Secrets of Midnight (17 page)

"Would you like some champagne, Corie? It might
make you feel better."

"Oh, Lord." Now what was she to do? Tell him
no, thank you, she'd already downed half a bottle of spirits in the drawing
room? Then he'd think she was a drunkard and—oh, she didn't care what he
thought! Champagne might actually make her feel better, she decided, her
fingers still trembling as she began to pull clothing out of her valise and
scatter it about her. "Yes, yes, all right. That would be nice."

"Have you ever tasted champagne before?"

She was tempted to say no, not wishing to reveal any
more about herself than was absolutely necessary—theirs was a business
arrangement, after all—but then she shrugged. "Once. At Lindsay's
twentieth birthday this last February." Corisande smiled to
herself
as the cork popped, the sound bringing back
uproarious memories. Lord, how Lindsay had made her laugh! "We borrowed
one of Lady Somerset's precious bottles for the occasion and had ourselves
quite a giggle."

"So Lindsay is younger than you, then."

"No—" Corisande froze, wanting to kick
herself. "I mean, yes, she's—"

"Here's your champagne."

Corisande took the long-stemmed crystal goblet Donovan
held out to her above the screen, hoping he hadn't heard what she'd said. She
didn't want him to know that she was younger,
well,
she supposed it didn't really matter now that they were married. Oh, why couldn't
her thoughts stop tumbling over themselves? And where was her nightgown? How
could she possibly find anything while holding this silly glass? It was so
full,
she would surely spill champagne over everything . . .

Wholly exasperated, Corisande drained the goblet in two
long swallows and set it upon the floor behind her, then began to dig once more
through her valise. She came up triumphant this time, grateful at least that
Rose Polkinghorne hadn't yet stitched
her a
new
nightgown. Hers was sturdy white flannel with a plain collar that came up to
the chin. She wouldn't have to worry at all about anyone ogling her tonight.

Corisande pulled the pins from her hair and whipped off
her sooty veil, wondering what Donovan was doing as she draped it over the top
of the screen. He had gotten so quiet of a sudden. Ah, no matter. She began to
work at the back of her dress, her fingers searching for the pearl buttons,
until she remembered with a start that there were no bloody pearl buttons. That's
why Rose Polkinghorne had had to sew her into this dress. No time to do
anything else . . .

"Oh, no."

"Problems?"

Corisande frowned. Was the man forever listening for
her every word? She rested her head against the screen, her heart starting to
pound. Now what was she going to do?

"I think I can help."

She looked up and almost wished she hadn't as she
gulped, swallowing air.

Donovan was standing stripped to the waist just beyond
the screen, his powerful-looking shoulders more broad than she could have
imagined, his chest matted with black hair that narrowed to a thick trail down
the center of his taut, muscled abdomen and then disappeared into his breeches.
Thank heaven, he still wore his breeches! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord

"I noticed you had no buttons at the church.
Frances had said they failed to arrive from Penzance so . . ." He
shrugged. "There's really only one thing we can do."

"Do?" she echoed, staring stupidly as he held
out his hand to her. Before she even realized what she'd done, she placed her
palm in his warm one and felt him drawing her from behind the screen, drawing
her closer and closer, until suddenly he spun her around so she was facing the
other way.

"It will look better anyway . . . to the servants."

Corisande felt his hands gripping the satin fabric at
her shoulders and her underlying shift,
then
she heard
a rending sound that seemed to echo around the room. A rending that went all
the way down to her hips, and she cried out as cool air touched her skin.
Clutching what was left of tier dress to her breasts, she fled back to the
screen, not daring to look behind her.

Which was probably a good thing.
She wouldn't have liked the look in Donovan's eyes, and he certainly didn't
like what seeing her bare flesh had just done to him.

With a low curse, he walked back to the bed and
continued to strip from his clothes, hoping Corisande would have the sense not
to peek at him behind the screen. If so, she might faint dead away; he doubted
she'd ever seen a man afflicted with his current plight. He was so hard it
hurt, his turgid member standing at full attention as he cursed again his
brilliant idea to rip her out of her dress.

