Secrets of Midnight (19 page)

"Or half emptied the decanter of sherry in the drawing
room. I suggest if you've a mind to drink spirits in the future, you keep it to
a minimum, Corie. Nerves will suffice as an excuse for our wedding night, but
not again if we're to make things look as if you've been properly bedded. Are
we understood?"

She gaped at him, bristling and feeling quite
embarrassed by turns. Properly bedded? Lord, she wasn't going to touch that one
at all, but the other . . .

"I'm not a drunkard, if that's what you're
thinking and—and, well, I don't care what you think! Anyone in my place would
have done the same thing. You were meeting with Gilbert, and I was left waiting
and waiting—and I don't see why I'm explaining myself to you anyway! If you
just came up here to rant at me—" Corisande didn't finish, suddenly eyeing
Donovan warily. "How did you know about the sherry? One of the servants
could have drunk—"

"You told me yourself. Just before you got sick."

She frowned. "That's not possible. I'd have
remembered. I remember tripping and bumping my head."

"And becoming ill?"

"Yes, of course! I told you my stomach still
hurts."

"But you don't remember telling me about the
sherry."

"No."

"Or anything else, for that matter, after you were
sick."

He was looking at her so oddly that Corisande began to
feel quite nervous. "Why did you say that? Is there something I should
have remembered?"

When he gave no answer, merely staring at her, his
handsome face set and unreadable, she felt a flush race from her scalp to her
toes, her sense of unease growing. "You didn't . . . I mean, we didn't . .
. oh, Lord, surely not—"

"No, we
didn't
,
but your not knowing is another damned good reason to stay away from the
sherry, wouldn't you say?" Donovan interrupted gruffly, ending her
torment. Time to end his too—damn if he couldn't drive the image of her sitting
naked in a tub out of his mind!—and get on with why he'd come to her room in
the first place. "I was already on my way to see you when I met Miss
Biddle in the hall. She mentioned she'd asked for your help in replacing some
of the household help, so you must know—"

"Yes, I know,"
came
the snappish reply, Corisande's deep brown eyes full of angry fire. "How
gallant of you to come to my rescue, kind sir! It must have been a fine show,
indeed. I wish I'd seen it! Ah, yes, the vengeful husband protecting his bride!
But I fear you're too late, the damage already done."

"What damage?" Donovan demanded, not liking
it at all that her sarcastic words had stung. "Those girls are gone,
enough said."

"Ha! You think by dismissing them the gossip has
stopped? A story like that has wings, my lord. It's already flown through the
servants. By the end of the day, everyone in the parish will have heard every
detail and think I'm a fool. A silly romantic fool for believing that a fine
aristocratic gentleman like yourself could come and sweep me away, a vicar's
daughter, while all you actually wanted was a good breeder to help you win your
inheritance."

"Bess said that too? A good breeder?"

"She said a lot of things."

Corisande's voice had grown so quiet that Donovan felt
his throat tighten, much as it had last night. And good God, it was bloody
ridiculous! He didn't want to feel sympathy, he didn't want to feel anger for
the hurt she'd suffered,
he
didn't want to feel
anything when it came to this long-legged waif of a woman.

Why, just look at her, dressed once more in her dowdy
ragamuffin clothes and probably quite happily too. She wasn't anything at all
like the sophisticated women he'd known, women whose perfume alone could fill a
man with lust. This chit smelled medicinal, reeking of lavender. Nothing
sensual there. Damned unpleasant too!

The only good thing he could say about her, Corisande wasn't
like those grasping title-hungry virgins who'd been thrust at him every Season
until he'd gone to war. She wouldn't have looked at him twice if not for the
business arrangement she'd accepted, not to benefit herself, but the people she
cared about. In fact, she despised him! Despised him, and she didn't know a
damned thing about him. So why should he care if her feelings had been hurt—oh,
hell, enough!

Donovan glanced out the window to see that Henry
already waited for him below, their horses saddled and snorting in the heavy
drizzle. The man had worked fast. God, how Gilbert had tripped all over himself
to swear he hadn't betrayed Donovan's confidence. It had been almost laughable.
But the last thing he felt like doing right now was laughing as he grimly
turned from the window to find Corisande scowling at him.

