Secrets of Midnight (31 page)

"Sorry, my lord, we'll 'ave to drive round to the
stable, we will. There's 'alf a dozen carriages in front of the house and no
room for us—Lord, wot a commotion!"

Chapter 27

Donovan cursed under his breath, more because Corisande
had suddenly flown from his lap to the opposite seat than at anything the
coachman Will Brighton had just shouted out to him. But he cursed aloud when
the carriage came to a jolting halt, and Will added incredulously, "
It's
His Grace of Arundale come to call, my lord! All the
way from Dorset!"

Corisande's amazement must have matched Donovan's, for
she quickly dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve and then readjusted her dress
while he nearly kicked open the carriage door. Dammit, no word from Nigel
first? No bloody warning? Donovan waited for Corisande to follow after him, not
surprised when she refused to accept his assistance as she descended from the
carriage.

"Corie, I had no knowledge of this—" he
began, only to fall silent as she turned blazing eyes upon him.

"It appears our wait is over, my lord, your
brother come
personally to grant you the wonderful news of
your inheritance! As you hoped, things have moved quite swiftly after all.
Shall we go and welcome them?"

She held out her hand to him, and Donovan had no time
to dwell upon the catch in her voice or that her fingers were trembling as they
proceeded together to the house. The entrance was ablaze with light as
footmen—most of them obviously Nigel's from their splendid royal blue and
silver livery—hurried up and down the front steps carrying in baggage and huge
traveling trunks. Standing at the door was Ellen Biddle, her face a bit pale,
no doubt at the unexpectedness of her guests, but directing the flow of traffic
quite capably all the same.

"Up the central staircase and to the left, all of
you. His Grace of Arundale's chamber will be the first door on the right, Her
Grace's the second."

"That hasn't bloody changed," Donovan
muttered to himself as the housekeeper suddenly spied them and
came
flying down the steps.

"Oh, my lord, Lady Donovan! Their Graces only just
arrived—five minutes past, no more. I sent them to the drawing room for
refreshment, and Ogden is seeing to their needs, but of course they've brought
a host of servants with them and even a trio of musicians! His Grace informed
me they intend to stay only a day or so, and then they're bound for London—oh,
my goodness, so much to do. I've already asked Grace to prepare a light supper,
the guest bedrooms are being readied, and fires lit. Is there anything in particular
you think Their Graces might require?"

Perhaps another two floors to separate them? Donovan
thought dryly, although to the housekeeper he shook his head. "It seems
you've things well in hand, Miss Biddle. We'll await your notice of supper in
the drawing room."

"Oh, yes, my lord, of course. And how fortunate
for you and Lady Donovan to arrive at such an opportune time."

Donovan felt Corisande tug her hand free at that remark
and proceed up the steps ahead of him, her cheeks ablaze when he caught up with
her inside the entry hall. But she refused to meet his eyes, appearing quite
nervous as she glanced toward the drawing room. Meanwhile, Donovan was suddenly
hard-pressed to think of anything else but what had happened in the carriage,
the memory of Corisande's silky thighs making him clench his teeth. God help
him, one moment longer, and she would have been his bride in every sense of the
word—

"Donovan, old man!"

"Oh, Lord . . ." Corisande had whispered to
herself, but Donovan must have heard her; suddenly she felt him take her arm
and propel her forward as a grinning gentleman who looked a shorter, rounder,
and much less handsome version of Donovan came striding across the immense hall
to meet them. In fact, she couldn't help thinking that based upon appearance
alone,
Donovan would have made a far more impressive duke
than this slightly dissipated-looking man whose dark eyes swept over her with
some surprise.

"Why, you've done quite well for yourself,
Donovan—she's lovely. Corisande's the name, am I not right, dear lady?"

She nodded, but before she had a chance to utter a
word, Donovan propelled her onward toward the drawing room, saying over his
shoulder to his brother, "I'd like to speak with you in the library,
Nigel. Wait for me there, if you will." Then to Corisande, he added very
low, "I won't be gone long, Corie. My brother's wife, Charlotte, whines
incessantly about everything, but do your best to entertain her. If all else
fails, ask her if the musicians might play for you. I believe Nigel keeps them
close at hand just to drown out her complaints."

