Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  “Please, we should talk of this later,” she said, feeling no small amount of desperation. “I want to find my father, and —and I’m not bloody beautiful! Lindsay is beautiful, and Marguerite is very nearly so, and…and why is it that a wedding dress and veil make people say the most ridiculous things when they know—”

  “Corie.”

  She started, meeting his eyes. Dark midnight eyes held an understanding of her now that she didn’t want to see. Furious with herself, she dropped her gaze to stare blindly at her feet.

  “Once again, you haven’t allowed me to finish. Nothing is any different than what we discussed yesterday. But as you said, we can talk later if you wish—”

  “I do wish! I wish for you to kindly release me so I can look for my father—oh!” Corisande nearly toppled forward when Donovan abruptly let go of her shoulders, but of course he was right there to catch her, which only made her more angry. With an agile twist she was free of him, half storming through the parlor and down the hall to her father’s study.

  “Papa?”

  Grateful at least that they had been so far to the front of the house that he couldn’t possibly have heard them, Corisande was even more relieved when she found that his door was closed. But he wasn’t inside his study, she soon discovered, which made her gaze jump at once to the windows. They were securely shut, not like a few days ago when she’d spied him out in the garden. Of course, the garden.

  Corisande hurried from the darkened room, her eyes widening as she entered the kitchen, which still smelled fragrantly of Frances’s cooking. Donovan stood next to the high-backed settle where her father was sitting as eerily silent as a stone, Joseph Easton giving neither of them any notice as he stared with unblinking eyes at the glowing red embers Frances had carefully banked in the center of the hearth.

  “Reverend Easton—”

  “Please, Donovan, let me talk to him.” Ignoring his raised brow, which no doubt indicated he was more surprised she’d called him by his Christian name than that she’d interrupted him, Corisande sat down next to her father and placed her hand gently on his arm. “Papa, please, you mustn’t be distressed about those silly barrels. It could have happened to anyone—”

  “No!”

  Corisande sat back stunned, her father’s vehement outburst the last thing she would have expected from him. The tears now streaking his drawn, ashen face were another matter. Corisande felt her own eyes grow wet at the shock he must have suffered when he thought she and Estelle were in danger. But they were both fine, her father had surely seen that…

  “What am I to do? What am I to do?”

  The despair in her father’s voice was heartrending, and Corisande looked at him in confusion. “Do about what, Papa? Has something else happened? If so, you must tell me—Papa?”

  She’d felt him stiffen an instant before he lurched to his feet and headed for the door, but he turned abruptly, his eyes moving from her face to Donovan’s. Desperate eyes that held a fervent pleading while he stood there for the longest moment, looking as if he wanted to speak but saying nothing. Then he was through the door and gone, walking stiffly into the garden.

  At once Corisande flew to follow him, but she didn’t get far as Donovan caught her arm. She turned upon him, incensed.

  “Let me go, damn you! I’ve never seen him like this—”

  “Leave him, Corie. It’s clear that he wants to be alone. Give him some time.”

  “Time? How could you possibly know what my father needs? You don’t even know him!”

  “No, but I saw his face. I’ve seen that look a thousand times on the battlefield when the cannon smoke has cleared and the ground is slippery with blood. When an infantryman wipes the burning sweat from his eyes to find his comrades lying wounded and dead around him—”

  “Oh, forgive me, I almost forgot that you’re a veteran of the war in Spain,” Corisande broke in sarcastically, Donovan’s face hardening at her biting tone.

  “Not a veteran. I’ll be going back as soon as my business here is done.”

  Corisande felt a stab; he had said the word “business” so coldly, and of course he’d meant their temporary marriage and—and bloody hell, what did she care if he planned to return to Spain? Thinking mutinously that she, too, couldn’t wait until their arrangement was done, she tried to yank her arm free.

  “Infantrymen, battlefields, I don’t see what any of this has to do with my father!”

  “He’s been badly shaken, Corie. You saw him. He’s probably never come so close to losing you, or even thinking that he might have lost one of his daughters.”

