Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  “Might your father be at the church?”

  She started, whirling, having practically forgotten about Donovan. He dwarfed this room, too, standing so tall and broad-shouldered, his shadow gigantic upon the wall.

  “Maybe…I don’t know.”

  “Well, I hear someone humming in the kitchen. Your mother?”

  His question, although innocent, made her stiffen. “My mother died eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I should have guessed since you never mentioned her—”

  “That’s Frances humming, our housekeeper.” Unsettled by the husky sincerity in his voice, Corisande knew she’d cut him off rudely, but she didn’t want to discuss such private matters with this man. And she’d already told him so, too!

  Instead, she turned back to the window, meaning to shut it against the breeze to keep candle wax from spattering the desk. But a movement outside caught her eye, her father suddenly appearing at the edge of the garden that bordered the heath. He looked strangely distressed, pressing his hand to his chest as he leaned upon a budding apple tree.

  Chapter 7

  “Papa? Papa, are you all right?”

  Her heart thundering, Corisande didn’t wait for an answer but fled past Donovan and down the hall into the kitchen.

  “Corie? Oh, my, ‘ee startled me!” Frances precariously juggled a plate of freshly baked leek tarts in one hand and a pitcher of goat’s milk in the other as Corisande swept past her and lunged for the back door. “What is it? A fire?”

  “It’s Papa, Frances! I think something’s wrong.”

  Corisande heard a crash of crockery, but she didn’t turn around even when Frances wailed, “Lord help us, not the good parson! An’ dark strangers in the house, too! Who are ‘ee to be followers after Corie, eh? Eh?”

  Corisande didn’t have to hear Frances’s indignant shouts to know that Donovan was not far behind her. She could sense him hard on her heels, which struck her as odd. What did he care for Joseph Easton’s welfare? But her thoughts jumped to the crisis at hand as she raced through the garden, only to discover her father wasn’t standing where she’d last seen him. Instead, he was pruning a hedge of purple veronica, already in full flower, nearer to the house. Pruning!

  “Papa, didn’t you hear me calling? Are you all right?”

  He looked up, his hair brilliant white in the sunlight, his hazel eyes confused. “What? You were calling me?”

  “Of course I was, Papa! From the window in your study. It was open, the shutter too.”

  He made no response, as if he hadn’t heard her, taking another swipe at the rich green foliage with the pruning shears. Yet Corisande could plainly see that his face was flushed and sweaty, as if he’d recently exerted himself. She shaded her eyes and looked out over the vast heath scattered with gnarled trees bent and twisted from the wind, wondering if he might have simply gone walking and perhaps taken himself too far. He seemed all right now, though more distracted than usual…

  “Perhaps, Corisande, this isn’t a good time.” Donovan’s voice was surprisingly quiet as he drew alongside her, his expression somber. “We could talk to your father tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I…” Corisande stopped, shaking her head. “No, we should tell him now. I don’t want Mrs. Polkinghorne to be the one to give him the news—”

  “News? Is there news?”

  Corisande was startled that her father seemed suddenly aware of their conversation, his eyes falling upon Donovan.

  “Yes, Papa. Good news. Happy news.” She swallowed, hating to lie to her father. “Lord Donovan Trent has asked me to marry him, and…and I’ve accepted. I know it’s sudden, but, well…you’ll perform the ceremony, won’t you, Papa?”

  For the briefest instant, she saw a flicker of such clarity in her father’s face—as in those times when she sensed he knew full well about her smuggling—that she truly believed he had grasped the import of her words. And from the way he glanced back at Donovan as if taking his measure, even scrutinizing him, she began to wonder if the dark cloud that had settled over his mind years ago might be lifting.

  But her shoulders fell when, a brief moment later, he merely turned back to his pruning, mumbling something to himself about how the purple blossoms were half as abundant this year as the last, their scent but half as sweet. Meanwhile Corisande felt close to tears, as close as she’d been for some time, not wanting to admit it but slowly coming to the realization that her father might very well be half mad, not just eccentric.

