Secrets of Midnight (11 page)

"Oh, I'm sure you haven't, being the charming Don
Juan you are," Corisande bit off sarcastically. "No wonder you don't
want to be married. Why ruin such a blissful existence? Lord knows how many
innocent women you've despoiled along the way!" Furious now, she wadded
the glove in her hand, wishing it was something harder that she could throw at
him. "We may have a part to play, my lord, be it a few days or a few weeks
until this miserable charade is done, but I'll not have you thinking I'm some
naive country twit eager to be seduced by the likes of you! You may not care in
the least about my reputation, but I do!"

There. It had been said, however indelicately. In her
father's church on Sunday morning no less! But Corisande felt much better—no
matter that her face was on fire—and stared indignantly at Donovan even as he
stared straight back at her. For a long moment, he said nothing,
then
a wry half smile touched his lips.

"Clearly my attentions yesterday offended you."

She reddened further, dropping her gaze to the crumpled
glove in her hand. "
That,
and what you said about
why you wouldn't have wasted your time with Lindsay."

Again Donovan grew silent, so silent that Corisande
couldn't help looking up to find that his smile had disappeared, his dark eyes
burning into hers.

"My words were thoughtless, I admit. But I have
every confidence that your strength of spirit will carry you through any trial
our temporary union might cost you."

"How kind of you to say—" Corisande began
tightly, thinking the man could be very glib as well as charming, only to have
him wave her to silence.

"I'm not finished. As for the other, I cannot
promise that I won't kiss you again, given that we're soon to be 'happily' wed
and must appear as such to the good people of Porthleven. But those occasions
might be less frequent if you would keep your hot temper in check—"

"That's very difficult for me."

"So I've seen."

"Considering who you are, of course,"
Corisande added bluntly. "If it wasn't for the tinners—"

"I know, I know. You wouldn't be suffering my
loathsome attentions." Donovan sighed heavily, rubbing his hand across his
forehead. "It seems we're talking in circles here, except for me to say
that I have no plans to seduce you."

"
That
I'm
very glad to hear," Corisande spouted, although for the life of her, she
couldn't understand why her face was feeling so bloody warm again. But it truly
felt like fire when Donovan continued, his voice growing brusque as his gaze
swept her.

"I meant that as no insult, of course. You're
quite an attractive young woman—that pale gray color suits you very nicely, by
the way. But we've a business arrangement, Corie, nothing else."

"I—I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't call me
Corie," she stammered, wondering where her composure had suddenly flown,
wondering if she'd ever felt her heart beat any faster. "Only my family
and friends—"

"I
will
call you Corie," he interrupted firmly, "since it would be strange
for me not to. Everyone else does. Besides, the nickname suits you. Corisande
is lovely, but—it's French, isn't it? Your sisters' names too."

"Our mother was French, but as I told you
yesterday, that's none—"

"I know. None of my bloody affair. Good God,
woman, do you know you're one of the most exasperating . . . !" Donovan
didn't finish, shaking his head as he looked away.

Which was fine with Corisande.
She desperately wanted this uncomfortable line of conversation to end,
desperately wanted her face to stop burning and her heart to stop racing, and
definitely wanted this perplexing man out of her life.

"I've work to do," she said stiffly, turning
back to her task of inspecting the pews. "You needn't wait for me. Frances
makes a lovely Sunday dinner, unless, of course, you've other plans. Which I'm
sure you do. There must be a hundred things that need to be done, considering
we're to be married tomorrow, and I imagine sons of dukes are very busy people—"

"Not at all," he broke in gruffly, making her
start. "My plan is to spend the whole blessed day with my lovely
bride-to-be, just as any eager bridegroom would do. I've spies at the house,
remember? Why would I want to go there?" He leaned against a pew, the
whole massive length of him, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do what
you must,
then
we'll go over to the parsonage
together."

"Oh, no, I'm not going home for dinner. I spend
Sunday afternoons at the poorhouse, then I make calls for my father well into
the night, so if you're hungry, you might as well join Frances and my sis—"

"I'll wait for you, woman! What more do I have to
say?"

