She gulped, but her curiosity was overwhelming. Perhaps Lindsay had some more funny stories for her. She could use some levity right now. Anything to take her mind off the man who was dogging her like a shadow just as he’d promised last night.
If not for that reason, she might have suggested he ride on ahead, but that was as likely to happen as Napoleon to surrender. So she broke the seal and opened the letter, the sunshine so bright that she tilted the cream-colored paper to one side, away from Donovan, and began to read.
Oh, Corie, where to start? I received your incredible letter, and I could hardly believe it! To think you’re married! And to a Trent of Arundale! Of course, I know you said it’s only temporary, but I must tell you of the most startling things—
“How is she?”
Corisande started, looking up to find Donovan staring at her. “Who?”
“Lindsay, of course. She’s well?”
“Yes, yes, but I haven’t read very far,” Corisande said with exasperation, clearly enough that Donovan waved her back to her letter, which irked her. She didn’t need his permission! Taking care to grip the reins tightly enough so Pete wouldn’t begin to wander aimlessly, she settled back with an irritated exhalation to her letter…
…but I must tell you of the most startling things. I had already written you a letter in answer to the one with your astounding news, but I was so busy—Aunt Winnie hasn’t given me a moment’s peace, she’s so determined to follow Olympia’s every last instruction to the letter, dragging me to dressmakers and out shopping and then in the evenings—oh, dear, Corie, I’m losing my train of thought. Anyway, I had no chance to mail my first letter, which was a very good thing. All I knew of Lord Donovan Trent was what you told me in your letter, and of course, since it was a secret, I couldn’t ask anyone about the dratted man. At least I thought him dratted at the time. But back to the topic. The moment your wedding announcement appeared in the papers—truly, I’ve never heard such a stir! Everyone was talking about it, well, about your husband anyway. I went to a ball that very night, and the entire place was abuzz—
“Is Lindsay having a good time?”
Corisande must have jumped, for Pete suddenly pranced to the side, nearly making her lose her seat. This time it was Donovan who caught the reins, and Corisande glared at him as he brought the gelding under control.
“I thought you wanted me to enjoy my letter!”
“I do—”
“Then please don’t interrupt me, Donovan.”
Especially not now, Corisande thought somewhat nervously as he shrugged his massive shoulders and looked away. Good Lord, if he knew the letter was about him…and where was her place anyway? Oh, yes.
…went to a ball that very night, and the entire place was abuzz. All the eligible young ladies and their mamas were terribly disappointed to hear that Lord Donovan had wed, and everyone, of course, was wondering about you, Corie, but that wasn’t the most extraordinary thing. Somehow I came upon a conversation between some young gentlemen who knew Lord Donovan well and spoke of him quite fondly. They couldn’t believe he’d wed either, because Lord Donovan had sworn years ago that he would never marry. It seems his parents had a terrible marriage, a dreadful arranged affair—Lord, they painted his father the Duke of Arundale as an absolute monster, and of course we already know that to be true from Arundale Kitchen. His poor mother ran off with an Italian count, Corie, can you believe that?
Anyway, according to these gentlemen, it seems Lord Donovan had defied his father for years in so many ways, disgusted by the man—hating him even—and determined to be anything but like him. He was forever giving away his money to beggars, prostitutes, and countless charities though he would tell his father he’d lost it all to gambling just to get some more he could give away. That made the gentlemen laugh and laugh, Corie, because Lord Donovan had never once been known to gamble since his father had loved it so.
Corisande lifted her eyes from the letter, suddenly feeling quite unsettled as she glanced at Donovan. But he wasn’t looking at her, the man leaving her alone just as she’d sharply bid him. Her heart beginning to pound, she focused once more on the page, feeling almost as if she didn’t want to continue, but unable not to.
