Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  “He’ll want me with him, of course. Always by his side.” Lindsay hugged her arms to her breasts. “And we’ll be hopelessly, deliriously in love. Nothing will be more important to him than our life together…” Sighing deeply, she opened her eyes and smiled at Corisande. “Your turn.”

  Corisande squeezed her eyes shut, feeling that her ideal man was going to seem bland as paste next to Lindsay’s. Which in truth was fine with her. Trustworthy, dependable. A companion to help her, nothing more. She could not yet envision his face, but it mattered little if he was handsome or not—

  “No fair keeping it to yourself, Corie. You have to say what you want aloud,” Lindsay urged with impatience.

  “Well, I’d want a man who cares about the things I do,” Corisande began firmly, starting with what mattered most to her. “Someone who’s willing to work side by side with me to help ease the lives of those around us.” She threw a small smile in Lindsay’s direction. “Now that you’ll be busy traveling the world, of course. And he must care just as much as I do about righting wrongs. God knows, there’s enough injustice in this parish to make the angels weep—”

  “But what of love, Corie? Wouldn’t you like for a man to just sweep you off your feet?”

  Corisande was taken aback, but she should have expected such an unsettling question from Lindsay.

  To be that much in love with someone? Her father had deeply loved her French-born mother, which was probably why he’d become an eccentric shell of a man at her death eight years ago. The same vicious fever that had claimed Adele Easton had taken Lindsay’s mother as well. But while Sir Randolph had remarried, much that he must rue the day, Joseph Easton had not. No, Corisande wasn’t sure at all if she wanted a love that could bring such pain. In fact, she didn’t want to fall in love with anyone, something she hadn’t even told Lindsay. Just thinking about her father…

  “I’d certainly have to respect a man first before I would ever marry him,” she answered, skipping over the topic of love altogether. “He would have to be honorable, selfless—”

  “Sounds dull as a saint.”

  Corisande gave a small laugh as she opened her eyes. “Well, not so dull that he’d be afraid to take chances. Fair trading’s no occupation for the faint of heart.”

  “And you’re certainly not the woman for any fainthearted man, no matter what you say,” Lindsay said with a snort. She released Corisande’s hands and jumped nimbly to the ground. “You’d have suitors buzzing around you like honeybees if you’d just learn to curb your temper.”

  “And you might have been happily married several times over if you’d settled for a husband of good Cornish stock, but no, only a bold adventurer with a daring gleam in his eye will do!” Corisande countered, jumping down next to Lindsay. They both stared at each other for a long moment, then burst out laughing.

  “I’d say we’re done with making secret pacts for the day, wouldn’t you?”

  Corisande nodded, looping her arm through Lindsay’s as they set out once more along the cliff.

  “So I’ll be twenty going into my first Season,” Lindsay said with a jaunty toss of her head. “Better that than some foolish green goose of a girl who doesn’t have a clue what she wants.”

  “So I’m known for my temper.” Corisande gave a nonchalant shrug as she looked out across a sunlit Mount’s Bay. “At least it’s helped me to get things done.”

  Just as she’d be venting her legendary spleen first thing tomorrow morning, Corisande thought to herself. She’d already decided to ride out to Arundale’s Kitchen as soon as she saw that Lindsay was happily settled in her coach and bound for London.

  She doubted she would get a wink of sleep tonight with Oliver Trelawny’s ship due in from Brittany and then Lindsay leaving so bright and early, but the news she’d received only a few hours ago fairly screamed for her attention.

  This time that damned mine captain Jack Pascoe had gone too far, cutting the tinners’ wages by a full half because they’d fallen behind in their work due to bad weather. Was the man mad? How did he expect the tinners to feed their families, to clothe and shelter them on what had already been a mere pittance?

  A pity it wasn’t the mine owner who’d be the target of her tongue-lashing. It was clear from worsening conditions that the new Duke of Arundale possessed the same ignoble qualities as his recently deceased father.