"Well, you don't have to shout." Her spine as
rigid and straight as a poker, she huffed away, grumbling, "Swept off my
feet? Ha! More like lost my mind—"

"I heard that."

She frowned and clamped her mouth shut, determined not
to say another word.

Chapter 10

Which was impossible, really.

Donovan was such an infuriating man, much of what he
said provoking her,
that
she soon gave up any notion
of holding her tongue.

"You may keep the parish accounts now, Corie, but
I imagine there are already those among the congregation wondering who will
tend to such things once we're married."

"Thankfully you and I won't be married very long,"
Corisande retorted, as Donovan followed her outside into a balmy spring day
after she'd completed her duties. "I'll explain to any who ask, of course,
that careful thought must first be given to electing a competent churchwarden
and that I don't mind at all filling in while they deliberate, and by that
time, sir,
we
will be happily
annulled. Things will go on just as if you'd never been here."

A pleasant notion indeed, Corisande thought as she
hurried down the stone church steps, not waiting for Donovan.

Of course, she'd never considered that her marrying one
day might affect things, because her husband would fully share in her work, not
want her to stop. He wouldn't be a privileged aristocrat like Lord Donovan
Trent who thought only of himself and his own amusements, oh, no—

Corisande gasped as Donovan suddenly caught her hand and
pulled her up short, his strong fingers enmeshing with hers.

"I said I would wait for you, woman, not run after
you like a pup. Now, shall we slow our pace to a promenade and proceed together
to the poorhouse?"

She wanted to rant at him, half for startling her and
the other half for pure spite, but passersby in the street made her force a
smile instead and say through gritted teeth, "As you wish, my love."

He smiled back, all white teeth and masculine charm,
and settled her hand comfortably in the crook of his arm, which only angered
her further. But she took some comfort in gloating over how totally out of his
element Donovan would be at the poorhouse, like a pilchard out of water as he
was surrounded by orphaned children, the aged, and the infirm. He would
probably flee for the nearest door, sickened by the smell of filled diapers and
the sight of drool . . .

"Here we are," Corisande announced almost
gaily in front of a neat two-story brick building, eager to see his handsome
face turn green. She even took his big hand and led the way up the few stairs,
her move clearly surprising him as he raised a thick black brow. As soon as she
opened the front door, she felt almost giddy as the smell of curdled milk porridge
and mackerel and potato pie greeted them, hardly palatable fare for a highborn
gentleman such as he.

"Ah, Corie, I wasn't sure you were coming today."

Corisande smiled at the thin, kind-faced woman who
rushed forward to greet them, then turned to Donovan. "Mrs. Eliza
Treweake, the good governess here. Eliza, Lord Donovan—"

"Oh, yes, I've heard all about him," Eliza
gushed before Corisande could finish, the woman's bright blue eyes crinkling at
the corners as she smiled warmly at Donovan. "Such an honor for you to
come and visit us, my lord. I'm so happy for you both too. A wedding tomorrow?
How wonderful!"

"Yes, it is wonderful," Donovan agreed
pleasantly, giving Corisande's hand a firm squeeze. "And such a pleasure
to meet you, dear lady."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry we're late, Eliza."
Pointedly tugging her fingers free from Donovan's, Corisande stepped further
into the entrance hall as the sounds of children laughing and spoons clattering
against china carried from behind the closed doors to the dining room. "There
was so much to do at the church today. We had such a crowd."

"Ah, no trouble, no trouble. I hope you don't
mind, but we already began our meal. The children were so hungry we couldn't
wait."

Corisande nodded in understanding and followed Mrs. Treweake
through the broad double doors, knowing Donovan was right behind her. Although
she was fuming again at the insufferable man who took every opportunity to
torment her, she was able to feel a bit smug again, too, at the lively
commotion that greeted them.

