Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  She really wasn’t sure if she was doing it right, having no prior experience except for the other day, but she decided she must be close when she felt him tense as if in surprise—although she wasn’t tense, not at all. She felt quite wonderful, dizzy almost, this kissing business more than pleasant and something over which she’d be damned if he had all the control. Two could play—

  “All right, woman, enough. There’s no need to overdo it.”

  Corisande snapped open her eyes, Donovan’s terse whisper hardly what she would have expected from the happy groom. Nor would she have expected his look of irritation as she slid her arms from his neck, but it was gone in the next instant as Frances rushed forward, the housekeeper dabbing at her eyes with a white silk handkerchief while Linette, Estelle, and Marguerite all clamored round to give Corisande a hug.

  “Oh, Corie darlin’, Lord Donovan. I’m so thrilled for ‘ee both! What a lovely wedden—”

  “But you’re crying, Frances!” piped up Estelle, looking momentarily concerned.

  “Ais, child, don’t mind me. I always cry like a new babe at weddens, I do. Means nothing more than I’m happy too.”

  “Yes, my lord, Lady Donovan, allow me to offer my sincerest congratulations!” enthused Henry Gilbert, although the agent’s eyes grew alarmed when Corisande frowned at him, as much for him cutting into their little group before she could speak to Frances or her sisters as that she despised the man. She couldn’t help it. The skinny little weasel had caused so much hardship these past three years…

  “It appears, Gilbert, that my new bride has been rendered speechless with happiness.” Donovan suddenly spoke up with a firm squeeze to Corisande’s elbow. “But perhaps if she knew how hard you worked earlier this morning, handing out bags of grain to the tinners until your fingers were raw, she might find it in her heart—”

  “Yes, thank you, Henry, truly,” Corisande cut in sweetly —oh, no, even Donovan’s infuriating little warnings weren’t going to rile her!—as she glanced from him to the agent, who despite her soft words took a few cautious steps backward.

  “I—I’ll wait outside with the carriages, my lord.”

  “That will be fine, Gilbert. We won’t be long.”

  Confused, Corisande looked back to Donovan as the agent hurried down the aisle, his long blue coattails flopping against his skinny legs. “Surely we’re not leaving already. Frances has made a lovely meal, rabbit pie and plum pudding—”

  “I’m afraid Grace Twickenham, my new cook, has prepared a special wedding breakfast for us as well. I’m sorry that I neglected to tell you sooner but—”

  “Ais, Corie, we’ve no problem here,” Frances interjected with a wide grin. “‘Tes a fine idea to go to your new husband’s house an’ a fitting one too. An’ I know the girls wouldn’t mind at all seeing such a grand place, would ‘ee?”

  “Oh, Corie, can we?” Marguerite’s eyes shone with excitement while Estelle hopped up and down.

  “I want to go to Donovan’s house! I want to go to Donovan’s house!”

  “You shouldn’t call him Donovan,” chided Linette in a half whisper, looking askance at her younger sister. “At least not until he says it’s all right—”

  “He’s your brother-in-law now, Linette. Of course you must call him by his Christian name.” Corisande threw another radiant smile at Donovan. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

  Donovan nodded, silenced as much by the stunning beauty of Corisande’s smile as his vexation that he could be so strongly affected by it.

  What the hell was she up to? One moment she’d looked angry enough to spit, then the next she was playing the eager bride to the hilt, no, overacting was a more apt description. Overacting as shamelessly as a second-rate vaudevillian, and he wished she would stop. He had gotten quite used to her frowns, her angry glances, her name-calling, and constant indignation, albeit she’d usually behaved well enough when others were around, but these damned smiles were another matter altogether, heating his blood and making his pulse pound, and when she’d kissed him…

  “Well, I suppose we should be on our way if everyone is agreed.” Somewhat unnerved by the way Donovan was staring at her, his dark eyes the veriest black, Corisande added, “If that’s all right with you, darling. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your new cook.”

  “Ais, now, we don’t want to do that!” Frances blurted out to Corisande’s relief, the housekeeper breaking the unsettling current between her and Donovan. “Come on with ‘ee, girls. We’ll quick put away the meal and then settle ourselves in one of those fine carriages, shall we?”

