God help him. He’d gotten his wish.
Chapter Thirteen
“More tea, my lady?”
Corisande stared into the fire, impatiently twirling the tiny silver spoon around and around between her fingertips. “Would you like more tea, my lady?”
“What…?” Corisande looked up in surprise at Ogden hovering just behind her chair, the spoon clattering onto the bone china saucer. For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t even heard the butler come into the room! Did all of these bloody servants walk about the place on tiptoe?
“Forgive me, my lady. I startled you.”
“No, no, Ogden—well, actually you did startle me a little but…” Corisande didn’t finish, the man’s expression as placid as a basset hound’s while her heart was pounding. In fact, Ogden resembled a basset hound although his eyes weren’t dopey at all, but quite keen. Reminded again of what Donovan had said about spies, she forced a bright smile. “More tea would be fine, Ogden. Thank you.”
As the butler silently obliged, Corisande let her gaze roam for the hundredth time around the immense drawing room where Donovan had left her a half hour ago. In fact, everything about this house was immense, at least compared to the parsonage, from the high-ceilinged rooms to the solid English furnishings.
She’d felt quite ridiculous that afternoon in the dining room, sitting at one end of a monstrous oaken table while Donovan sat at the other, her three sisters, Frances, and Henry Gilbert placed at evenly spaced intervals along the sides.
Not that she wanted to be closer to Donovan. She’d had enough closeness for one day, thank you very much, although the carriage ride hadn’t been too terrible since Estelle—and Luther—had been allowed to join them after all. At that dining table she’d practically had to shout to reply to anything Donovan said, making the wedding breakfast with its many courses more of a trial than she could have anticipated.
She’d never seen such an embarrassment of food, including a saddle of roasted mutton and a baked ham that could have fed the poorhouse for a week, nor tasted the like of mulligatawny soup, pungent with Indian curry, and potted pheasant. Frances, after being assured by Corisande that her father would be fine, was finally able to relax and proceeded to enjoy herself immensely, delighting in each new dish and then spending the remainder of the day exchanging recipes in the kitchen with a very flattered Grace Twickenham.
Meanwhile Estelle and Linette had nearly eaten themselves sick, while Marguerite had barely touched her food, so overawed was she with her surroundings. After the double-iced bride’s cake was served, all three girls, Luther skittering among them, had spent the day eagerly exploring much of the house and grounds with Donovan as their guide, and he’d insisted that Corisande come too. That arrangement had been fine because she hadn’t wanted to be left alone with Henry, although he disappeared soon after the meal to return to Porthleven to clean up the mess at the parsonage.
And to fetch her one valise, forgotten earlier in the day and which Corisande had packed very lightly. Why bring more? Poor Rose Polkinghorne was furiously stitching new dresses for her, although Corisande hoped Donovan’s inheritance would come soon and she wouldn’t have to wear them. Each was as impractical and revealing as her wedding dress, and after Donovan leered at her so in the church, no, no, admired her as he had so smoothly insisted—
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Corisande started again, realizing that Ogden had poured her tea, added a fresh log and stoked the fire, and then walked to the door without her giving him any notice at all, her thoughts running rampant. Lord, she was tired…
“No, Ogden, but—do you know if my husband is still meeting with Mr. Gilbert?”
“Yes, my lady, I believe so. Would you like for me to carry some message to His Lordship? Or perhaps, since it grows late, I could have Miss Biddle show you to your room.”
“No, no, I’ll wait here. I’m sure he won’t be much longer…”
Not that she cared, Corisande thought as Ogden nodded and left the room, well, other than that she longed terribly to feel a soft pillow under her head. She had to make some attempt to play the wistful bride, abandoned as it were, if only for a short time, by her newly wedded husband.
Yet it was rather strange, really. She and Donovan had no sooner bid good night to her family—Linette and Marguerite waving drowsily from the carriage while Estelle, an exhausted Luther snuggled and snoring in her lap, already lay fast asleep against Frances’s deep bosom—than he had led her to this room and excused himself, saying he had summoned Henry Gilbert to the library and that he would return shortly. That had been a while ago now, while here she sat drinking tea…
“And more tea,” Corisande muttered, her gaze flying from her brimming cup to an elaborately carved sideboard where a decanter of golden sherry gleamed among cut-crystal glasses. Except for some wine with her meal, she’d drunk her fill of tea all day. A long grueling day, and who knew how much longer Donovan would keep her waiting?
