Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  “I thought it tasted fine,” Sir Randolph said to no one in particular. Lady Somerset turned around to glare at him.

  “Then it couldn’t have been fine because you’re certainly no connoisseur!”

  “I said it was no matter.” Donovan’s bored voice rose above the storm while Corisande looked at him in amazement, never having heard him use such a snooty, aristocratic tone. “Didn’t you say something about dinner, madam?”

  Lady Somerset spun to face him, her double chin bouncing. “Why, yes, yes, I believe everything is ready. Welles?”

  “Ready, my lady, yes, everything’s ready,” the butler assured her, rushing forward to lead the way.

  “Splendid, then, I’m famished,” Donovan announced. “If I may escort you, madam, to the dining room? Sir Randolph, I’ll entrust my wife to you.”

  Corisande had never seen Lady Somerset so flustered as the woman took Donovan’s arm and left the room with him, never seen Lady Somerset nonplussed ever before for that matter, and she was immensely enjoying the spectacle. It seemed Sir Randolph was enjoying himself, too, a bemused grin on his face as he offered Corisande his arm. But she waved for him to wait a moment while she went to the small table where Donovan had left his brandy, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he and Olympia weren’t waiting for them in the entry hall before she lifted the glass and took a healthy sip.

  “Well? Is it off?”

  Relief poured through Corisande as the brandy snaked a warm, silken path down her throat, but to Sir Randolph she gave a noncommittal shrug. In truth, she was no connoisseur either, yet it certainly tasted better than any spirits she’d tried before.

  “I suppose my husband would know,” she said lamely, hoping Sir Randolph wouldn’t feel too offended. But he didn’t look offended; instead, he seemed quite eager to make their way to the dining room as he again offered his arm. Corisande was eager, too, giddy excitement rushing through her as she wondered what Donovan could possibly be up to. Dear Lord, it was almost as if he were baiting Lady Somerset on purpose.

  “Yes, a quaint little place you have, Lady Somerset, indeed. Cornwall never ceases to astonish me.”

  A quaint little place? Corisande would never have called the Somerset residence quaint. Why, it was nearly as large as Donovan’s home, and certainly more ancient. Surely he could see that, too, she thought as she accompanied Sir Randolph into the dining room to find Donovan studying the paintings adorning the walls as if he were in some museum, while Lady Somerset seemed to be hanging in agitation upon his every word.

  “Hmmm.”

  Hmmm? Was that all the man planned to say? About a large painting by an Italian master of fat cherubs making music, Lady Somerset’s pride and joy? It appeared so as Donovan took his seat at the silver-laden table. Lady Somerset’s face was beet-red as she swatted away the assistance of a footman and signaled for Welles to begin the meal.

  Donovan at once sent back his turtle soup, saying it wasn’t quite hot enough.

  Then, to Corisande’s complete astonishment, he sent it back again, saying it had scalded his tongue.

  She began to giggle into her linen napkin; she couldn’t help it, but Donovan’s raised eyebrow finally made her stop. But he hadn’t looked stern, no, not at all. She would swear he was smiling behind his napkin, too, and so was Sir Randolph. At least until he tried to send away his soup, saying he’d never liked turtle, and Lady Somerset in an exasperated huff sent all the bowls away, demanding that the first course should start at once.

  Donovan made no complaints about the wide array of dishes appearing at the table—Lady Somerset clearly had gone out of her way to impress him—no, not complaining through the first course or the second. They chatted pleasantly about the weather and the fine choice of wines, nothing controversial at all. But as the third course began, he waved his hand and pushed away from the table.

  Lady Somerset’s jaw dropped in dismay.

  “But—but, my lord, there is the best yet to come. Almond custard and potted pheasant with imported figs and apple tart, my cook’s specialties—”

  “I am one man, madam, not twenty. Perhaps if you’ve so much food yet remaining, you might send it to the parish poorhouse. I’m sure Mrs. Eliza Treweake would be very happy, indeed, to offer such delicious fare to her charges.”