"Obviously, my lord husband, you've nothing
further to say, which doesn't surprise me in the least. After all, it was never
a question of
your
reputation—"

"Or yours, woman, if you'd pause to consider
things a moment before spouting at me. Is that bloody possible?"

Stunned that he had raised his voice at her, and so harshly,
too, Corisande clamped her lips together, which apparently was just what
Donovan wanted.

"Excellent. Now, as for your reputation, it doesn't
matter what the servants think, or the parish, or the blessed whole of Britain.
Good marriage, unhappy marriage, indifferent marriage, it doesn't make a damned
bit of difference. And believe me" —Donovan's voice grew even harsher— "unhappy
marriages are far more common among those of my station than the blissful roles
we've been playing—which is exactly my point. You don't have to pretend that
you're happy anymore."

"I—I don't?"

"No. In fact, it would probably be better if you
acted as if you hate me, at least for a time, considering the terrible surprise
you've just suffered. That shouldn't be too difficult for you."

His sarcasm was so biting that Corisande could only
stare at him, never having seen this darker side of Donovan before . . . well,
except a few days ago in the
stable,
and even that
hadn't been as bad.

"Nothing to say? You surprise me, Corie. I'd have
thought you'd be ecstatic to know you're free to act however you please—ah, no
matter. Do what you will. Just remember, people can think whatever they want
about us as long as they don't suspect our marriage is a purely temporary
arrangement. That's the
only
thing
you and I need be concerned about."

"Why did you dismiss Fanny and the others, then,
and not simply reprimand them?" Corisande asked, confused. "That
would have made the most sense instead of leaving poor Ellen Biddle short of
help and with three times as much work to do— Donovan?"

He had strode past her so abruptly that she stood
stunned, but before she thought to go after him he had spun back to face her,
his eyes an angry black.

"Stick to your affairs, Corie, and I'll stick to
mine. Is that understood? Those young women overstepped their bounds, upsetting
the peace of this household. They should have known to keep their gossip well
to themselves." With that he strode into his bedchamber but stopped again,
his swarthy face grown as dark and hard as she'd ever seen it.

"Oh, yes, something else that might please you. I
plan to spend much of my time at the mine, at least during the day. So you won't
be plagued with my presence. I've also informed Miss Biddle and Ogden that you
will be continuing with your charity work throughout the parish and with
helping your father, and that I wholeheartedly approve. So you see
,
your life hasn't changed so drastically. You'll be busy, I'll
be busy. The time will fly, and soon we'll be free of each other's company
forever. I've sent a letter to my brother to let him know that yesterday we
became husband and wife, as well as a formal announcement to the London papers.
That should make things move swiftly. Now, was there something you wanted to
speak to me about?"

Corisande shook her head, speechless.

"Good. I'll see you at supper. By the way, you
might wash that lavender smell from yourself before you go out. It's damned
overpowering. Not pleasant at all."

Gasping softly, Corisande felt her cheeks growing hot
as Donovan moved to the door.

"Have the coachman take you wherever you need to
go. No matter the state of our marriage, you're Lady Donovan Trent now. There
are certain proprieties to be observed. I don't want you going out alone."

"But—but that's ridiculous! I've always gone
everywhere by—" Corisande jumped, the door slamming behind Donovan before
she'd even had a chance to finish. Outraged, she almost went after him but
instead ran into his bedchamber and threw open the balcony doors, cool rain
pelting her face as she went to grip the iron railing. She was determined to
tell him exactly what she thought of his preposterous command as soon as he
emerged from the house, and she didn't care if the whole estate heard her. She
wasn't one of his regiment to be ordered about!

"Why—why, Lady Donovan. Should you be standing
there? It's begun to rain, you'll take a chill."

Corisande looked at Henry Gilbert's upturned face,
tempted to snap at the man—of course she knew it was bloody raining!—but
something Donovan had said made her hold her tongue.

Do what you will.

Oh, yes, he had said those words as plain as the rain
dripping off her nose. So why bother screeching and hollering? He was going his
own way, she would go hers. What could be better? He probably couldn't care less
what she did anyway.

