Her emphatic whisper was drowned out as a baby nearby began to wail, the exasperated attendant throwing up her hands as she spun to face Mrs. Treweake.
“Little Mary won’t eat ‘er porridge, ma’am. I’ve done everything—”
“Here, I’ll help.” Corisande had begun to rise, but Donovan caught a handful of skirt and pulled her back into her chair.
“No, no, you finish your meal. I’ll give the girl a hand.” Donovan was on his feet before Corisande could utter a word, her eyes so filled with surprise that he bent down and whispered in her ear, “Your food’s growing cold, my love. Better eat.”
He almost laughed when she glanced down at her plate then back at him, furious sparks in her gaze. But his attention flew to the baby, a chubby little thing with flyaway wisps of dark hair and big brown eyes, when she began to wail afresh. At once he went and scooped the child from her chair, a painful well of emotion gripping him as he held her close.
“Ah, Mary, the milk porridge isn’t agreeing with you today?”
He’d spoken in low, soothing tones that, if not completely quieting the child, at least eased her distress to whimpers and slowed her flood of fat tears. Jouncing her gently, he strolled to the nearest window where he shifted her to one arm and pointed at some birds fluttering from shrub to shrub in the small neatly tended garden outside.
“Those little wrens seem to like the lemon verbena, don’t they? Do you see them, Mary? And such a nice song they make too. Ah, look, there they go!”
Donovan smiled to himself, taking almost as much delight in watching the child as Mary—grown quiet and wide-eyed, her pudgy little finger pointing too—seemed fascinated by the birds. But his enjoyment brought him fresh pain as well, and he stared out the window, thinking of another child with beautiful brown eyes, his child, who would be nearly three years old now, that is, if she was still alive…
“I think Mary might eat now, milord. Would ‘ee like for me to take her?”
Donovan turned from the window, nodded, and handed the child to the attendant as his eyes met Corisande’s across the room. She was studying him, a tiny frown between her brows, but when he came around the table toward her, she immediately left her chair and went to assist Mrs. Treweake, who was helping one of her elderly charges rise to his feet.
Which left Donovan to retake his seat heavily, the mounting confusion at the table as the children finished their meals and clamored to be excused so they could go play outside making his head pound. And with Corisande purposely ignoring him—though, hell, why should that bother him?—and all three babies beginning to wail in unison, startled by the noise, and restless children beginning to run like wild heathens around the dining room, he could take it no longer.
Corisande was startled, too, when Donovan came up behind her and caught her by the elbow, his low growl grating in her ear as he steered her toward Mrs. Treweake.
“We’re leaving. Now. Thank the governess for the meal and say what else you must—that we’ve many things to do before the wedding, whatever—but do it quickly, Corie.”
She bristled, wanting to resist, but his harsh grip on her arm brooked no argument. Somehow she found it within herself to smile as she made a hasty excuse to Mrs. Treweake, the poor besieged woman surrounded by so many squealing children hopping up and down like rabbits and weary older folk anxious to return to their places before the sitting room fire that she looked almost relieved to see them go.
Corisande was relieved, too, when at last she and Donovan had stepped outside, her cheeks so flame-hot with anger that only fresh air could cool them. Fresh air and an explanation, but that, she saw from the numbers of people strolling in the street and enjoying the sunshine, would have to wait until they were alone once again.
To that end, she summoned the last ounce of her composure and said pleasantly, “Perhaps you might help me once we’re back at the parsonage, my lord. As I told you earlier, I’ve calls to make for my father, and everything’s ready in the stable. I’ve only to hitch the cart to Biscuit—”
“Yes, let’s head to the stable. I left my horse there.”
With that brusque reply, they walked silently the rest of the way, only speaking to greet passersby. When they were almost to the stable, no one else between them and the door, Donovan let down his guard completely, as deep and forbidding a scowl on his face as ever she’d seen. He was tense, too, his hand at the small of her back propelling her forward as if he thought her long legs weren’t carrying her fast enough. She was breathless when they entered the small building, Biscuit nickering to them from his stall.