  As he went about his business, finishing the veronica and moving across the garden to his geranium plot, where he sank to his knees in the dirt, she swallowed hard and turned away, her eyes meeting Donovan’s. All this time he had said nothing, but she broke the awkward silence, waving her hand helplessly at her father.

  “The Reverend Joseph Easton, my lord. Surely not a man to stand in the way of our agreement.” She moved to walk past him, but Donovan caught her arm and stopped her.

  “Has he been like this for long?”

  Again she was struck by the stillness in his voice, but maybe he was simply unsettled or even repulsed by what he’d seen. Repulsed? That thought made her stiffen angrily, and she jerked her arm away. “Since my mother died, not that it’s any of your affair. Nor does his malady make him any less a man deserving of respect! My father is much beloved by the people of this parish, tinner, fisherman, and shipbuilder alike, and I’ll not have you—”

  “Cease your bloody tirade, woman. I merely asked a simple question,” Donovan said through his teeth, tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Hell and damnation, he had only to open his mouth and she thought the very worst of him! “You’re right, it’s none of my business—as long as he’s capable of saying the proper words when it comes time for the wedding.”

  “Oh, he’ll say them, though I’ll be choking on every one.”

  “You’d best choke on the rest of your venom too,” Donovan advised dryly, glancing beyond Corisande as Frances

  came charging through the kitchen door, the stout housekeeper’s face red as a beet, her rolling pin held high. “And smile prettily, my love. It seems the reinforcements have arrived.”

  “You stand away from her there, do ‘ee hear me, stranger?” Frances blustered as Corisande groaned. “Never you fear, Corie, they’re coming soon to help us, Dr. Philcup an’ the constable! I didn’t know who to fetch first so I sent up a cry for ‘em both an’ came back as quick as I could—”

  “It’s all right, Frances. Papa’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Corisande tensed as she felt Donovan draw her possessively into the crook of his arm, but somehow she managed a lighthearted tone. “And put down that rolling pin, will you? I can’t have you cracking the man I’m going to marry over the head—”

  “Marry?”

  The rolling pin hit the ground with a thud, Frances looking as if she were about to totter, her slack mouth forming words that gave no sound. At once Corisande rushed to her side, but Donovan got there first, lifting the stricken, heavyset woman in his arms with nary a grunt.

  “Have you any brandy?”

  Corisande nodded. With a last glance at her father, who seemed oblivious to the commotion as he tended his geraniums, she led the way back inside, skirting the puddle of spilt goat’s milk and smashed crockery by the door just as Linette, Marguerite, and Estelle, Luther yapping at her heels, came shoving and pushing into the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong with Frances?” blurted out Estelle.

  “Oh, Corie, is that him? The man you were kissing?” came Marguerite’s excited query, her eyes agog.

  “I wasn’t kissing—” Corisande’s sharp retort died at the warning look Donovan threw her; instead, she focused upon helping him seat Frances in the high-backed settle near the open hearth. “Linette, fetch Papa’s brandy from the cupboard, but watch out for that mess. Quickly now!”

  The twelve-year-old did as she was bade, her eyes very wide as she brought forth the dusk
y brown bottle, her gaze more upon Donovan than Frances. “You do look like a Gypsy, just as Johnnie Morton said.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Donovan accepted the bottle from the young girl and poured a generous amount in the glass Corisande held out to him, watching silently as she urged the housekeeper to drink. Frances coughed a few times as she swallowed, her pale eyelids fluttering, but within a moment she’d downed the entire amount, her color much improving.

  For good measure, Donovan poured her a second glass, then helped himself to a healthy swallow, the rich, amber liquid providing molten warmth all the way to his stomach. He needed fortification, too, surrounded as he was by a near fainted housekeeper, a bride-to-be with the temper of a shrew, a trio of girls who could but stare at him, and a scruffy-looking dog, more rat than canine, that persisted in sniffing ominously at his boots.

  Oh, yes, let him not forget that poor wretch, the Reverend Easton, puttering near dotty as a hatter in the garden, and his new temporary family was complete. It was enough to make a man drink, and he did, taking another good swallow, grateful at least that the brandy was far better than passable.