When he'd seen the lovely curve of her back and the
dimpled flesh above her buttocks . . . sweet rounded buttocks—ah, God, why was
he torturing himself? And there had been no stays, no stays at all, which meant
those saucy breasts were nature's own tantalizing design. With a pained grunt,
he climbed into bed and yanked the covers to his waist, then reached for his
glass on the side table and downed the champagne in one gulp. Oh, yes, he'd
gotten his wish, and it was fast becoming a bloody nightmare!

First she'd had to start laughing on him, her eyes
alight and sparkling as he'd never seen them, her gleeful grin causing the
strangest tug at his heart, and then he'd even encouraged her to smile more
often! And now this . . . this madness seizing him, his lower body full and
heavy and throbbing and no promise of release in sight. If she came from behind
that screen in some clingy, semitransparent muslin nightgown with her pink
nipples showing through, he couldn't say what he might—

"Donovan?"

He groaned inwardly, cursing for a third time the
painful bulge between his legs.

"Donovan, I'm ready to come out now. Have . . .
well, have you finished changing?"

Changing? He almost laughed, but it would have held
little humor. He braced himself, saying as normally as he could, "I'm in
bed, Corie. There's nothing to fear. Bring your glass, and we'll have another
sip of champagne, then we'll go to sleep. Does that suit you?"

He heard no response, but imagined she must have found
his reply agreeable for he saw a flash of virginal white from behind the
screen. He squeezed shut his eyes. Oh, God, give him strength. No nipples,
please. It had been too damned long. . .

"Here's my glass, Donovan. Should I turn out that
lamp by the door?"

Chapter 15

Donovan opened his eyes, sheer relief flooding through
him and no small amount of incredulity, too, as his gaze swept over Corisande.

Flannel? Good God, he'd seen such stuff on small
children but never a grown woman. Enveloped from her toes to her chin, her slim
arms swathed in long cuffed sleeves, her auburn hair flowing down her back,
Corisande looked more a hesitant, wide-eyed young innocent than the half-naked
temptress who had fled only moments ago behind the screen, a very good thing.
So what was this disappointment filling him? Hell and damnation, he wanted
nothing to do with the chit!

"Yes, turn out the lamp."

Corisande
flinched,
Donovan's
voice a surly growl that took her by surprise. He hadn't sounded so gruff when
she had asked if he'd finished changing and . . . oh, dear. Her eyes dropped
again to his bare chest when he leaned forward to take her glass, her heart
already beating hard as a drum as she tried to reassure herself anew that he
must have changed into some sort of sleeping wear. She didn't know what men
wore to bed, but surely he wasn't—

Not even wanting to consider the matter further,
Corisande hastily lifted her gaze, but Donovan was already occupied with pouring
more champagne. Oh, Lord, she already felt as bloated as a fish. She couldn't
possibly drink any more until she had . . . oh, this night was becoming
increasingly more
unbearable
and more embarrassing
than she could have ever imagined!

"Is . . . well, could you tell me where the water
closet—"

"Over there through that door. By the wardrobe."

Still pouring champagne, he hadn't bothered to look at
her, and for that Corisande was grateful as she hurried on bare feet across the
room. His voice was as gruff, too, but right now she didn't care. She felt
ready to burst, her head in a fog, her legs feeling wobbly beneath her, and
probably the last thing she needed was more champagne.

While Donovan wished he had another bottle as Corisande
half stumbled into the water closet and shut the door behind her. Two bottles!
If nothing else, that would have numbed him. But he had only the one, and it
was empty now, the two goblets filled to the brim. He didn't bother to wait for
her, his champagne gone when she reappeared a few moments later.

"Don't forget the lamp."

She glanced at him, but said nothing, which was
somewhat of a surprise. Surely his churlish tone must be irritating her, and he
certainly wished it would.

