Secrets of Midnight (12 page)

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. Grace 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 would 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!