  “No, no, I want to ride with Corie and Donovan!” Estelle protested as Frances took her small hand. “Please, Corie…”

  Corisande opened her mouth to say yes, deciding suddenly that she didn’t relish the thought of being alone with Donovan all that way, only to have Frances firmly reply before she could utter a word.

  “Silly lamb! There’ll be times aplenty to ride with your sister an’ her husband, never ‘ee fear. But not on their wedden day.” With that, Frances and her crestfallen charge headed down the aisle accompanied by Marguerite and Linette while Corisande, sighing to herself, turned back to Donovan.

  “I…I should see about my father. Sometimes it takes him a while…” She didn’t wait for a response—the man was still staring at her!—but half fled to the sacristy. “Papa? Did you hear? We’re all going to Donovan’s—”

  She didn’t finish, her father to her surprise having already changed from his vestments and meeting her at the door with a gentle yet somehow sad smile on his face, his eyes slightly wet.

  “Papa, are you all right?”

  “You look…you look like your mother today, Corisande. All in white…so beautiful.”

  She swallowed hard, unable to say anything for the longest moment. But then suddenly Donovan was beside them, his voice sounding as deep and strong as her father’s had been broken and shallow.

  “I’d be honored, Reverend Easton, if you would accompany us to my home.” Donovan glanced at Corisande. “Our home.”

  She stiffened—the lies, oh, the lies!—but at once reminded herself of her new resolve. “Yes, Papa, please come with us.”

  To her surprise again, he nodded; she’d fully expected him to refuse their invitation, preferring the solitude of his study. She had hardly seen him these past few days, well, except for Sunday service and then again late last night when she’d returned to the parsonage to find him outside in the garden, sitting upon the bench with his head in his hands. But she hadn’t disturbed him; she had seen him like that many times before.

  Strangely enough now, though, he seemed almost eager as the three of them walked together down the aisle, and Corisande took note that her father’s step seemed less slow and labored. Perhaps the wedding had heartened him, which made her feel guilty all over again, but she quickly shoved away the thought.

  Once outside, she watched him crinkle his eyes at the bright midday sun, this lovely third day of April the warmest the season had yet offered—Joseph Easton even smiling when Marguerite waved gaily to them from the second and much larger carriage.

  “Frances said I could wait here, Corie. Isn’t it grand?”

  Corisande didn’t have a chance to answer as Donovan’s voice sounded beside her.

  “Gilbert! Help me with the good reverend.”

  At his command Henry came running, Corisande ignoring the sensation of interested stares upon them from dozens of onlookers on the street and at their windows as she watched the two men lead her father to the carriage. It was then that she noticed Estelle running from the parsonage as fast as her short legs could carry her, her sister grinning from ear to ear and clutching Luther to her breast.

  “Frances?” Corisande called to the housekeeper, who appeared in the doorway with Linette in tow. “Did you…?”

  “Ah, Corie, the poor child looked so glum when we came out of the church. She asked if she might bring the dog, an’ I didn’t have th
e heart to say no. Would ‘ee?”

  In truth, Corisande didn’t mind at all, but she couldn’t help wondering what Donovan might say. He hadn’t seemed very fond of Luther the other day when the tiny mutt had been circling round his boots…yet did she care? Smiling, she lifted the skirt of her wedding dress and went to meet Estelle, hearing Frances’s terrified cry for her to get out of the way almost at the same moment her little sister suddenly stopped and stood openmouthed, Luther yapping in her arms.

  “What…?” Corisande heard the ominous rumbling and whirled in place, her eyes widening in horror as two huge pilchard barrels rolled toward her, the salted fish flying out all over the street. But she didn’t think of herself. She ran instead toward Estelle, snatching up the stricken child and dodging out of harm’s way with no more than an instant to spare, her heart slamming in her ears as the heavy barrels thundered past her and crashed into the parsonage wall.

  Chapter 12

  “Corie!”