A rousing show of temper would probably do them both
some good. Help them to get some sleep, too, each hugging their own side of the
bed with their backs turned belligerently to the other like two encamped
enemies exhausted from battle. Watching her douse the lamp, the room falling
into darkness but for the dying orange flames in the fireplace, Donovan
wondered what he could say to make her flare up at him. Or maybe all he had to
do was make some move toward her . . .

"Oh . . . oh, no!"

Donovan heard a dull thud followed by a heavy thunk as if
something had fallen, making him throw back the covers. "Corie?"

A low groan greeted him, and Donovan lunged from the
bed. His heart pounding, for a moment he couldn't see her, for that corner of
the room was so dark. But then he spied a still white form on the floor near the
wardrobe. He rushed to Corisande's side and dropped to his haunches.

"Corie? What happened?" He got no answer
though she moved clumsily this time, her hand flying to her forehead. He did
the same, pushing away her trembling fingers to place his palm gently over her
brow, a telltale lump already forming above her right temple.

"I—I tripped,"
came
a weak faltering voice that didn't sound anything like Corisande at all. "I
hit I hit the wardrobe and—"

"I know, Corie. Shh, don't talk for a moment."
Donovan scooped her up in his arms, trying to assure himself that there was
little cause for alarm as he carried her to the bed. It was only a small bump,
and after a full night's rest she'd be as good as new and eager to spar with
him again, he had no doubt.

Yet she felt so limp in his arms, so helpless, and he
didn't like it at all. Strangely, it made him feel helpless, too, which was
even more bloody unnerving, just like earlier in the day when those pilchard
barrels had been crashing toward her and he'd been too far away to do anything
but cry out her name.

"Easy, Corie, lie still now," he commanded
softly, placing a down pillow beneath her head and then pulling the covers to
her chin. "I'll get a wet cloth for that bump and some water for you to
drink."

"Yes, water. Please, water," she agreed in a
raspy voice that had grown somewhat stronger. "No more champagne. No more
sherry."

"Sherry?"

She didn't answer, moaning softly to herself as she
rolled her head from side to side until suddenly she froze, her fingers digging
into the covers. "The bed! Oh, God, what's happening to the bed? It's
spinning—"

"It's not spinning, woman, you're spinning,"
Donovan cut her off dryly, realizing now exactly what she'd been talking about.

It must have been a damned good amount of sherry too.
One glass of champagne wouldn't have made her feel so
ill,
or caused her to trip over her own feet, though it had probably made things
worse. No wonder his surliness hadn't riled her. The chit was as pickled as a
mackerel! And, just as he'd feared, in the next instant he was racing to bring
the washbasin to the bed before she was sick all over herself. Donovan held her
head and swept her long hair out of her face as she leaned over the edge of the
mattress and retched and moaned, and retched some more.

Finally, when she was done, he was able to leave her to
get rid of the basin and fetch wet cloths and a gobletful of water; Corisande
drank so thirstily that he thought she might become ill again, so he took the
glass away. After wiping her face and mouth, he pressed a fresh cloth to her
forehead, the bump as big as a robin's egg now and quite tender. She sucked in
air through her teeth and cried out, trying to push his hands away.

"Dammit, woman, you need this for the swelling!
Lie still or you'll only start spinning again."

That dire warning seemed to work as she sank back onto
her pillow and grew quiet, so quiet that several moments later he thought she'd
fallen asleep. Sighing heavily, Donovan left her side and climbed back into
bed, but he didn't lie down, propping some pillows behind him to sit staring at
what was left of the fire.

So much for his wedding night. He might have a
temporary marriage, but he couldn't say the evening hadn't been memorable. In
fact, he doubted he'd ever forget it.

First she'd wanted to whack him over the head with a
shovel.

Then she'd nearly driven him to distraction with a body
any man might kill for.

And lastly, she'd walked smack into a wardrobe and
nearly scared him half to death, only to come very close to being sick all over
him.

Bloody hell, he deserved a drink. And fortunately there
was one more glass of champagne.

"So mean. So mean . . ."

Donovan turned to find Corisande had rolled over onto
her side and was clutching her pillow, her body curled into a ball.