They went on and on, Corie, recalling how Lord Donovan’s father had tried to force him into a marriage four years ago, but he’d left Britain to fight under Wellington. One of the men, Freddy, they called him, said Lord Donovan had tried to talk him out of marrying for money just before he left and how Freddy wished he’d listened, his life a bloody mess. They laughed, but it wasn’t funny, Corie, all of them wondering what could have made Donovan finally take a bride. Another gentleman guessed it might have something to do with his inheritance, but they couldn’t see Lord Donovan caring a whit about money—he never had before—which made them say then that maybe he had simply fallen in love.
“She’s written quite a letter, hasn’t she?”
“What?” Startled, Corisande met Donovan’s eyes, her heart fairly thundering.
“The letter. It’s long, several pages.”
“Y-yes, it is long. It’s Lindsay’s first Season—it’s all so new to her. Balls, shopping—”
“Hunting for the wealthiest gentleman she can find to marry. The loftiest title.”
Corisande heard the sudden bitterness, something she might have missed before. But now… “No, you’re wrong, Lindsay’s not like that at all,” she said vehemently. “Lindsay’s different. She doesn’t care about those things. That’s why I admire her so much.”
“I’m not surprised. Considering she’s your dearest friend, I mean. I doubt you’d have wasted your time with her if she was anything less than someone you could respect.”
She heard a tinge of bitterness there, too, but Donovan had turned away again, and she quickly returned to Lindsay’s letter. Yet it took her a moment to be able to focus on the page, her thoughts racing.
Dear God, could she have been so wrong about him? Like a phantom voice, Donovan’s words last night suddenly came back to ring loud and clear in her mind… “You don’t know a damned thing about me!”
“Oh, Lord,” she murmured under her breath, finding her place to reread Lindsay’s hastily scrawled lines.
…but they couldn’t see Lord Donovan caring a whit about money—he never had before—which made them say then that maybe he had simply fallen in love. Which is why I had to write a new letter to you, Corie! Lord Donovan doesn’t sound anything like the horrible man you described in your letter, no, not at all! Self-centered? Caring about nothing but himself? It’s as if we’re talking about two different people. To me, Lord Donovan sounds more like the man you said you wanted to marry, remember? When we made our secret pact the day before I left for London? Someone who cares about helping people and righting wrongs? And you have married him! Oh, Corie, I’ve heard he’s terribly handsome and brave and highly respected by his fellow officers, and his friends here wish him the best and you, too, even though they don’t know you. But I know you better than you think I do, and I can just imagine the trouble you’ve been giving him with that temper of yours and all the while thinking the worst of him—
“We’re nearly home, Corie. Maybe you might want to finish reading later.”
Corisande glanced up to see that, indeed, the huge Tudor house was appearing through the trees. She had only another few paragraphs of Lindsay’s letter to go, but maybe she had had enough for now. Her head was spinning, her thoughts in a whirl, and now something was plaguing her terribly, something she’d heard about only a short while ago…
“Donovan.”
She had his attention, his eyes upon her, but suddenly she felt as if she had a huge lump in her throat. For heaven’s sake, did she want to know or not? If she’d been struck by a blinding lightning bolt, she couldn’t have been more stunned by everything Lindsay had told her. Did she really want to suffer another shock when deep down she already sensed his answer?
“I…well, I was wonderi
ng—”
“Careful, Corie, tighten up on the reins! Do you want your horse to walk headfirst into a tree?”
She gasped, so lost in her private quandary that she hadn’t even noticed she’d let the reins slip in her hands and Pete was veering ominously close to the stately line of elms flanking the drive. Quickly regaining control, she pulled the gelding back closer to Samson, but she knew the moment was lost.
Suddenly she didn’t want to hear Donovan tell her that, yes, he had gone very early to Arundale’s Kitchen on the same morning they had made their agreement, where he’d spoken to young Morton Robberts among others and learned firsthand of the tinners’ wretched plight.
She didn’t want to hear that he had spoken to Jack Pascoe either, sensing Donovan had fired that bastard from the mine hours before he’d even met her and learned she would do almost anything to help the tinners and their families.
Anything. Even marry a man she despised.
Which led her to realize she hadn’t needed to marry Lord Donovan Trent to see life improved for the tinners, although he’d made her believe that that was so. But why?