With that, Donovan left her standing alone just outside
the drawing room while he turned and strode after Nigel, who had obligingly
disappeared into the library.

Bloody bastard! Of course Donovan couldn't wait to talk
to his brother, so eager to hear about his inheritance that he hadn't waited
even two minutes before ridding himself of her. Just as she imagined he could
hardly wait now to annul her and be on his way back to Spain—oh, God.

Corisande closed her eyes, feeling suddenly almost
dizzy,
the
pain of that reality cutting her so deeply.
But in the next instant she lifted her chin, intoning vehemently to herself, "It
doesn't matter. It doesn't matter!" as she moved to the drawing room door.

So Donovan would soon be leaving Cornwall. Good
riddance! She wanted him to go! So far, far away that there would never be any
chance of her seeing him again. And she wanted whatever had awakened inside her
to go away too.
Please
, please,
make it go away
. . .

"Lady Donovan, are you all right?"

Corisande started, spinning to find Ellen Biddle
looking at her with concern.

"Yes—no, no, I'm not," she murmured, Nigel's
disagreeable wife the last person she felt like meeting right now. "I'm
sorry, Ellen. Could you please give my regrets to the duchess? Something must
have disagreed with me at dinner tonight—I'm sorry."

Corisande fled, avoiding even looking at the library
door as she dodged two footmen carrying a trunk and raced up the stairs.

***

"Good God, couldn't you have at least written and
given us some notice that you intended to visit?"

Donovan wasn't surprised that Nigel's grin had faded,
yet his brother still seemed unconcerned, giving him a shrug.

"Sorry, old man, there really wasn't time, and
Arundale Hall was in an uproar for days. Charlotte always goes mad each year
with packing before we leave for the Season, so I stayed well out of her way
and took myself elsewhere—"

"I can bloody imagine." Donovan cut him off,
surmising his brother had kept himself well amused by his mistresses.

"Actually, Donovan, it's not at all what you
think. I say, you're just as ill-tempered as ever. I had hoped that marriage
might have mellowed you a bit—oh, hell, look what it's done for me."

Nigel sounded so disgruntled that Donovan almost laughed;
instead he went to pour them both a good, stiff brandy.

"Damned good idea, brother." Nigel grunted as
he dropped into a deep wing chair. "I feel as if I've been traveling for
days now and, by Jove, I have been! To London, then back again to Christchurch
to fetch Charlotte, and then here—"

"You've been to London?" Donovan set down the
decanter, growing tense as Nigel gave him a nod and an enigmatic smile.

"So I have, so I have. But hand me that brandy
first, then I'll give you the news I came so far to deliver to you myself."

Donovan obliged him, Corisande's words after she
stepped from the carriage suddenly ringing in his mind: "
It appears our wait is over, my lord, your
brother come
personally to grant you the wonderful news of
your inheritance!
" She had sounded upset, yes, and sarcastic, but
something else, too, her voice strangely breaking . . .

"Are you just going to stand there, Donovan? Share
a toast with me, old man! The necessary papers have been signed, the money
transferred to your bank, the controlling share of the mine in your name. The
inheritance is yours, and I'd say you earned it in record time. Father would
have been pleased—no, elated—and so am I!"

Donovan stared at his brother almost stupidly, the
moment he had so anticipated not anything at all as he would have imagined. He
should have been glad—hell, he had all the money now he could possibly need to
search for Paloma and he was vastly relieved, there was no denying it. He
should have been damned eager, too, to head out at once for London so he could
arrange an immediate annulment and then catch the first naval ship bound for
Lisbon. But he wasn't.

Hell and damnation, he wasn't.

Donovan drank, half draining his glass while Nigel
looked on with approval.