At one end of the long oaken table sat the older folk,
most contentedly focused upon their generous helpings of Cornish pie and mashed
turnips while a dozen boisterous children of varying ages squirmed upon wooden
benches set along the sides. At the far end, an attendant bustled around three
gurgling babies in high seats, and it was between these littlest ones and the
wriggling children that chairs were brought for Corisande and Donovan. Plates
heaped high and steaming cups of watery tea soon followed, as Mrs. Treweake
took her place at the quieter end of the table between poor Alice Ripper, who
was blind and quite feeble, and a crippled old Inner by the name of John
Thomas.

"Enjoy your Sunday dinner, my lord."
Corisande knew she was grinning like a fool into her food as Donovan picked up
his fork, but her smile soon became a look of pure amazement when he began to
eat with gusto, clearly enjoying his meal.

"Wonderful fish pie, Mrs. Treweake," Donovan
offered a few moments later when his plate was almost empty. He glanced over at
Corisande, who was staring at him incredulously, and, imagining her thoughts,
couldn't resist adding in a low sarcastic aside, "Surprised, my dear? You
shouldn't be. We Don Juans must keep up our strength no matter what's put before
us. One never knows when an innocent maiden ripe for despoiling might come
along. No, one never knows."

"Cad!"

Her emphatic whisper was drowned out as a baby nearby
began to wail, the exasperated attendant throwing up her hands as she spun to
face Mrs. Treweake.

"Little Mary won't eat 'er porridge, ma'am. I've
done everything—"

"Here, I'll help." Corisande had begun to
rise, but Donovan caught a handful of skirt and pulled her back into her chair.

"No, no, you finish your meal. I'll give the girl
a hand." Donovan was on his feet before Corisande could utter a word, her
eyes so filled with surprise that he bent down and whispered in her ear, "Your
food's growing cold,
my
love. Better eat."

He almost laughed when she glanced down at her plate
then back at him, furious sparks in her gaze. But his attention flew to the
baby, a chubby little thing with flyaway wisps of dark hair and big brown eyes,
when she began to wail afresh. At once he went and scooped the child from her
chair, a painful well of emotion gripping him as he held her close.

"Ah, Mary, the milk porridge isn't agreeing with
you today?"

He'd spoken in low, soothing tones that, if not
completely quieting the child, at least eased her distress to whimpers and
slowed her flood of fat tears. Jouncing her gently, he strolled to the nearest
window where he shifted her to one arm and pointed at some birds fluttering
from shrub to shrub in the small neatly tended garden outside.

"Those little wrens seem to like the lemon
verbena, don't they? Do you see them, Mary? And such a nice song they make too.
Ah, look, there they go!"

Donovan smiled to himself, taking almost as much
delight in watching the child as Mary—grown quiet and wide-eyed, her pudgy
little finger pointing too—seemed fascinated by the birds. But his enjoyment
brought him fresh pain as well, and he stared out the window, thinking of
another child with beautiful brown eyes, his child, who would be nearly three
years old now, that is, if she was still alive . . .

"I think Mary might eat now, milord. Would 'ee
like for me to take her?"

Donovan turned from the window, nodded, and handed the
child to the attendant as his eyes met Corisande's across the room. She was
studying him, a tiny frown between her brows, but when he came around the table
toward her, she immediately left her chair and went to assist Mrs. Treweake,
who was helping one of her elderly charges rise to his feet.

Which left Donovan to retake his seat heavily, the
mounting confusion at the table as the children finished their meals and clamored
to be excused so they could go play outside making his head pound. And with
Corisande purposely ignoring him—though, hell, why should that bother him?—and
all three babies beginning to wail in unison, startled by the noise, and
restless children beginning to run like wild heathens around the dining room,
he could take it no longer.

Corisande was startled, too, when Donovan came up
behind her and caught her by the elbow, his low growl grating in her ear as he
steered her toward Mrs. Treweake.

"We're leaving. Now. Thank the governess for the
meal and say what else you must—that we've many things to do before the
wedding,
whatever
—but do it quickly,
Corie."