But Corisande paid no heed to Biscuit as she whirled around, her jaw dropping in surprise to find that Donovan was already hauling a very fine leather saddle onto Samson’s broad back.
“You’re leaving?”
“Marvelous deduction. Yes, I’m leaving.”
Affronted by his sarcasm, she felt the heat explode in her cheeks along with her temper. “Well, at the very least you could explain why you hustled me from the poorhouse as if I’d done something wrong. Unless, of course, the place unnerved you just as I imagined it would. Babies, old people, cripples. Not your sort of company, I’m sure. And I don’t know what point you were trying to make with little Mary—going out of your way to charm everyone as usual. Oh, you looked very convincing, as if you’ve held babies before, and I thought for a moment you might even go so far as to try to feed her and then clean a dirty bottom or two for good measure—”
“Hell and damnation, woman, does your shrew’s tongue never stop?”
Stunned, Corisande gaped at Donovan, not so much because he had just insulted her but because he looked almost tortured, his eyes strangely desperate. Yet he turned away so quickly to lead his horse from the stall that she wondered if it might have been a trick of light. The stable was always filled with shadows no matter how sunny the day…
“I thought we were to spend the whole day together,” she said as she followed after him, feeling more than a bit of the sting now that he had called her a shrew. “The whole blessed day, as I recall. What of your brother’s spies—”
“Spend the rest of the day with you?” Donovan had spun, gripping the reins in his fist as he scowled back at her. “I’d rather be flogged with a horsewhip than endure that pleasure. Not until we’re married, woman, shall I force myself to spend another hour in your presence.”
He turned and was gone, striding out into the sunshine as if he couldn’t leave the stable fast enough.
Which left Corisande alone, well, except for Biscuit.
“So much for our charade,” she muttered as the piebald pony snorted and shook his shaggy white mane. “The man can’t stomach being around me. Thinks I’m a shrew.” She glanced over at the cart, filled with blankets and medicine and tins of smuggled tea, all the things she needed to make calls on some of her father’s more needy parishioners, and suddenly realized she didn’t quite feel like going anymore.
At least not by herself. Oh, Lord, she hadn’t actually been looking forward to…
“Not bloody likely,” Corisande huffed under her breath as the sound of Donovan riding away carried to her from outside. If anything, she’d merely wanted to see him squirm when faced with more unfortunate souls; yes, of course, that was it. Squaring her shoulders, she went to lead Biscuit from his stall. “The surly bounder. I doubt now he’ll even show up for the wedding. Probably decided to find himself another temporary bride.”
Which she hoped for the tinners’ sake, Corisande had to admit grudgingly to herself, wouldn’t be true.
***
“Will there be anything else, my lord? Another brandy?”
Donovan shook his head, waving Ogden away without a word as he stared into the fire. But on second thought, he decided to speak up just before the butler closed the library door.
“All is in readiness, Ogden? I want everything to be as near perfection tomorrow as possible.”
“It will be as you desire, my lord. Grac
e has yet to leave the kitchen for the night—the wedding breakfast has her most preoccupied—and Ellen Biddle is seeing to last details as well. I can vouch for her highly, Lord Donovan. She is an excellent housekeeper.”
“I have no doubt of it.” Indeed, the industrious woman had worked wonders with the place in the span of one day—Donovan had scarcely recognized the entry hall when he had returned to the house late that afternoon. Sparkling marble floors, no dust to be seen anywhere, furniture he’d thought no better than kindling polished and looking like new. Even the grounds and stable had been spruced up, and repairs made, Henry Gilbert overseeing a good-natured crew of sinners who’d been more than happy to work on their Sunday off, anything for Corie Easton, they’d said to a man.
Yes, the transformation was bloody amazing. But what would be more amazing was if he’d have a bride to bring home tomorrow. Now that would be a true miracle.
“If there’s nothing else, my lord…”
Donovan looked up, his thoughts in such an unpleasant furor he wasn’t surprised he’d forgotten the somber-faced butler was still hovering at the door, and the man probably ready to drop on his feet at this late hour. “Get yourself some sleep, Ogden. Well done.”