  “Yes, Olympia, I think that’s a damned marvelous idea,” Sir Randolph spoke up, clearly emboldened by Donovan’s example. “You really had the cook make too—”

  “Oh, be still, Randolph!” So irritated now that she didn’t seem to care how she might appear to Donovan, Lady Somerset turned upon Corisande. “Obviously you’ve been filling your new husband’s head with the same ridiculous notions you foisted upon our Lindsay! Well, I’ll have none of it, my girl, not in this house.”

  “Are you asking us, then, madam, to take leave of your kind hospitality?”

  Corisande’s gaze jumped to Donovan, whose voice was so forbidding that she began to feel nervous. Suddenly the situation wasn’t so humorous anymore, although Lady Somerset at once appeared to back down.

  “Of—of course not, Lord Donovan, pray forgive me. Perhaps I did have my cook prepare a bit too much food—yes, I can see that now.”

  Lady Somerset didn’t say, however, as she signaled for the footmen to clear the table, that she planned to send the remainder to the poorhouse, which didn’t surprise Corisande. Nor was she surprised that Donovan had suggested such a thing, although even that morning she would have been dumbstruck.

  But that he would treat Lady Somerset in so arrogant a manner, yes, that had surprised her. Delighted her, too, and she smiled at him across the white-clothed table. It had been so wonderful to see Olympia Somerset undone. Lindsay would never believe it…

  “Welles, serve port to the gentlemen while Lady Donovan and I retire to the drawing room.”

  “I think not, madam,” Donovan said firmly, as warmed from the smile Corisande had just gifted him as the wine served at dinner. He rose from his chair, having no intention of letting her go anywhere alone with their hostess, not when he’d done his utmost to cheer her. “No insult to you, of course, Sir Randolph, but it grows late. I think Corie and I must bid you good night.”

  “No insult taken, old man.”

  Hearing the telling slur in Sir Randolph’s voice, whose eyes had grown puffy and bleary from too much drinking, Donovan felt great pity for his host. He had taken a liking to Sir Randolph from the moment he’d seen how warmly the man had welcomed Corisande; now, as Lady Somerset threw her husband a withering glance, Donovan couldn’t help wondering what had ever made him marry such a witch.

  “Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay longer, my lord? We could all retire to the drawing room, if you prefer—”

  “Let them be, Olympia, for God’s sake,” Sir Randolph broke in to everyone’s surprise and, apparently, his own. He cast a halfway apologetic look at his outraged wife and then got up shakily, a footman rushing forward to steady him as he waved a hand to the door. “Come, I’ll walk with you.”

  Corisande didn’t wait for Donovan but left the table and hurried to offer her arm to Sir Randolph, who leaned upon her heavily as they left the dining room. Donovan was right behind them. Lady Somerset made no effort to follow, obviously too incensed to move.

  Which was perfectly fine with Corisande. If she never saw the woman again in her lifetime, it would be too soon, but she didn’t feel the same at all about Lindsay’s father. Especially when he turned to her as the footman shadowing them went round to open the front door.

  “Have you heard from my daughter, Corie?”

  “Yes, yes, I have,” she murmured, struck by the sadness in Sir Randolph’s eyes. “Lindsay’s fine, having a lovely time. I’m sure you’ll get a letter, too, very soon. I know she must miss you terribly.”

  “Ah, if she doesn’t write, it would be no unexpected thing. The life she had here was not a happy one…well, after her mother died. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for
bringing Olympia into this house.” Then abruptly he shrugged and smiled wanly. “Don’t mind me. Go on, go on. A good night to you both. You certainly made it one for me.”

  Corisande gave him a kiss on the cheek. The man reeked so miserably of wine and spirits that she was grateful when Donovan whisked her cloak around her shoulders and led her outside. But she didn’t readily accept his hand up into the waiting carriage, looking back as the front door closed behind them.

  “I can’t believe he said that about Lindsay—that she’s never forgiven him. Lindsay loves him dearly. She endured Lady Somerset all these years because of him! I’ve never heard her say one ill word about her father.”

  “That doesn’t mean such a hurt isn’t there. Even close friends can’t know everything about each other, Corie. Do you think Lindsay knows everything about you?”