  “Or else he overheard everything from the front entryway, and for that I blame you! If you hadn’t grabbed me—”

  “Corie! Lord Donovan?”

  Corisande gave a small gasp as Frances came bustling down the hall toward the kitchen, while Donovan at once released Corisande’s arm and swept her into an embrace—an embrace! She felt like wrenching away, but she forced herself to nestle her head against his chest and throw her arms around his waist instead, making it look, quite convincingly, as if she were hugging him back.

  “Oh! Oh, my, ‘ee two! Here I thought there might be some trouble with the good parson an’ I came to see if I could lend a hand but—where is the Reverend Easton?”

  “He’s gone out to the garden, Frances.” Donovan felt Corisande tense in his arms, but he held her firmly, smoothing the delicate veil that covered her hair. “I’m afraid my new bride is quite distressed about her father. He’s upset, too—those damned barrels…”

  “Ais, so I was right. Nearly scared the life from me, the accursed things!” Frances went to the kitchen window, clucking her tongue in dismay. “I’ll stay here with the parson, Lord Donovan. You an’ Corie go on your way—ah, such a thing to spoil a lovely wedden an’ the girls being so excited too.”

  “No, no, Frances, I’m sure Papa will be fine.” Corisande lifted her head, doing her best to gather together the shreds of her resolve and trying not to glare at Donovan. “My husband believes Papa just needs some time to collect himself, and I can’t but agree, so there’s no need for you to stay. And you’re just as excited to see the house as my sisters. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t come with us too.”

  That said, Corisande pulled herself free of Donovan’s arms and with a last look at her father, who was sitting on the bench staring out across the vast sunlit heath, she led a still reluctant Frances from the kitchen.

  “Ah, me, look at your poor flowers,” the housekeeper bemoaned a few moments later as they walked past the spot where Corisande’s bouquet of purple veronica lay crushed into a paste upon the street. “Lord help us, I don’t even want to think—”

  “So we won’t, Frances.” Corisande’s voice was firm. “It’s a lovely warm spring day, and we’ve a fine carriage ride ahead of us. That’s what we’ll think about, nothing more.”

  Which was much easier said than done, Corisande thought to herself, glancing over her shoulder at Donovan, who was following close behind them, his dark eyes meeting hers as he looked up from what was left of her bouquet. At once she turned back around, her face heating most uncomfortably at the memory of how he’d grabbed her in the entryway and told her nothing had changed between them.

  Somehow she felt as if something had changed and she didn’t like it, no, not at all.

  Donovan didn’t like it either. Dammit, he didn’t like the way those crushed flowers made him feel and certainly not the memory of Joseph Easton’s pleading eyes, as if the man had been trying to tell him something.

  Those barrels, an accident? Somehow Donovan doubted it. But he couldn’t attend to the troubling matter now. He had a bride to take home, a spitting, irritating, altogether perplexing termagant of a temporary bride who no doubt intended to make his life most interesting for the next few weeks.

  God help him. He’d gotten his wish.

  Chapter 13

  “More tea, my lady?”

  Corisande stare
d into the fire, impatiently twirling the tiny silver spoon around and around between her fingertips. “Would you like more tea, my lady?”

  “What…?” Corisande looked up in surprise at Ogden hovering just behind her chair, the spoon clattering onto the bone china saucer. For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t even heard the butler come into the room! Did all of these bloody servants walk about the place on tiptoe?

  “Forgive me, my lady. I startled you—”

  “No, no, Ogden—well, actually you did startle me a little but…” Corisande didn’t finish, the man’s expression as placid as a basset hound’s while her heart was pounding. In fact, Ogden resembled a basset hound although his eyes weren’t dopey at all, but quite keen. Reminded again of what Donovan had said about spies, she forced a bright smile. “More tea would be fine, Ogden. Thank you.”

  As the butler silently obliged, Corisande let her gaze roam for the hundredth time around the immense drawing room where Donovan had left her almost a half hour ago. In fact, everything about this house was immense, at least compared to the parsonage, from the high-ceilinged rooms to the solid English furnishings.