“Thank you, my lord. Good night.”
Ogden was gone as silently as he had come, a good quality in a spy, Donovan mused dryly. Not furtive, just unassuming. The kind of servant one could easily forget was near until it was too late, the damage done. But then again, if there was no more role to play…
Cursing to himself, Donovan lunged to his feet and went to the window where he stared out at the darkness.
If Corisande failed to meet him at the church, he’d only brought her mutiny on himself. Good God, he had caused his own damned torment by holding that child! He’d never felt more wretchedly impotent, overwhelmed by frustration and rage that he was sitting in a poorhouse in Porthleven, Cornwall, instead of back in Spain looking for Paloma along with the men he’d hired to help in the search.
Yet he hadn’t needed hours of riding across the heath to tell him that his fury had been misplaced, Corisande unjustly bearing the brunt of his pain. She’d had every right to be angry at him. He’d acted abominably, his temper getting the best of him, and then to call her a shrew…
“She is a bloody shrew,” he muttered wryly, wondering how long it had taken her to finish her calls and if she was home safe and sound.
Add to that exasperating, quick to anger, stubborn…impassioned, intelligent, determined—Corisande Easton was made of far sterner stuff than he deserved, no matter she was only a temporary bride, if she showed up at the altar tomorrow morning and agreed to be his wife.
Chapter 11
“It’s quarter past eleven, my lord—”
“I know that, Gilbert!” Donovan snapped, ready to wrap Henry’s gold pocket watch around the man’s scrawny neck.
Growing more uncomfortable by the moment, Donovan shot a glance at the church entrance, then back at the animated group sitting in the front pew in their finest clothes and bonnets—Estelle and Marguerite, who were alternating between grinning at him and blushing, Linette, who couldn’t seem to sit still, the girl forever twisting around to see if Corisande was coming, and Frances, who was plucking at her sleeve, the bellflower-blue kerseymere apparently not lying straight enough to suit her.
Meanwhile, the Reverend Easton was puttering between the altar and the sacristy, apparently unconcerned that his daughter was fifteen minutes late for her own wedding…if, indeed, the poor fellow even remembered whose wedding he’d come to perform. But right now, that was the least of Donovan’s concerns.
Frances had told him at five to eleven that Corisande’s calls had run quite late the night before, which had made her sleep longer than usual. Thus she’d missed entirely her early morning appointment with Rose Polkinghorne for the final fitting of her wedding dress, the poor seamstress frantic when Corisande finally appeared that she wouldn’t have the work done in time.
It hadn’t helped that the fine pearl buttons ordered from Penzance had yet to arrive and— Bloody hell! Why was Donovan recounting this entire mess in his mind? The fact remained that Corisande was not here and probably had no intention of arriving for the wedding, or else she planned to show up in one of her drab pea-green dresses with her bun askew and tell him he could jump off a cliff for all she cared, his inheritance be damn—
“My lord, my lord! Look!”
Donovan did look, the fierce throbbing in his temple all but forgotten as Corisande entered the church, tense relief pouring through him that she was, indeed, dressed from head to toe in white. She paused, their eyes meeting across the pews, and it seemed to him that she looked suddenly relieved as well. Then she was hurrying down the aisle toward him, but instead of going to meet her, Donovan could but stare, stunned.
He had known beautiful women, but in that moment Corisande rivaled them all, no untidy ragamuffin now as the bright sunlight pouring through the windows made her a shimmering vision in silver and white. A vision made all the more startling in the soft clinging drape of her dress, the satin so thin and delicate as to reveal a most tempting female shape, long, long legs, wondrously curved hips, a narrow waist, that Donovan’s pulse began to pound.
Good God, this was hardly the time to be wracked by lust, in a church no less, her father the vicar only feet away, and for a woman he had no bloody intention of touching!
