome his new bride.
A bride who looked about as happy to see him as a condemned criminal bound for Tyburn, Donovan thought dryly, sending a smile beyond Corisande to his three young soon-to-be sisters-in-law. Estelle and Marguerite smiled back readily, but Linette stared at him with some wariness, this serious-faced middle child reminding him most of Corisande.
“If you please, my lord, you’re only encouraging my sisters to fidget. They should be paying attention to the service!”
Donovan met Corisande’s flashing brown eyes, glad that the hymn had covered her irritated whisper. It seemed the hours they had spent apart had made her even less inclined to honor the role they must play, and he was determined to remind her. “Of course, my sweet darling, forgive me. We’ll let them pay attention to the service while I pay attention to you. Fair enough?”
Corisande gasped as Donovan tunneled his arm through hers and pulled her none too gently against him. “What—?”
“Shh, my love. That’s better. Let’s give your father’s flock what they came to see, shall we?”
Corisande’s face had never felt hotter; she was mortally aware that everyone in the congregation must surely be staring at them. She tried to slide her arm back through Donovan’s, but to no avail. She was no match for his strength. The overbearing lout held her as if in a vise, and she couldn’t budge.
“Easy now, dear heart, or you’ll confuse your sisters,” he whispered firmly as the hymn swelled to a close. “I wouldn’t be averse to kissing you right here in front of the pulpit if it will ease your mood. That certainly seemed to work well enough yesterday. What’s it going to be?”
What’s it going to be? Corisande screamed incredulously to herself, wondering if Donovan would really make good on his threat. Seething, weighing the odds, she had only to glance at the steely look on his handsome face to know he would probably relish such a display. Resignedly she forced herself to relax against him. There was nothing else she could do.
But she didn’t look at him again for the remainder of the service, not even when he laced his strong fingers through hers and began to rub her palm lightly with his thumb, a curiously soothing sensation. No, not even when he leaned over to whisper in her ear after her father’s sermon was done that he’d heard few vicars preach with such conviction.
Only when the last hymn was being sung did she glance at him again, and, as if he had been waiting for that moment, he lowered his head to murmur a husky warning for her ears alone, “When you feel a flash of temper coming on, think of the tinners, my love. Henry Gilbert tells me they’re singing your praises. Let’s keep things that way, shall we?”
She was caught and she knew it, at least while they were in public. But there would come a time when they would be alone, oh, yes, and she could hardly wait.
Corisande’s arm was cramped when Donovan finally released her, wooden pews creaking all around them as parishioners rose to their feet. And just as she had known it would, the ingratiating nightmare of yesterday afternoon was repeated as people swarmed forward to offer good wishes, the local gentry falling all over themselves to welcome Donovan into their midst.
To her relief she saw Frances rush forward from the back where she’d been sitting with friends and shepherd her sisters away, while in front of Corisande Druella’s parents, a very rotund Baron and Lady Simmons, came barreling along. But the hapless couple was cut off as a path suddenly opened among the parishioners to make way for an imposing figure of a woman, her familiar stentorian voice greeting those on the left and right as if she were the bloody queen.
“Oh, Lord.”
“Someone you know?”
Corisande nodded mutely at Donovan as the woman drew closer, her massive corseted breasts reminding one of the wide prow of a warship, her lavender silk dress rustling and her double chin jiggling. Upon her powdered face was an imperious look to which Corisande had long ago grown accustomed, the woman’s narrow, high-bridged nose giving her the ability to look snootily down upon all she surveyed.
Just the way she was now staring at Corisande, though her shrewd blue eyes quickly shifted to Donovan as she extended a plump gloved hand.
“Olympia Somerset, my lord,” she announced before Corisande could introduce her. “What a distinct pleasure to welcome you to Porthleven, although” —she glanced disparagingly at Corisande— “a few days’ notice of your imminent arrival might have allowed my stepdaughter, Lindsay, to be here to greet you as well. Yes, such a pity.”
Corisande held her breath while Donovan said nothing for what seemed the longest moment, nor did he make a move to offer Lady Somerset the least courtesy. Only when the woman arched a thin painted brow, looking at Donovan somewhat uncertainly, did he take her hand and bow ever so slightly, an audible murmur of relief rippling through the church.
Wondering at his behavior, Corisande glanced at him to find he had stepped closer to her, a faint scowl on his face, his arm around her back in almost a protective fashion. Unsettled by a sudden rush of warmth, she immediately dismissed the ridiculous thought. Lord Donovan Trent was merely playing his part, convincingly as usual.
“Allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Donovan,” Olympia added in a tone that gave no hint of her earlier discomposure, stepping aside to reveal a slight graying man who had silently trailed in her wake like a shadow. “Sir Randolph Somerset. We would be so honored if you’d dine with us at Somerset Place, perhaps tonight—”
“Tonight won’t be possible,” Donovan interrupted smoothly, feeling no small amount of disgust at the woman’s insulting behavior toward Corisande as well as pity for the poor miserable-looking wretch who’d been fool enough to take her to wife. “But perhaps sometime in the near future … after our wedding.”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Of course, you must know by now that Lindsay and Corisande are the dearest of friends. Close as sisters, I’d dare say. We’ll almost be like family.”
Stunned to her toes, Corisande gaped as Olympia gave a regal nod of her head and then swept away, another wide swath opening for the woman like the parting of the Red Sea. But Corisande had no time to dwell upon the first public acknowledgement she’d ever heard from Lady Somerset’s lips that she and Lindsay were friends as more parishioners crowded forward to introduce themselves to the son of a duke.
She was certain nearly an hour had passed by the time the church was emptied, leaving her and Donovan, finally, incredibly alone.
“Pleasant people. Well, most of them,” he said as Corisande brushed past him and moved down the center aisle, inspecting the pews both right and left. “Did you lose something?”
“Not at all. I’m checking to see that no one left anything behind. It’s one of my duties.”
“Duties?”
“Of course. I always close the church after Sunday service, then I count and record the tithes in the parish accounts, look over the register—”
“But what of the churchwardens?”
Corisande shrugged. “None have been elected for three years. I manage well enough, and the parish trusts me. Things run quite smoothly here.”
“But your father? Does he help—”
“My father is already at home in his study, where he’s most comfortable,” Corisande broke in stiffly over her shoulder. “Sunday mornings tire him dreadfully. He puts everything he has left into his sermons. You said yourself that you’d seen few vicars preach as well as my father.”
“So you heard me. I wasn’t sure—”
“Yes, I heard you and your ridiculous warning as
well.” Corisande swept up an abandoned white ladies’ glove and spun to face him, struck anew by how magnificently handsome he looked in the sunlight streaming through the arched windows and wishing she wasn’t so inclined to notice. “And I don’t need you to tell me to think of the tinners! If not for them, for their families, I wouldn’t be suffering your—your loathsome attentions—”
“Loathsome? I don’t recall any woman ever complaining before that she found me loathsome.”
“Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, being the charming Don Juan you are,” Corisande bit off sarcastically. “No wonder you don’t want to be married. Why ruin such a blissful existence? Lord knows how many innocent women you’ve despoiled along the way!” Furious now, she wadded the glove in her hand, wishing it was something harder that she could throw at him. “We may have a part to play, my lord, be it a few days or a few weeks until this miserable charade is done, but I’ll not have you thinking I’m some naive country twit eager to be seduced by the likes of you! You may not care in the least about my reputation, but I do!”
There. It had been said, however indelicately. In her father’s church on Sunday morning no less! But 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. But 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, woman, 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 10
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, and 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, woman, 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. But 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.”
“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.”
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 Inner by the name of John Thomas.
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