Corisande couldn’t resist. She wasn’t normally one to drink spirits, well, except on those nights after working hard to land a cargo of smuggled goods. Then she would share a nip of brandy with the men who risked their lives to cross the Channel for the good of the parish—and admittedly, to line his own pockets as well, Oliver Trelawny, the grizzled captain of the cutter Fair Betty would often laugh.
But tonight was different. Soon she and Donovan would be alone for the first time since the parsonage…
Corisande half flew from her chair to the sideboard and poured herself a generous amount, the sweet fortified wine infusing her with warmth as she nearly emptied the glass.
It was silly, really. She shouldn’t be so nervous. She had nothing to fear. Donovan might have been leer—admiring her, but he knew better than to risk even the thought of touching her.
Of course he must know, too, that she would scream to high heaven if he did so much as touch her and bring this whole houseful of spying servants down upon them, and then what would he say? No, he’d be a fool to threaten his inheritance now when it was so near to his grasp. A damned bloody fool.
Feeling better and certainly more confident, Corisande took another long swallow, then refilled her glass and walked back to the fire.
For heaven’s sake, it was just as ridiculous that she was spending so much time worrying about Donovan when she had so much else to think about.
Like her visit to see Oliver Trelawny last night, for one. She had imagined he would be concerned about her impending marriage, so after she had finished her calls she’d gone to see him at the comfortable quayside inn he ran with his wife, Rebecca, when he wasn’t out fair trading—and discovered she had been right.
“Lord, Corie, how do ‘ee expect to go on helping with the landings when you’ll be marrying on the morrow? Do ‘ee think your husband will be pleased to find ‘ee gone from his bed late in the night when I’ve need of you?”
Her face burning, Corisande had wanted terribly to tell him the truth about her marriage, although at that point she hadn’t been sure a wedding was even going to take place. She trusted the gruff, white-bearded captain with her life, but Oliver had been known a time or two to boast in his cups. She couldn’t risk that he might somehow let the truth slip.
“Lord Donovan knows how much helping the tinners means to me,” she had hastily explained. “Helping the fishermen and their families in Porthleven too. It’s been such a terrible time all around, and…and I wouldn’t have considered marrying him otherwise! If I say I’m needed at a sickbed or some such thing, I’m sure he won’t question me.”
Oliver had pondered for a long moment, tugging at his thick beard, then he slowly nodded.
“Very well, Corie, we’ll give it a try. Lord knows, you’re a wonder at hiding goods an’ sending them on their way, so I don’t want to think of going forth without ‘ee.” His raspy laughter had filled the back room. “An’ since ‘ee assured me three years past there’d be a spot reserved in heaven i
f I split my trading profits with you so’s ‘ee could help the poor, I don’t want to gamble with meeting the Old One instead, no, indeed. He’ll have to save his red-hot fork for another damned soul!”
Yet Oliver had sobered an instant later, his weathered face grown very serious as he leaned toward her across the scarred table. “I hope this fine gentleman treats ‘ee well, Corie. ‘Ee know I think of you like me own daughter, an’ after ‘ee did so much to help my poor Sophie…” His voice catching, the burly sea captain had paused to shake his head, his eyes wet when he looked up again. “Well, Lord Donovan’ll answer to me, is all I’m saying. You know good an’ why.”
Yes, she knew good and why, Corisande thought as she lifted the glass to her lips and downed the rest of the sherry, her hand slightly shaking.
Lord help her, even now the memories…the blood, the screaming, the knife blade gleaming bright…
A sudden chiming made Corisande jump; her gaze flew to the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.
Ten o’clock.
And still no sign of Donovan.