He certainly hadn’t married her for love—leave it to Lindsay to hear something like that and latch onto it, hoping for Corisande’s sake that it might be true. She could just imagine that was what the rest of Lindsay’s letter had to say. So she should write right back and tell her romantic friend that Donovan couldn’t bloody wait to annul her and return to Spain! In fact, their sham marriage would probably be over in days, even hours. Surely a letter with that wonderful news would be coming anytime soon from His Grace, Nigel Trent, the Duke of Arundale.
“Corie?”
She turned her head as if snapping free of some dream, her eyes meeting Donovan’s as he reached up to help her down from her horse. She hadn’t even realized they had come to a stop in front of the house, and a liveried footman already hovered to take Pete and Samson back to the stable. But she barely saw the servant, her pulse pounding as she felt Donovan’s hands slide around her waist; she felt his strength as he lifted her easily and drew her toward him to set her upon the ground, his expression intent as he searched her face.
“Was there something you wanted to ask me? I’m sorry if I startled you back by the trees, but I didn’t want to add bruises to the stiffness you’re feeling already.”
Another apology. This one uttered so sincerely, she could almost feel herself believing that he might truly care about her welfare. Almost.
“It was nothing. I’m tired, Donovan. It was a long night, and I got little sleep. I’ll hardly prove enlivening company at the Somersets’ if I don’t get some rest.”
“Go ahead, then. We’re not expected there until six—”
Corisande was gone before he’d finished, leaving him to stare after her as she went inside. And the first thing she did when she got to her room moments later was to crumple Lindsay’s letter and throw it into the fire.
Chapter 25
“I can’t believe I agreed to come here.”
Corisande’s hiss had been meant for Donovan’s ears alone, but the stiffly dressed footman taking her cloak raised a brow. She shot a glare at him, and he turned away, leading the way to the Somersets’ drawing room although she was loath to follow. Only Donovan’s firm hand at her elbow made her move forward reluctantly.
“You see? Even the servants are haughty in this wretched place. I don’t know how Lindsay withstood it. I never liked coming here.”
“You sound as if you rarely visited.”
“Ha! Lady Somerset never wanted me to. The last time was for Lindsay’s twentieth birthday party, and oh my, Lady Somerset wasn’t very happy to see me appear at her door. But we got her back, Lindsay and I.”
“With the champagne?”
Corie nodded as she glanced at Donovan, warmed more than she wanted to be by his amused smile. Warmed to her toes, and it was so ridiculous too!
So she’d been wrong about why he didn’t want to be married—and the man wasn’t a Don Juan. So he wasn’t a gambler, either, or anything at all like his late father. He’d still married her because he needed money—tricked her into becoming his temporary bride, no less!—and what about how surly he’d been to her?
She wished he would go back to being surly, too, instead of holding to his bloody truce. His amiability was just making everything worse. And she wished she’d never read that letter; the thoughts roiling through her mind had prevented her from getting any rest this afternoon.
“Ah, Lord Donovan, come in, come in!”
Corisande felt his hand tighten at her elbow as they entered the drawing room; she sensed he didn’t like Olympia Somerset any more than she did, and yet he had accepted the invitation, she supposed because it was necessary that they appear socially as husband and wife. And to turn down the premier hostess of the parish? Heaven forbid.
She’d told Donovan in the carriage that Lady Somerset had only asked them to dinner because of who he was. It didn’t have anything to do with her. And here was perfect proof. Corisande might have been invisible for all the notice Olympia gave her, the woman one huge rustling mountain of green silk as she rushed forward, her eyes wholly on Donovan.
“I’m so honored, Lord Donovan—Oh, Randolph dear! Bring our guest a brandy, will you?”
Corisande winced for Lindsay’s father as he turned away from coming to greet them with a near-inaudible sigh; if there was ever a man who should annul his wife straightaway, it was Sir Randolph Somerset. But she doubted after eight years with such a hideously domineering woman he had the will to speak up, let alone to be rid of her.