  The cry hadn’t come from Frances but Donovan. Corisande spun to find him running hard toward her, on his heels Henry Gilbert and lastly, half stumbling, her father. Yet her eyes weren’t drawn to them but to Donovan, his face taut, his pallor ashen as he reached her and pulled her, Estelle, and a yowling Luther into his arms.

  “Good God, woman, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, yes. We’re fine,” Corisande croaked as Estelle began to wriggle between them.

  “I can’t breathe, Corie, and…and you’re both going to squish Luther!”

  Laughing nervously to herself, giddily in fact, the full force of what had narrowly been avoided hitting her, Corisande met Donovan’s eyes as he seemed to laugh, too, and released them. But he wasn’t smiling, no, not at all, as he glanced grimly at the smashed and splintered staves while Corisande was suddenly surrounded by her family, Henry Gilbert, and wide-eyed onlookers who had witnessed the near disaster.

  “Lord help us, did ‘ee see those hogsheads come a-tumbling?” cried an old Cornish shipwright to no one in particular, everyone clamoring and talking at once.

  “I think they were ones set against John Killigrew’s house ‘cross from the church,” shouted another man, naming a respected Porthleven fisherman. “Stacked an’ waiten to go to market, they were, but no export market to be found for ‘em same as the rest of us, thanks to that bugger Napoleon and his damned blockade!”

  Corisande sighed heavily as the noisy crowd around her grew larger and understandably belligerent, their comments now more centered upon the village’s plight of being unable to sell last year’s bumper catch of pilchards than on the accident that could have taken her life, Estelle’s, and poor Luther’s. Donovan must have read her mind, his tone as tense and irritated as his expression as he addressed the villagers.

  “Did anyone see what happened? Anyone at all?”

  A mute chorus of shaking heads and apologetic stares greeted his query, one woman piping up, “We were watching the hubbub in front of the church, milord, if ‘ee don’t mind me saying so, and with Corie looking so lovely today…”

  A sudden flurry of concurring compliments flew around the gathering, so many that Corisande felt her face redden. “The barrels must have tipped,” she concluded with a shrug, eager to be done with the whole unpleasant matter. “Stacked too high, I suppose, perhaps a bit carelessly, an easy enough thing to do.” She looked down at Estelle, who had just planted a kiss on top of Luther’s bedraggled head. “How about a nice carriage ride, sweet? Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes, but only if I can bring Luther. He’s never ridden in a carriage, and I think he’d like it. May I, Donovan?”

  Somewhat disgruntled by how her little sister had warmed so quickly to Donovan, Corisande was nonetheless grateful when he nodded, which drew from Estelle a high-pitched squeal of delight. Hugging Luther, she slipped through the dense crowd as easily as a minnow and ran toward the shiny black coach as she had only moments before, clearly none the worse for all the excitement.

  Corisande couldn’t say the same for Frances, however, the poor woman still pale and uncommonly silent. “Everything’s all right, Frances, really. You see?” Corisande did a slow twirl for the housekeeper’s benefit. “Even my dress came out without a tear or scratch. Now, is the meal put away?”

  Frances nodded shakily.

  “Good. Take Marguerite and Linette with you to the carriage, and we’ll be on our way, sure to have a lovely time.” Corisande looked round the circle of faces. “Papa?”

  She had seen him among the villagers, keeping to the back, which for him wasn’t at all strange. He’d been pale as a ghost, too, which had made her heart go out to him, but now he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Papa?”

  “I believe I saw the Reverend Easton enter the parsonage, Lady Donovan.”

  That from Henry Gilbert, whose large Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed as if he’d summoned all of his courage just to speak to her. Meanwhile, she had to summon all her will not to frown.

  Lady Donovan. No, she didn’t like the sound of that lofty title at all, but let her not forget her resolve…

  “Thank you, Henry.” Then she opened her mouth to tell Donovan that she’d fetch her father if he wanted to wait for her by the church, but he took her hand firmly before she could speak and began to lead her through the crowd to the parsonage, Corisande gaping at him in some surprise. “I could have gotten Papa by myself—”

  “If it’s all the same to you, my love, I’d prefer to see you safely there and then back to the carriage.”