  Corisande had itched for three years to tell that miserly old bastard what she thought of a man who could pay his workers so little that they were forced to live with their families in wretched hovels…but the weasel had gone and died. Now she would just have to save her choice words for his son the duke—if only he’d show his face in Cornwall. In fact, she dreamed of the day—

  “Corie, you’re frowning again!”

  Chapter 2

  Arundale Hall

  Near Christchurch, Dorset

  “I say, Donovan, your scowl could wake the dead. Buck up, old man! Things could be worse, you know. Father could have named a bride for you in his will rather than granting you a choice.”

  Nigel Trent, Duke of Arundale, realized his attempt to put a good face on the situation had failed completely as his younger brother’s scowl grew blacker. So black that the owlish-looking solicitor at Donovan’s right seemed to shrink in his chair, the poor man nervously adjusting his spectacles.

  “Uh, perhaps, Your Grace, I should leave the library to allow you and Lord Donovan some time to discuss—”

  “Good idea, Wilkins,” came a low growl that seemed to make the very draperies shiver. “And you can take that damned will—”

  “Yes, yes, you’d best leave us,” Nigel intervened, though the slight little man was already halfway across the room, his precious documents hastily snatched from the desktop and clutched protectively to his chest. As the door closed behind Wilkins, Nigel leaned back in the polished leather chair that had been his father’s until two short months ago and studied his brother, who had lunged to his feet and now stood at the wide bow window with his back to the room.

  A massively broad back stiff with tension, Nigel noted, sighing to himself. In that respect, Donovan had changed little. Nigel had seen him take such a stance in nearly every encounter with their father, an iron-willed, hard-gambling, blustering titan of a man who had done his damnedest to rule every aspect of his sons’ lives.

  But while Nigel had succumbed to the late Duke of Arundale’s domination, unashamedly taking the easier path to afford himself some peace, Donovan had confounded his father’s wishes from the moment he could talk.

  That is, until now. The old bastard had finally won, and, at least in this matter, Nigel couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. The dukedom was at stake, after all.

  “So I’m to bloody wed.”

  Nigel met Donovan’s deep brown eyes—nearly black, really, depending on the light—and wondered again at the changes in his brother. Donovan was a big man, nearly a full head taller than Nigel, but his four years as an officer under Wellington had left him leaner, harder, lending him a most forbidding air, well, at least when he was angry.

  And he was furious now. No wonder poor Wilkins had fled. Nigel had half a mind to retire from the library, too, until his brother had calmed himself, but he might as well be done with the unpleasant business now that it was started.

  “Yes, Donovan, as the will clearly states, you must wed. If you want your inheritance. I had no hand in this matter, mind you, it was all Father’s doing, but I think it’s for the best. As you know, Charlotte and I remain childless, and if anything should happen to me—you being the heir presumptive, of course, it’s damned important that the Arundale line continue—”

  “Perhaps, dear brother, if you could stomach sharing your wife’s bed more often, that problem could easily be remedied.”

  It was a cruel cut, Donovan knew as he turned back to the window, an uncomfortable silence descending upon the room. Nigel hadn’t chosen his bride, an endlessly whiny young woman of bland intellect, sour b
reath, and formidable fortune. Their father had chosen her seven years ago, just as he had attempted three years later to choose a “suitable” bride for Donovan once it became clear that Nigel was having difficulty producing an heir.

  But Donovan had escaped that fate by taking swift leave of the country to fight against Napoleon in Portugal and Spain, the Peninsular War as good an excuse as any to keep him far away from England and Arundale Hall. Until he’d received a letter saying that the duke had died, and that Donovan must return home at once to settle important matters of the estate.

  So he’d come, because he needed money. The devil take it, he needed money! If it was only himself he had to worry about, he’d leave this bloody house and never return, and on his way out the door tell Nigel, his disagreeable wife, and that damned Wilkins to hell with his inheritance if he had to wed to obtain it! But then he might never find Paloma, his personal funds nearly depleted in the search—

  “I say, Donovan, that comment was uncalled for.”