“Excuse me, Donovan, will you? Lady Somerset.”
Corisande was spared hardly a glance from her hostess as she crossed the room to Sir Randolph. At once a kindly smile split the man’s face when he saw her coming, making him look much less browbeaten and weary, his grayish-blue eyes filled with warmth.
“Ah, Corie, you’re lovely as a picture in that yellow dress. I’ve been wondering how you were doing. With Lindsay gone these past two weeks, I feel as if I’ve lost you as well.”
“I’m fine, Sir Randolph, truly,” she murmured, noting how the crystal decanter was shaking as he tried to pour brandy into a glass. “If you’d like, I could help…”
“No, no, I have it. Drank too much of the stuff today, I fear, but” —he glanced toward his wife, lowering his voice— “not a word to Olympia now, Corie, are we agreed? A man has to have some pleasure—”
“Randolph!”
Corisande winced again as the decanter hit the glass with a ring and Sir Randolph cursed under his breath.
“Good heavens, man, what could be taking you so long? I said a brandy for our guest—oh, dear, you must forgive him, Lord Donovan. Welles, our butler, is seeing to the dinner—”
“It’s no matter,” Donovan said tersely, doing his utmost to remain civil. But it was becoming quite difficult, especially when Lady Somerset leaned toward him conspiratorially, the woman’s massive breasts brushing against his coat as she clucked her tongue in sympathy.
“Such a trying week you must have had since your wedding, my lord. A new bride, and one so…well, how shall I put it? One so unaccustomed to the way of things. That’s why I withheld my invitation until now. So Corisande might adjust, of course.”
“Adjust, madam?” Having a good idea as to exactly what the woman was implying, Donovan took a step backward only to have Lady Somerset draw closer, her voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“Oh, yes, indeed. She must have had a terrible shock, poor dear, but surely by now she’s cast aside any romantic illusions and come to understand that many members of our class must marry to secure their family’s lineage or fortune. I truly feel for you, my lord. To be hastened into a marriage—having to choose a bride so quickly. It’s a pity, truly, that my husband’s daughter, Lindsay, wasn’t here. She’s quite aware of her responsibilities, oh, yes, indeed, I saw to her education on that score myself. I’m sure you would
have had a much easier time—”
“I already have a wife, Lady Somerset, and so far I’m quite content, thank you,” Donovan cut in, thinking with regret that Corisande had been right about gossip flying through the parish. He wanted to say more—hell and damnation, having her discussed so callously by this woman was infuriating!—but here Sir Randolph came with his brandy…
“Sorry about that, old man. Damned glass cracked, had to fill another.”
Donovan gave an unconcerned shrug, tempted to tell the poor bastard that he would have cracked a glass, too, if he had someone of Olympia Somerset’s ilk bellowing at him across a room. He took a drink, his gaze meeting Corisande’s. She looked entirely reluctant to join them, miserable even as she stood all alone near the fireplace, and he didn’t blame her. Dammit, he should never have brought her here, with Lady Somerset rudely snubbing her from the moment they’d walked in the door. There had to be something he could do to make her feel better.
“I hope the brandy is to your liking, my lord. Oh, splendid, here’s Welles now. Shall we adjourn to dinner?”
“Actually, madam, the brandy tastes a bit off to me.”
Donovan heard a horrified gasp, which was exactly what he had hoped. Lady Somerset looked quite stricken as she glanced at his glass. “Off, my lord?”
“Yes, not quite what I’m accustomed to.” He set the glass down with a decided thunk of distaste, pleased to see, too, the astonished look on Corisande’s face. “It’s dreadful, really, but don’t trouble yourself. The barrel could have been bad.”
“Bad—oh, my, no, surely not. Welles? Didn’t you procure the brandy just this morning? You told me the fellow said it was the very best!”
“Yes, my lady, so he did, so he did,” the red-faced butler, as round and squat as a barrel himself, hastened to assure her while Corisande chewed her lower lip, wondering if the brandy might have been from Oliver Trelawny’s shipment last night. Oh, Lord, she hoped not…
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