That thought stuck with her as Donovan strode outside,
Henry gesturing to him that she stood on the balcony. But Donovan barely gave
her a glance as he donned his hat and mounted Samson, then spun his stallion
around and urged him into a gallop. Within moments, he and Henry had ridden
from view while Corisande stood shivering on the balcony, feeling strangely
hollow inside and quite, quite alone.

It was clear that he'd dismissed her from his mind as
easily as flicking lint from his greatcoat. She was money in his pocket,
nothing more. Why, he'd scarcely given her a look while she was . . .

"Standing here like a bloody fool getting soaked
and chilled to the bone, is what you're doing, Corie Véronique," she
muttered to herself, running back inside the room. Lord, what was the matter
with her? So she was alone. Wonderful! She wanted to be free of his company,
yes, forever. She could hardly wait!

She shut the balcony doors against the rain and then
ran her hands over her face, which made her stop and stare at her palms, her
skin fairly reeking with a distinctive smell.

She smiled.

So Donovan didn't like lavender, hmm?

Chapter 17

"Are you sure this is the place, Gilbert?"
Donovan studied doubtfully the crumbling white cottage with its small shuttered
windows, no smoke pillaring from the stone chimney. "Looks quiet as a
tomb."

"He's probably still sleeping, my lord. Jonathan
Knill said he'd heard Pascoe was working the last core at Great Work mine, so
he wouldn't have come home until after dawn."

"I'm surprised the bastard was able to find work
at all," Donovan said tightly as he dismounted and left Samson to nibble
at the sparse grass alongside the muddy road. And as a bloody mine captain no
less. Gilbert had brought the astonishing news this morning, though Great Work
in neighboring Breage parish was so huge that there were a dozen such men
overseeing hundreds of tinners. Jack Pascoe ranked the lowest of them all.

To Donovan the man was just that, the lowest of filth.
If he discovered Jack Pascoe had had anything to do with those pilchard barrels
yesterday, bearing some murderous grudge against Corisande . . .

"All right, Gilbert, let's get on with it,"
Donovan said in a terse whisper as Henry crept along in his wake, the agent's
eyes round and apprehensive. Henry's eyes grew even rounder when Donovan pulled
a pistol from inside his greatcoat. "Stay behind me if you want to and
remember, if there's trouble, duck the hell out of the way."

"Y-yes, my lord. Duck, oh, yes. That I'll
certainly do."

Thinking dryly that he would have probably done just as
well to leave Gilbert back at the estate, Donovan signaled for Henry to get out
of line with the door and to stand flush against the cottage wall, the agent
nearly tripping over his scrawny legs in his haste to oblige. "Easy, man.
Easy."

"Yes, yes, forgive me, my lord," Gilbert
whispered back, his large Adam's apple pumping.

Donovan inhaled very slowly, waiting, listening, then
took a step backward and violently kicked in the door, the weather-worn wood
giving way with a splintering crash. As he rushed inside he heard a raspy
intake of surprise and a woman's scream, high-pitched and terrified, Donovan
making out a pair of humped shapes atop a mattress in one dark corner.

"Get up! Both of you!"

The dark-haired woman obeyed him at once, whimpering in
fear as she half stumbled to her feet and came forward into the light from the
doorway, a soiled blanket clutched to her fleshy, sagging breasts. "Lord
have
mercy, sir, what have we done? I—I don't even live 'ere—"

"Wait outside, woman."

She fled, skittering out the door like a plump
terrified rabbit while Donovan pointed his pistol at the corner. "I said
get up, Pascoe—"

"Ais, so I am, so I am! Must 'ee bluster an'
shout?"
came
a decidedly surly voice, Jack Pascoe
not even bothering to cover his wiry-limbed nakedness as he rose from the
mattress on the floor. "What do 'ee want here, my lord? God in heaven, an'
look what 'ee did to my door! Smashed it t' bits —eh, there! Is that Henry
Gilbert standen outside? I see you, 'ee bloody scarecrow, an' 'ee better keep
yer bugger's eyes off my woman or I'll—"