  “Your father has a commendable taste in spirits,” he said to Corisande, not missing the slight flaring of her eyes. “French, best quality. Haven’t tasted the like since my regiment captured an enemy general outside Madrid. The fellow was fleeing with his beloved supply on a packhorse. Hated parting with it.”

  “It was a gift from a parishioner.” Surprised to hear that Donovan had been an officer in Spain and yet eager to change the subject, Corisande turned her attention back to Frances, who’d downed the second glass without any assistance at all and was now fairly glowering at her. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Ais, so I am, Corie Easton, even if ‘ee gave me one of the biggest shocks of my life. Marrying, are ‘ee? An’ I’ve never before even seen the man!” Frances glanced at Donovan, saying in apology, “Pardon me, sir, ‘ee were kind to help me, an’ I’m sorry to have come at ‘ee with my rolling pin. But Corie’s like one of me own brood, she is, though she’s always been one to do exactly as she pleases. An’ now jes proves it.” The housekeeper looked back at Corisande, her voice heavy with disapproval. “An’ what poor manners ‘ee have too! You haven’t even told me your man’s name—”

  “Lord Donovan Trent, Frances, if you’d only let me speak,” interrupted Corisande, exasperated. “His brother is the Duke of Arundale. I know it’s terribly sudden—quite unexpected, but—”

  “You’re going to marry him, Corie?” Estelle had scooped up Luther, hugging her little dog close as she gazed uncertainly at Corisande. Before she could answer, Donovan sank to his haunches in front of the child, his expression, to Corisande’s amazement, grown almost tender.

  “Yes, we’re to be married—very soon, I’m pleased to say. But you needn’t worry about your sister. I’ll take good care of her. Now tell me, is your name as pretty as Linette’s?”

  “Estelle Marie?” The little girl looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “I s’pose, but I think Marguerite’s is the prettiest of all. ‘Course, she’s not always as nice as her name. Just the other day she tromped on poor Luther’s tail—”

  “Estelle Easton!”

  “It’s true, Marguerite, and you know it! You pulled my hair too!” Linette chimed in, Corisande certain she’d never seen Marguerite more chagrined. But in the next instant the pretty fifteen-year-old blushed bright pink to her roots when Donovan smiled at her, though Corisande could see it didn’t reach his eyes, his massive shoulders rigid as he rose.

  “Sometimes I don’t get along very well with my brother either.”

  He didn’t say any more, but even if he had it would have probably been drowned out by the sudden fierce pounding at the front door, a booming male voice demanding entrance.

  “Oh, Lord, Constable Curtis!” Frances heaved rather tipsily to her feet and rushed from the kitchen, Linette, Estelle, and Luther scurrying after her while Marguerite remained planted to the floor. That is, until she realized that she was the only one left in the kitchen besides Donovan and Corisande. Her blush deepening, she looked about her distractedly as if she weren’t sure which way to turn.

  “Papa’s in the garden, Marguerite. By the geraniums. Why don’t you see how he’s doing?”

  “Oh—oh yes, Corie. Of course I will.” Smiling gratefully, Marguerite skipped over the spilt milk and fled outside, her rich auburn curls flying.

  That left Corisande alone, at least for the moment, with a man whom she was growing to despise more and more. She grabbed a broom and a dustpan and set to work cleaning up the mess on the floor, her back turned purposely to Donovan.

  “Would you like some help?”

  “Oh, my, no, I think you’ve helped enough already. Charmed them all quite handily, I’d say. Rose Polkinghorne, Frances, my very impressionable sister Marguerite—”

  “Jealous?”

  She whirled, stunned. But one look at his sarcastic expression and she turned right back to her task, deeming his ridiculous comment not even worthy of a reply. Her heart was racing, though, which only made her madder as she emptied the dustpan into a bucket. She was almost finished when he spoke again.

  “You missed a shard…over there by the cupboard.”