  Astonished at the sudden warmth flooding her face, Corisande just as quickly reminded herself that her temporary husband was anything but altruistic. Oh, he’d done a magnificent job already of looking concerned and outraged as any proper groom would do, surprising her with the intensity he had displayed. But now was not the time to commend him, although she certainly planned to do so when they were alone…

  “It doesn’t look as if the wall is damaged.” Donovan had paused near the front door, his gaze raking the site where the barrels had crashed against the sturdy gray stone of the parsonage, now splattered with bits of salted fish. “I’ll send Henry Gilbert back later to clean up the mess.”

  Oh, he’ll love that, Corisande thought to herself as Donovan proceeded into the house, still gripping her hand tightly and leading the way. But they had no sooner entered the front passage than he suddenly stopped and pushed her none too gently against the wall, holding her by the shoulders, the fierceness of his action making her breath catch. And her heart, she’d never felt it pounding so hard when he leaned toward her, the buttons on his coat grazing her breasts, his eyes searching hers.

  “You are sure you’re all right, Corie?”

  She’d never heard such a deep huskiness in his voice, and for a moment she could only stare up at him, wondering at this man whose moods could change so drastically from one day to the next. Yesterday he’d wanted nothing to do with her, calling her a shrew, and now she could almost swear he was truly concerned.

  But, of course, that couldn’t be. He must be toying with her again, even when he’d said yesterday he wouldn’t, the lout! He’d said as much in a holy church, too, which proved he was as trustworthy as a snake and, oh, she was feeling infuriated again and quite, quite shrewish and to hell with playing the rapturous bride!

  “Of course I’m bloody well fine,” she said, keeping her voice very low so her father wouldn’t hear. “And just because we’re married now, my lord husband, don’t you dare think for a moment that anything has changed between us. No, not even in your dreams!”

  Stunned, Donovan wasn’t sure for an instant whether to smile or frown. He was stunned at himself, too, not wholly certain why he’d pinned her against the wall. Something had come over him—good God, just thinking about those huge barrels crashing toward her…

  “You…you insufferable oaf! Are you going to release me so I can find my father, or not?”

  Now Donovan smiled, much t
o Corisande’s indignation as her face grew a rosy pink, but he couldn’t help himself. It appeared to his relief that the woman he knew was back, and with a vengeance, but what was this latest accusation

  “So I was right, you bloody lecher! You are thinking—”

  “Thinking what, woman?”

  “Shh, my father might hear you! Must you shout?”

  “Must you call me preposterous names?” Donovan countered, any humor he’d found in the situation gone altogether as vexation gripped him. “Hell and damnation, woman, I am not a lecher.”

  “Oh, no? What was all that in the church, then?”

  “All what?”

  His question was rewarded with a sigh of pure exasperation, Corisande staring at him as if he were a complete idiot.

  “If you’ve something to say…” he prompted, knowing full well what she’d meant, but nonetheless finding a bit of perverse pleasure in baiting her. The woman had called him a lecher—she deserved it! “All what, Lady Donovan?”

  “Your…your looking at me and leering, what else could I possibly be talking about?” she finally spouted in an outraged whisper, her cheeks reddening even more as she struggled to free herself. But Donovan held her tight, determined that they would have this matter out.

  “Not leering, Corie, ‘admiring’ is more the word. Perhaps more intently than I should have, given the situation—”

  “That’s an understatement!”

  True, Donovan thought to himself, “admiration” was hardly the word to describe what he’d felt in the church. Now wasn’t, either, for that matter, which didn’t please him. Doing his best to ignore the indignant rise and fall of her breasts as she began to struggle again, he continued gruffly, “You look very lovely today, Corie, and I am a man inclined to notice beautiful things.”

  Corisande froze, more aware in that moment of Donovan’s overwhelming masculinity than she wanted to be. He was simply standing too close and holding her too tightly, the strength in his hands alone proving altogether disconcerting, his clean, virile scent invading her senses, Donovan so tall, his body so massive, that she felt nearly smothered against the wall. Not an unpleasant sensation at all, but something wholly exciting—oh, Lord, whatever was coming over her?