But matters were only made worse as Corisande drew closer, Donovan’s eyes drawn to the seductive swelling of her breasts against her low décolletage—he hadn’t forgotten the feel of those pert breasts pressing against his arm—and the beauty of her bare throat brushed by tendrils that shone a rich burnished auburn next to her white skin. He would never have guessed her hair was so long, falling almost to her waist beneath a sheer lace veil that covered her head and framed her face, her cheeks glowing pink with color, her eyes—
“Oh, Lord.”
“My lord?”
“Nothing, Gilbert, nothing,” Donovan muttered, leaving his agent’s side to greet the woman whose lovely eyes were filled with outrage as if she’d just read his lustful thoughts. He held out his hand to her, wondering almost resignedly if she might still renounce him, especially now, but Corisande took his hand with a stiff smile and allowed herself to be led to the altar.
“No need to be nervous, my love.” Donovan clasped her hand tightly, as much to warm her icy palm as to remind her to try to relax in front of her family. “You look beautiful. Those extra fifteen minutes were more than worth the wait.”
An extra interminable fifteen minutes that had been hell for her, Corisande fumed, all of them spent wondering while Rose Polkinghorne hastily sewed and pinned her into this ridiculous dress, if Donovan would even be at the church. She’d been told a pair of fancy carriages had rumbled past Rose’s house, but she refused to believe Donovan had driven the smaller one until she saw him in the flesh. Ha! She needn’t have worried. He might have lost his temper yesterday but he showed no ill effect today, looking more the handsome Don Juan than any man should in his fine claret-colored wedding coat and leering at her to boot!
Uncomfortably reminded of the lecherous squire Druella Simmons had married last week—was it only a week ago?—Corisande was glad Lindsay wasn’t here to witness this wedding, even if it was a ruse. And as for not feeling nervous, was he mad? Heaven help her, she’d have to be on her guard now, Donovan proving with those treacherous dark eyes that he was hardly a man of his word.
“Here, Corie. I brought you some flowers from the garden. I hope you like them.”
Corisande turned to accept the bouquet of fragrant purple veronica from Marguerite, who gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and then returned to Frances’s side at the front pew. All of her sisters were beaming at her, yes, even matter-of-fact Linette was smiling, too, which caused a painful tug at Corisande’s heart.
She hated terribly to deceive them, but it was for a very good cause. So many families w
ould be helped by this sham marriage. It was time to look forward and, instead of grumbling over the injustice of it all, simply bear the next few weeks of Donovan’s company with as much grace as possible.
She had been a bit strident these past days, a bit shrewish, yes, she could admit it after thinking long and hard yesterday about her behavior, and God knows she didn’t want to jeopardize an agreement that would make life better for so many throughout the parish. Lord Donovan Trent might be a Don Juan, but she would show him that she honored her word even if he could not. Play the rapturous bride? With pleasure!
“I believe your father’s ready, darling.”
Corisande glanced up from her sweet-smelling bouquet to see, indeed, that her father was drawing near with his opened prayer book in hand. Doing her best to ignore the stab of guilt that she was deceiving the man she held so dear, she turned to Donovan as her father reached them and bestowed upon him a gloriously blissful smile that would have done Lindsay’s flair for the dramatic proud. “Oh, my lord, I’m so happy this moment has come at last! So truly, truly happy.”
At once, Donovan looked so startled that Corisande wanted to laugh, but the wedding ceremony had begun, their small number of witnesses rising to their feet. Corisande had heard the service performed so often since childhood that she listened with half an ear, not wanting to focus upon sacred words that to her, right now, meant nothing.
She answered where she must, taking care to look adoringly at Donovan as they repeated their vows, then blessedly the short ceremony was over, the marriage register signed, the delicate gold band like a cold weight around her finger. But what wasn’t cold were Donovan’s lips when he drew her into his arms and kissed her, his mouth, so warm and insistent, moving intimately over hers.
At first she thought to pull away, but that wouldn’t do, no, not with everyone watching. Instead she melted against him just as any happy bride would do, her arms winding around his neck as she began to kiss him back.
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