  “I see it, thank you.” Corisande scooped up the last bit of broken crockery, then straightened to glare at him, no longer able to contain herself. “Forgive me if I sound overly rude, but don’t you have somewhere else you can go? You’ve obviously accomplished your aims—met my family, spread the word about our impending wedding, even ordered me a gown—”

  “Which leaves the license and a ring.”

  “A ring too?” Corisande’s tone was mocking as she plunked the broom and dustpan beside the bucket. “Goodness, my lord, you’re going to a lot of trouble for a vicar’s daughter. You should be glad you didn’t meet my friend Lindsay instead, and convinced her to play your wife. You might have felt the need to spend even more coin for your sham wedding.”

  “Lindsay?”

  “Yes, Lindsay Somerset, gone to London for the Season only three days ago. Her father is Sir Randolph, a baronet—”

  “I wouldn’t have wasted my time with her. No marriageable young woman of the gentry would agree to such a plan, not if she wanted her reputation left intact for a true marriage.”

  Donovan knew at once he’d gone too far at the stricken look on Corisande’s face, but the thing had been said. He couldn’t take it back. Nor did he have a chance to soften the blow as Frances bustled into the kitchen, a plump arm hugging Estelle on one side and Linette on the other while Luther barked and spun in circles around their feet.

  “Ais, what a day this has been! I told the constable an’ the good doctor that all was well, Corie, but they’re waiten at the front door, hoping for a word with Lord Donovan. They want to wish him well, an’ you too. ‘Tesn’t every day that a duke’s son comes to Porthleven an’ picks a bride from one of our very own.”

  Donovan looked to Corisande, but she still stood staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what he had said. He could swear he saw pain in her gaze, too, but it was gone so quickly when he went and took her by the hand, her lovely brown eyes now sparking with fury, that he was certain he must have imagined it. Yet she came with him willingly—although she was ominously silent—as he led her from the kitchen and down the hall, the hubbub outside the parsonage growing louder as they passed through the parlor.

  “Saints in heaven, have ‘ee ever heard such a stir, Corie?” Frances said excitedly from behind them. “It sounds as if the entire village is here!”

  It looked like it, too, Corisande seethed to herself as they stepped into the sunshine, a sea of faces there to greet them. People she’d known since she’d taken her first steps and babbled her first words come to see the man she’d be marrying within the week, the man who’d blatantly stated just a few moments ago that he cared nothing for her reputation.

  Such outra
ge filled her that she was tempted to expose the ruse right then and there—they should know Lord Donovan Trent for the horrible, self-centered man he was!—but she remained silent as a stone, her thoughts upon the sweat-soaked tinners toiling fathoms underground, who by now must surely know of their change in fortune. She kept silent and smiled like a besotted idiot as good wishes were thrown her way, while Donovan was deferred to and bowed to and fawned over until at last she felt as if she might retch if she witnessed another moment of such spectacle.

  Donovan must have sensed her mounting revulsion, for he led her abruptly to his horse and drew her into his arms for all to see. She stiffened, but at the dark warning in his eyes, she forced herself to relax as he brushed his lips upon her forehead.

  “Don’t forget, Mrs. Polkinghorne awaits you, my love. Tell her I want the dress finished by Monday morning for our wedding at eleven. I’m off to Helston to see the bishop about a license, but rest assured I’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow. In fact, I’ll be counting the hours.”

  That said, he bent his head to kiss her cheek, and Corisande seized her chance, flinging her arms around his neck and drawing him down so she could hiss into his ear, “Bastard! You think you’re so very, very convincing, don’t you—”

  She didn’t get to say more as Donovan’s lips covered hers so suddenly that she gasped aloud, but the warm pressure of his mouth stifled that sound too. It couldn’t stifle the astonishment rippling through the crowd, however. Corisande’s ears burned as she heard embarrassed coughs and children giggling.

  Yet still Donovan kissed her, his mouth moving over hers as with a strange hunger until she felt lightheaded, her face on fire, her body going almost limp against him. Only then did he raise his head, Corisande fluttering open her eyes to find that lazy, charming smile upon his lips and wry amusement—amusement!—in his devil’s eyes.