  She’d felt quite ridiculous that afternoon in the dining room, sitting at one end of a monstrous oaken table while Donovan sat at the other, her three sisters, Frances, and Henry Gilbert placed at evenly spaced intervals along the sides. Not that she wanted to be closer to Donovan. She’d had enough closeness for one day, thank you very much, although the carriage ride hadn’t been too terrible since Estelle—and Luther—had been allowed to join them after all. But at that dining table she’d practically had to shout to reply to anything Donovan said, making the wedding breakfast with its many courses more of a trial than she could have anticipated.

  She’d never seen such an embarrassment of food, including a saddle of roasted mutton and a baked ham that could have fed the poorhouse for a week, nor tasted the like of mulligatawny soup, pungent with Indian curry, and potted pheasant. Frances, after being assured by Corisande again and again that her father would be fine, was finally able to relax and proceeded to enjoy herself immensely, delighting in each new dish and then spending the remainder of the day exchanging recipes in the kitchen with a very flattered Grace Twickenham.

  Meanwhile Estelle and Linette had nearly eaten themselves sick, while Marguerite had barely touched her food, so overawed was she with her surroundings. After the double-iced bride’s cake was served, all three girls, Luther skittering among them, had spent the day eagerly exploring much of the house and grounds with Donovan as their guide, and he’d insisted that Corisande come too. Which was fine because she hadn’t wanted to be left alone with Henry, although he disappeared soon after the meal to return to Porthleven to clean up the mess at the parsonage.

  And to fetch her one valise, forgotten earlier in the day and which Corisande had packed very lightly. Why bring more? Poor Rose Polkinghorne was furiously stitching new dresses for her, although Corisande hoped Donovan’s inheritance would come soon and she wouldn’t have to wear them. Each was as impractical and revealing as her wedding dress, and after Donovan leered at her so in the church, no, no, admired her as he had so smoothly insisted

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

  Corisande started again, realizing that Ogden had poured her tea, added a fresh log and stoked the fire, and then walked to the door without her giving him any notice at all, her thoughts running rampant. Lord, she was tired…

  “No, Ogden, but—do you know if my husband is still meeting with Mr. Gilbert?”

  “Yes, my lady, I believe so. Would you like for me to carry some message to His Lordship? Or perhaps, since it grows late, I could have Miss Biddle show you to your room—”

  “No, no, I’ll wait here. I’m sure he won’t be much longer…”

  Not that she cared, Corisande thought as Ogden nodded and left the room, well, other than that she longed terribly to feel a soft pillow under her head. But she had to make some attempt to play the wistful bride, abandoned as it were, if only for a short time, by her newly wedded husband.

  Yet it was rather strange, really. She and Donovan had no sooner bid good night to her family—Linette and Marguerite waving drowsily from the carriage while Estelle, an exhausted Luther snuggled and snoring in her lap, already lay fast asleep against Frances’s deep bosom—than he had led her to this room and excused himself, saying he had summoned Henry Gilbert to the library and that he would return shortly. But that had been a while ago now, while here she sat drinking tea…

  “And more tea,” Corisande muttered, her gaze flying from her brimming cup to an elaborately carved sideboard where a decanter of golden sherry gleamed among cut-crystal glasses. Except for some wine with her meal, she’d drunk her fill of tea all day. A long grueling day, and who knew how much longer Donovan would keep her waiting?

  Corisande couldn’t resist. She wasn’t normally one to drink spirits, well, except on those nights after working hard to land a cargo of smuggled goods when she’d shared a nip of brandy with the men who risked their lives to cross the Channel for the good of the parish—and admittedly, to line his own pockets as well, Oliver Trelawny, the grizzled captain of the cutter Fair Betty would often laugh.

  But tonight was different. Soon she and Donovan would be alone for the first time since the parsonage…

  Corisande half flew from her chair to the sideboard and poured herself a generous amount, the sweet fortified wine infusing her with warmth as she nearly emptied the glass.