  She didn’t answer; she couldn’t, her throat suddenly grown so tight as she stared at Donovan that she was unable to breathe. That he could have voiced, however indirectly, the very thing…

  “Hell and damnation, woman, it was only a simple question! Don’t look so glum. I would have thought you’d be smiling with delight as we drove away. Ah, well, all that wonderful arrogance for nothing.”

  Chapter 26

  Corisande gaped at him, stunned. “So it was on purpose —oh!”

  Donovan had scooped her up and deposited her inside the carriage so abruptly that she had to fight to catch her breath, her stomach flipflopping in her throat.

  “Shh, Corie, do you want the old termagant to hear us?” he demanded as he climbed in beside her and rapped on the roof. The carriage at once rolled into motion as Will Brighton snapped his whip over the two matched bays’ heads. “At least now she isn’t quite sure what happened. Let her wonder.”

  “But why…?” Corisande didn’t finish the question as suddenly she and Donovan were cast into heavy shadow when the lights of Somerset Place faded away, the carriage lanterns providing only a dim glow. She felt him shrug, the two of them sitting so close together that his arm rubbed against hers.

  “The woman was irritating. And rude. Treating her husband like a lapdog. Intolerable to watch.”

  “Oh.”

  Corisande didn’t know why she felt so disappointed as a weighty silence fell between them—for heaven’s sake, what had she expected? That Donovan would say he’d done it all for her? He might be more of a gentleman than she’d ever imagined, but she didn’t need him to stand up for her, no, not at all, nor did she want his protection—

  “Of course, she wasn’t very kind to you either. That was damned intolerable too.”

  Her stomach suddenly turning upside down, Corisande glanced at Donovan to see that he was staring at her in the dark, and she quickly looked away. “I—I grew used to Lady Somerset’s rudeness a long time ago—”

  “Well, there’s no excuse for it. We were invited guests in her home, but she ignored you from the very start.”

  “That shouldn’t have surprised you. I told you her invitation had absolutely nothing to do with me. But you’re the son of a duke—”

  “Yes, dammit to hell, so I am, and most of the time it’s brought me nothing but trouble.” He gave a dry laugh that to Corisande held bitterness too. “Except tonight, of course. Rank does sometimes have its benefits. Did you see her face when I sent away the turtle soup?”

  Corisande began to chuckle, shaking her head. “Oh, she was aghast, she really was. And her beloved painting, Donovan. I’m sure she expected glowing compliments, but you sat down at the table with hardly a grunt.”

  “A grunt? I don’t grunt, wife. I said ‘hmmm.’“

  “Well, it might as well have been a grunt. I’ve never seen anyone’s face so red. That was Sir Randolph’s wedding gift to her, you know. She wanted that painting desperately, so Lindsay told me, and Sir Randolph bought it for her at an auction.”

  “He should have sold Lady Somerset at that auction instead,” Donovan said bluntly, chuckling now too. “For a shilling.”

  “No, I think a pence. Definitely a pence.” Corisande laughed at the thought, imagining Olympia Somerset surrounded by a roomful of silent, horrified bidders. But she really began to laugh when, to her surprise, Donovan suddenly raised his voice to a high-pitched falsetto, intoning, “Oh, Randolph dear!”

  It was so ridiculous, hearing him mimic Lady Somerset, and she didn’t think she’d ever giggled so hard. When she was able to calm herself she had to try it, too, but this time she added with a haughty ring, “Bring our guest a brandy, will you?”

  “Oh, yes, that was much better than mine.”

  “No, no, yours was better.”

  “Really? Good God, that woman had a vicious flair for ordering her husband about, didn’t she?” Donovan’s laughter had abruptly died down, and so did Corisande’s as he added almost under his breath, “Poor fool. Another marriage made in hell.”

  As silence reigned once more except for the carriage’s rumbling and creaking, Corisande turned her head to find Donovan wasn’t looking at her any longer but staring out the window into the black night, his body gone tense beside her. So tense that she couldn’t help but think of Lindsay’s letter and of last week, too, when Donovan had said unhappy marriages were far more common among those of his station. Something inside her suddenly wanted to know more, much more.