“So much for playing the attentive bridegroom,” Corisande said under her breath, which was fine with her. But what wasn’t fine was waiting any longer. She was bloody tired! Discussing their next smuggling run had kept her at Oliver’s until way past midnight. Then she’d had to tend to Biscuit, poor pony, the long day exhausting him entirely, then try to sleep while wondering if Donovan would appear at the church or not—oh, enough!
She didn’t need him or Miss Biddle to show her to her room. After all, Donovan had conducted the grand tour earlier that day, so Corisande knew the master suite was on the next floor. There was her bedchamber, then a cozy sitting room, and his much larger bedchamber. Nothing to be nervous about at all. Separate rooms, separate beds, and a door between that could be locked. Perfect.
So why did she suddenly feel the need for yet another glass of sherry? Resisting the impulse, Corisande set down her glass and left the drawing room, heading at once for the staircase.
The door to Donovan’s library was still shut. No matter. At the top of the stairs, she turned into the right wing of the house, remembering what Donovan had said about how filthy and rundown everything had looked upon his arrival last Friday.
She would never have imagined such disorder, so clean and well maintained did the house look now, thanks to Miss Ellen Biddle, he had said. A pity these corridors and rooms would be empty and dark in only a few weeks’ time, for despite what she’d thought in the past, she had to admit that the house was quite impressive, even lovely. But again, what did she care?
Corisande was almost to her chamber when she heard laughter and young women’s voices. She stopped, the door slightly ajar, and peered into the room.
Two housemaids were turning down the bedclothes. Corisande recognized one of them as the sullen, unkempt girl who had told her last week that Henry Gilbert wasn’t at home, failing to add that the Arundale agent had moved to a smaller residence on the estate. She wasn’t unkempt now, both housemaids’ appearance neat as a pin, their aprons starched and white. More wonders accomplished by the amazing Miss Biddle, that much was clear.
“I don’t see why we’re turnin’ down the sheets. It’s not as if she’ll be sleepin’ ‘ere tonight.”
Her breath catching in her throat, Corisande leaned closer.
“No, but what old Miss Biddle says goes, ‘aven’t you learned that by now, Bess? You’re going to find yourself discharged, you will, quick as a blink if you’re not careful to mind.”
“Well, it makes no sense to me,” came the petulant reply, but soon husky giggles erupted. “Bloody ‘ell, she’ll be one sore chit tomorrow, wouldn’t you say, Meg? As Fanny tells it—just this morning she did, too, whilst she was polishin’ the silver and I was settin’ up the table, well, she said His Lordship won’t be wastin’ any time in getting ‘imself an heir this night. Seems Lord Donovan didn’t want to marry, oh, no, but then he’ll never see his inheritance. Bloody sad problems these nobs ‘ave, eh? Seems His Grace of Arundale’s wife is barren, only because His Grace won’t sleep with her, so the chore’s left to Lord Donovan and his common little bride.”
“Bess!”
“It’s true! She’s barely better than us, a dotty vicar’s daughter, that one. Fanny said His Lordship had to find ‘imself a country girl, a good breeder, to be exact. And so he did, quick as a jackrabbit, but I wish to ‘eaven he’d looked no farther than my hips here. Wide and deep, they are, good for plowin’ both day and night! And wouldn’t I like to be the one sharin’ Lord Donovan’s bed. God help me, I feel all wet sometimes just lookin’ at ‘im!”
“Bess, enough now! Fanny’s probably just running her big mouth. She’s only a scullery maid. How could she possibly—”
“By sleepin’ with His Grace’s solicitor, you pudding head! Aye, just before Fanny left to come here. Wilkins, she said his name was—though she says he wanted her to call him ‘lambkins,’ the strange little fart. Seems they shared a bit of wine and one thing led to the other—aw, come on, Meg, a rousing good tumble’s always the thing to loosen a man’s tongue.”
“Aye, I suppose you’re right.”
“So I am! Look at the rubbish that knobby-kneed scarecrow Henry Gilbert used to tell me! How he wanted to marry me and take good care of me, whilst ‘ere I am, plumpin’ the pillows for some common Cornish chit with an ugly scar on her face and no breasts to speak of. I’ll just bide my time till Lord Donovan’s done his duty and filled her belly, then when he casts ‘is eye about, I’ll…”
Corisande couldn’t hear more; the two housemaids must have gone into the other room. Nor did she need to. Her blood thundering in her ears, she rested her forehead on the doorjamb, incredulous.