  It was silly, really. She shouldn’t be so nervous. She had nothing to fear. Donovan might have been leer—admiring her, but he knew better than to risk even the thought of touching her. Of course he must know, too, that she would scream to high heaven if he did so much as touch her and bring this whole houseful of spying servants down upon them, and then what would he say? No, he’d be a fool to threaten his inheritance now when it was so near to his grasp. A damned bloody fool.

  Feeling better and certainly more confident, Corisande took another long swallow, then refilled her glass and walked back to the fire.

  For heaven’s sake, it was just as ridiculous that she was spending so much time worrying about Donovan when she had so much else to think about. Like her visit to see Oliver Trelawny last night, for one. She had imagined he would be concerned about her impending marriage, so after she had finished her calls she’d gone to see him at the comfortable quayside inn he ran with his wife, Rebecca, when he wasn’t out fair trading, and discovered she had been right.

  “Lord, Corie, how do ‘ee expect to go on helping with the landings when you’ll be marrying on the morrow? Do ‘ee think your husband will be pleased to find ‘ee gone from his bed late in the night when I’ve need of you?”

  Her face burning, Corisande had wanted terribly to tell him the truth about her marriage, although at that point she hadn’t been sure a wedding was even going to take place. She trusted the gruff, white-bearded captain with her life. But Oliver had been known a time or two to boast in his cups, and she couldn’t risk that he might somehow let the truth slip.

  “Lord Donovan knows how much helping the tinners means to me,” she had hastily explained. “Helping the fishermen and their families in Porthleven too. It’s been such a terrible time all around, and…and I wouldn’t have considered marrying him otherwise! If I say I’m needed at a sickbed or some such thing, I’m sure he won’t question me.”

  Oliver had pondered for a long moment, tugging at his thick beard, then he slowly nodded.

  “Very well, Corie, we’ll give it a try. Lord knows, you’re a wonder at hiding goods an’ sending them on their way, so I don’t want to think of going forth without ‘ee.” His raspy laughter had filled the back room. “An’ since ‘ee assured me three years past there’d be a spot reserved in heaven if I split my trading profits with you so’s ‘ee could help the poor, I don’t want to gamble with meeting the Old One instead, no, indeed. He’ll have to save his red-hot fork for another damned soul!”


  Yet Oliver had sobered an instant later, his weathered face grown very serious as he leaned toward her across the scarred table. “I hope this fine gentleman treats ‘ee well, Corie. ‘Ee know I think of you like me own daughter, an’ after ‘ee did so much to help my poor Sophie…” His voice catching, the burly sea captain had paused to shake his head, his eyes wet when he looked up again. “Well, Lord Donovan’ll answer to me, is all I’m saying. You know good an’ why.”

  Yes, she knew good and why, Corisande thought as she lifted the glass to her lips and downed the rest of the sherry, her hand slightly shaking. Lord help her, even now the memories…the blood, the screaming, the knife blade gleaming bright…

  A sudden chiming made Corisande jump; her gaze flew to the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock. And still no sign of Donovan.

  “So much for playing the attentive bridegroom,” Corisande said under her breath, which was fine with her. But what wasn’t fine was waiting any longer. She was bloody tired! Discussing their next smuggling run had kept her at Oliver’s until way past midnight, then she’d had to tend to Biscuit, poor pony, the long day exhausting him entirely, then try to sleep while wondering if Donovan would appear at the church or not—oh, enough!

  She didn’t need him or Miss Biddle to show her to her room. After all, Donovan had conducted the grand tour earlier that day, so Corisande knew the master suite was on the next floor. There was her bedchamber, then a cozy sitting room, and his much larger bedchamber. Nothing to be nervous about at all. Separate rooms, separate beds, and a door between that could be locked. Perfect.

  So why did she suddenly feel the need for yet another glass of sherry? Resisting the impulse, Corisande set down her glass and left the drawing room, heading at once for the staircase.