"Good show! Marrying wasn't so difficult after
all, was it? It's only the trials that come later—but no, no bloody bemoaning
tonight. And you certainly can't complain. I'll admit I was a mite concerned
when you wrote to say you'd decided upon a local vicar's daughter, and then when
Fanny came back wailing at how unkindly you'd treated her and saying your bride
had a scarred face—"

"Fanny said . . . By
God,
I should have flogged those women from my house instead of just throwing them
out!" Donovan roared, incensed. "Corie got that scar trying to save
someone's life—"

"Easy, man, I said that as no insult," Nigel
broke in, his gaze suddenly speculative as he studied Donovan. "Your wife's
a beauty,
scar
or no, which I was very glad to see. I
imagine it's been no trouble at all bedding her, not like the times some of us
have had with our wives . . ."

He didn't
continue,
a look of
such distaste on his face as he rose to pour himself another drink that Donovan
knew Nigel was thinking of Charlotte. Just as he was thinking once more of Corisande
and how she'd wound her arms around his neck and kissed him so passionately,
moaning his name

"Another for you, brother?"

Donovan shook his head, his blood already heated
enough, and it wasn't because of the brandy. Instead he waited until Nigel had
retaken his seat before asking, "Why did you go to London? Couldn't you
have sent Wilkins to handle everything for you?"

"Oh, yes, but I had something else to accomplish."
Nigel paused for a drink, the same enigmatic smile on his face as he lowered
his glass. "It's all been taken care of, Donovan. You need have no fear of
getting yourself blown to bits any longer—or I should say,
I've
no fear—"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your service under Lord Wellington is done, man.
Finished. An official dispatch releasing you from further duty has been sent to
his headquarters, so you need harbor no notion that you must return to Spain. I
need you here, Donovan, and now your marriage has given me the means I needed
to ensure you may stay in Britain. Besides, you've already given four
distinguished years to the defense of the Commonwealth, longer than most men of
your station. It's time you think of yourself, of your bride, of having
children and prospering here in Cornwall."

Donovan kept silent, struck by the thought that even a
week ago this news would have sent him into a rage. To have Nigel so ordering
his life? But that his service in the army was over did not so much concern
him.

He still must return to Spain for Paloma's sake, but
not yet. He couldn't leave yet. He would send money at once to the trusted men
he'd hired to continue the search for his daughter while he was away in
England, but Corisande needed him, too, although she'd never admit it. She was
in danger, and not until whoever had attacked her was found and punished . . .

"No argument, Donovan? No scowls? No curses? I
say, old man, you surprise me. You're acting much different than you did at
Arundale Hall. Maybe marriage has mellowed you after all."

"And I'm bloody surprised you didn't wait to hear
some word from Ogden before you set off for London."

"No, no, I decided all must be well after hearing
what you did to Fanny and her cohorts—" Nigel abruptly went still, looking
at Donovan with some chagrin, although an instant later, he shrugged. "There's
much at stake here. The Arundale dukedom, man, what did you expect? But Ogden
has already assured me that everything is as it should be—unless you've
something to tell me?"

"No more than that I don't want my wife troubled
with news of my inheritance. Or anything else we've discussed. It was hard
enough for Corie when those housemaids—damn them, all that business about my
marrying her for an heir. I don't want to see her hurt again."

"Yes, yes, I imagine you don't."

Nigel was staring at Donovan so intently that he began
to feel uncomfortable, going to refill his glass after all.

"Well, well, brother, so it's finally happened."

Donovan tensed, but he didn't turn around. "What's
happened?"

"Oh, I think you know. I envy you too."

Donovan didn't reply, downing his brandy and heading
for the door while Nigel rose from his chair and followed him.

"Don't worry, old man, as far as I'm concerned, we
came here simply to meet your bride. I only hope Charlotte hasn't made her
regret marrying into our family."

Donovan half
spun,
and Nigel
started back a step. "Dammit, I didn't consider Charlotte. Does she know
why—
"

"Ha! The less that woman knows of anything, the
better. I told her the same thing I just said to you, that it was fitting we
meet your new wife. But do you think that made her whine any less? Good God,
she drove me half-mad—complaining about the length of the trip, how she'd
rather be in London already, until I couldn't stand it anymore and rode in
another carriage. But I still had to listen to her moan at every stop, how she
was being jostled to pieces, how—"