  Forcing down his anger, Donovan glanced at Nigel—at the strained expression on his face, at the hint of jowls developing around his jawline and the noticeable paunch around his middle—his brother, only one year his senior, looking much older than his twenty-eight years. “But true. It’s no secret that you’ve sired four bastards in Dorset County while your beloved wife remains barren as a brick—”

  “All right, old man, enough! At least you have a bloody choice, which was more than I was granted! Perhaps things might have been different…” Nigel didn’t finish, but rose abruptly from his desk to face his brother. “Father’s will stipulates that your bride must be a country-bred girl of good family—”

  “I heard.”

  “Not your sort of woman admittedly—”

  “But bound to be a good breeder.”

  “Exactly. Now, if you’re in agreement that we proceed, I’ll call Wilkins.”

  It was all Donovan could do to force a nod, his anger rising as Nigel walked stiffly to the door.

  A country-bred girl. Leave it to his father to make such a final ridiculous demand, considering that Donovan had spent many a London Season evading just that sort of marriage-hungry miss as well as any scheming provincial mother eager to make her daughter a highly placed match.

  In fact, he scorned the institution of marriage. It was a farce, a sham. Why would he ever want to wed after watching his parents’ marriage—another loveless arranged affair —grow colder by the year? Several of his friends had stumbled down that same wretched path while he’d been away at war, the damned fools marrying for purely mercenary reasons or caving in to family duty.

  Good God, he was no blather-brained romantic, but didn’t anyone of his station marry for affection? What about shared interests or a common passion? How many times over a good bottle of brandy had he sworn that he’d rather remain a bachelor than have some unwanted marriage thrust upon him and his life become a hell on earth?

  A cynical bachelor to boot. He’d long been convinced that the only happiness one could hope to find was well outside the bounds of matrimony, and Nigel with his mistresses was perfect proof—along with their mother, who had created quite a scandal five years ago when she fled to Italy with the wealthy count who still shared her bed. But now Donovan was being sucked into the same miserable pit as everyone else he knew, and there didn’t seem to be a damned thing he could do about it…

  “If you’re ready, Lord Donovan, we’ll continue.”

  Donovan left the window, but he couldn’t sit. He paced back and forth across the library as Wilkins in his high-pitched tenor drone began to reread the will. Nigel simply sat slumped in his fine leather chair and looked glum.

  “Does he have to go over all that again?” Donovan demanded, feeling more each moment like a caged beast with not even a faint hope of freedom. He came up beside Wilkins’s chair so suddenly that the little man jumped, sweat beading his pallid brow. “Show me what I have to sign, and let’s be done with it!”

  “But—but, my lord, there’s the matter of the house in Cornwall—”

  “What house in Cornwall?” Donovan looked to Nigel, who now appeared almost as uncomfortable as the solicitor.

  “Father bought property in Cornwall a year or so after you left England. A tin mine there has been quite profitable for us.”

  “Quite profitable,” parroted Wilkins.

  Donovan glanced from one man to the other, an inkling rising like sour bile in his gut. “All right, a tin mine in Cornwall. What in blazes does this have to do with me?”

  “Simple, Donovan,” Nigel said with a small sigh. “The house and surrounding estate is yours outright once you’ve agreed to abide by Father’s will, while the substantial monetary portion of your inheritance and a fifty-one percent share in the mine—the controlling share, mind you—shall be yours once we see you properly wed.”

  A heavy silence hung in the room once more, Donovan staring incredulously at his brother. “I’m to live in some godforsaken house on some godforsaken land in Cornwall?”

  “It’s a handsome house, actually, Donovan—well, in need of a little repair, I’ll admit, but not anywhere as bad as you make it out to be.”

  “Near the fishing village of Porthleven,” Wilkins chimed in, peeping over his spectacles. “Well, a small seaport, really. Quite a charming spot—”

  “It could be on the bloody moon for all I care!” Donovan roared, his fist crashing down upon the desktop. “I thought I’d be given a town house in London at the very least. That’s where all those silly little country chits go to ogle prime marriage stock, isn’t it? Am I to find a wife or not?”