Donovan needed an heir? That…that… God help her, there were no words to describe what she thought of him now. If he had tricked her, and it bloody well sounded as if he had, she wouldn’t waste time with a pitchfork, oh, no. As an army officer, he was bound to have a pistol in the house. Yes, perhaps in his room, and she had only to find it. Then she would confront him and demand to know the truth!
“Corie?”
She spun, her heart slamming, as Donovan strode toward her; it was too late now, she knew, to look for any pistol. She had her shrew’s tongue, though—wasn’t that what Donovan had called it?—and, thank God, that had never failed her.
“Fiend,” she spat, not surprised when he stopped in his tracks, those midnight eyes growing hard as he glanced behind him to see if any servants were near. “You bloody, bloody fiend! Oh, yes, I know all about you now. You need an heir, do you? An heir because your brother the Duke of Arundale won’t lie with his own wife—”
“Who told you this?” Donovan cut her off, never having seen her look so furious. He moved toward her, but she dashed farther down the hall, keeping a good distance between them. Good God, if he didn’t catch her and silence her soon… “Corie, answer me. Where did you hear—?”
Donovan didn’t finish, spying movement out of the corner of his eye as he passed Corisande’s bedchamber. He stiffened as he recognized the two housemaids who had been hired long ago by Henry Gilbert, the young women laughing at something and talking between themselves while they closed the heavy velvet draperies. Hell and damnation, he would kill Henry if that fool had said a word to these women!
“Leave my wife’s room. Now.”
Both housemaids whirled to stare at him wide-eyed; he had clearly startled them. His tone had clearly frightened them too, for both women looked pale of a sudden and only too eager to oblige him. They dashed past him without a word and were gone, not even looking over their shoulders, which led him to believe that somehow they must surely have played a part in upsetting Corisande.
Corisande.
Donovan looked down the corridor toward his room, but she was gone, his door wide open. He wasn’t fool enough to rush in after her. Oh, no, his short three day acquaintance with this hot-tempered, unpredictable woman w
as enough to tell him that caution should be his guide. Instead, he stole into her bedchamber and then through the sitting room, pausing for an instant to glance inside his own room.
She was there, standing behind the door leading out to the corridor, waiting for him, a fireplace shovel raised high as if she fully intended to bash him over the head as soon as he walked into the room. She looked so intent, so vengeful, and yet so ridiculous standing there in her white wedding gown with black soot spotting her veil, that he thought he might laugh. He knew he was smiling, and when she suddenly turned, spying him, he simply gave up the chase and went to the fireplace where he sank into a deep wing chair, shaking his head.
“You…you think this is funny?”
She sounded so outraged and yet almost disappointed as she lowered her weapon uncertainly.
“Funny? Not at all, but what would you have me do, woman? Take up the poker and challenge you to a duel?”
Chapter Fourteen
A duel? Was the man mad? Corisande glared at Donovan, so angry that her face felt ablaze, yet she couldn’t be sure if it might not be due to the sherry. She felt a bit dizzy, too, but oh, no, she wasn’t going to drop the shovel—or her guard—for a moment. Lifting her weapon once more, she took a step from the door.
“You must feel very clever, don’t you?” she demanded through her teeth. “You knew damned well I’d never agree to marry you if you’d said anything about a bloody heir, so like the detestable, deceitful, self-interested—”
“Loathsome?”
“Yes, loathsome!” Corisande blurted out, enraged even more that he would make jokes and toy with her at such a moment. “Like the loathsome, despicable miscreant you are, you decided to wait and surprise—”
“There’s no surprise, Corie, because there’s no heir. At least I’ve no need of one. Put down that shovel and close the door so we can talk.”
Now she gaped at him, wondering incredulously how he could sit there like some pompous monarch issuing commands while she fully intended to do him bodily harm…but—but wait. Hadn’t he just said he needed no heir? Corisande blinked, suddenly wishing she hadn’t downed those two brimming glasses of sherry so quickly.
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