  “You…well, you make it sound as if all marriages are miserable.”

  “From what I’ve seen, most of them are. Bloody miserable.”

  “My parents’ marriage wasn’t miserable. They loved each other dearly.”

  “Then they were lucky. My parents hated each other. Of course, my father deserved to be hated. You were more right about him than you could ever know. He was a bastard through and through. Everything to him was money. He married for money, made my brother, Nigel, marry for money, ruined people’s lives for money—just look at Arundale’s Kitchen. And he played with money.”

  “Gambling?”

  She knew Donovan’s eyes were full upon her now, and she swallowed hard.

  “Yes, gambling. But never enough to threaten his dukedom. That’s why he squeezed every last shilling out of his business ventures. My mother couldn’t stand it, the devastation the man wrought for years without blinking an eye. She finally left him when a woman who worked at one of my father’s cotton mills came to Arundale Hall to tell him that her three children had all starved to death that past winter for want of food. Do you know what my father did, Corie?”

  She shook her head, dread filling her.

  “He hit her across the face when she refused to be silent, knocking the poor woman down the steps. She struck her head at the bottom and died. My mother never spoke a word to him again.”

  Corisande didn’t know what to say, the bitterness so thick in the air she could almost taste it. And she supposed some of it was aimed straight at her. Yet if Donovan was no gambler, why hadn’t he just said so? He’d never denied anything of which she had accused him—but then again, why should he? He probably didn’t care at all what she thought of him—which hurt…more than she could have ever imagined.

  “So your parents were happy?”

  Astonished at how quiet Donovan’s voice had become after the horror of what he’d just told her, Corisande nodded. “Yes, they were. Very much.”

  “What happened? To your mother, I mean.”

  “A fever struck the parish, and many died. My mother, Lindsay’s mother—”

  “Lindsay’s mother too?”

  “Yes. We’d known each other before, but I think that’s what drew us close. Her losing her mother, me losing mine. It was a terrible time.”

  “And your father?”

  Corisande sighed, drawing her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, the thin muslin dress Rose Polkinghorne had made her offering little warmth against the night’s cool air.

  “He’s been as you’ve seen him since the day my mother died, although he was worse at first. We had to beg him to leave her grav
e—he loved her so much. They’d never been apart for even a day since he’d saved her from a shipwreck. She’d just escaped from France, the Revolution, only sixteen years old. But that’s all I ever knew. My mother never talked about her life there. She always said her life had begun the moment she met Papa.”

  Falling silent, Corisande couldn’t believe she’d shared so much with Donovan; it had come out of her like a flood. He must have been amazed, too, for he said nothing for long moments until he exhaled heavily.

  “I envy the man.”

  Corisande looked at Donovan in disbelief, his face hidden in shadow. “My father?”

  “Yes, to have known so rare a thing as what he shared with your mother. Not based upon money, or arranged, or forced upon him, but found only by the purest chance.”

  “And look what it did to him.”

  Corisande had spoken so softly that she doubted Donovan had heard her, his words unsettling her entirely. All she could think of was how her father had wept and wept as if he couldn’t stop, wept for days while she huddled with her sisters, closing her eyes and ears to pain more wretched than she ever wanted to hear again. She had seen then how much it hurt to be in love, and had vowed she wanted no part of it. No, never. Never

  “Corie.”

  Donovan’s voice was so husky that she felt shivers spiral down her spine; suddenly she wished that the carriage wasn’t so dark so she could see his face, not just hear him.

  “I just wanted you to know that you looked very beautiful tonight at the Somersets’. I didn’t say anything earlier, but I should have. You were stunning.”

  Wholly astounded, Corisande bit her lip, tears springing to her eyes. Beautiful? Stunning? Damn him, now he was taking his bloody truce too far!

  “I don’t care if you thought I was no more decorative than a turnip!” she blurted out, bunching her cloak and shifting away from him. “I’ve no more need of your ridiculous compliments, my lord, than you defending my honor to Lady Somerset—oh! What are you— Let me go!”