  “That’s the very point of it, Donovan. Father was certain you’d be distracted in the city—all those bored Society wives looking for a discreet dalliance or some such amusement. Just the sort of woman you’ve always favored, and so you can see, far too much of a temptation. So Father decided that you should make your choice in Cornwall. The Season hasn’t quite begun, after all. If you leave soon, you might be able to catch some willing beauty still at home packing her trunks.”

  “If I leave soon…” Donovan muttered to himself, feeling as if he had walked straight into a great yawning trap that had been meticulously prepared for him from the moment he’d last defied his father. Meeting Nigel’s eyes, he said in a dangerously low voice, “You knew I wouldn’t be able to refuse, didn’t you? So you’ve avoided your foul-smelling wife and enjoyed your damned mistresses, knowing that one day Father would have me exactly where he wanted—”

  “Surely an officer’s infrequent pay hasn’t kept you in the style to which you’re accustomed,” Nigel cut in, his voice grown as low as Donovan’s. “Even when combined with the paltry allowance Father’s been sending you all these years. Face facts, Donovan. A man of your station needs money to live properly, or you might as well have been born a pauper. Marrying is a small price to pay for such security, wouldn’t you say?”

  Donovan said nothing, thinking that his elder brother had learned well at his father’s side. Too well.

  But Nigel didn’t know about Paloma, and Donovan planned to keep things that way. Nor did Nigel realize that Donovan cared absolutely nothing for security or the proper way in which a man of his station should live.

  All he cared about was that he gained his inheritance so he could continue his search. And that somehow he would escape the trap that was fast closing in around him. He had only to think of a way…

  “Father’s will meets with your approval, then?”

  Donovan nodded grimly.

  “Good. Wilkins has the agreement fully prepared. You’ve only to sign.”

  Donovan did, then threw the pen upon the desk and strode for the door.

  “I’ll have a carriage brought round for you first thing in the morning.” Nigel’s voice carried after him. “You should arrive in Cornwall within a few days—”

  “I’m leaving now,” Donovan ground out without turning. “My horse suits me fine.”

>   “As you wish. I’ll send the servants I took the liberty of hiring for your household after you, then.”

  Donovan stopped at that, and half spun to eye his brother narrowly. “You hired servants?”

  “A butler, of course. Fine fellow named Ogden. He can double as your valet until you’ve a chance to hire your own man. A few others too. A cook, a housekeeper, just enough to get you started. A family agent has been living in the house and seeing after our business affairs, doing bookkeeping and the like, but he’ll have cleared out by the time you arrive.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, Henry Gilbert should have cleared out his things several days ago. No worries there,” Wilkins squeaked helpfully. “He’s taken a small residence just down the road if you have need of him.”

  So Nigel and his bespectacled lapdog had seen to everything, Donovan thought, incensed. Even down to hiring servants—no, bloody spies. Paid to watch him. Paid to see that he honored his agreement.

  Hell and damnation, he wouldn’t be surprised if the whole lot of them planned to troop into the master suite on his wedding night just to observe the proceedings!

  “Wedding night…” Donovan said through gritted teeth, deciding he’d best leave before he began throwing things—starting with Wilkins.

  “What was that, Donovan?”

  Glaring at his brother, Donovan said not another word as he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 3

  “Estelle, no feeden that mongrel under the table now! I won’t have it, I tell ‘ee—Linette, have ‘ee a notion to eat your eggs while they’re nice an’ hot or is it your plan to just push them round your plate? An’ where’s Marguerite? Marguerite!”

  “She’s still sitting in front of the mirror, Frances. Where else would she be?” Corisande answered as she hurried down the stairs and into the cozily warm kitchen where the Eastons’ long-suffering housekeeper stood shaking her head, her hands fisted at her thick waist.