Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 17

"I'm not surprised. Considering she's your dearest friend, I mean. I doubt you'd have wasted your time with her if she was anything less than someone you could respect."

She heard a tinge of bitterness there, too, but Donovan had turned away again, and she quickly returned to Lindsay's letter. Yet it took her a moment to be able to focus on the page, her thoughts racing. Dear G.o.d, could she have been so wrong about him? Like a phantom voice, Donovan's words last night suddenly came back to ring loud and clear in her mind . . . "You don't know a d.a.m.ned thing about me!"

"Oh, Lord," she murmured under her breath, finding her place to reread Lindsay's hastily scrawled lines.

. . . but they couldn't see Lord Donovan caring a whit about money-he never had before-which made them say then that maybe he had simply fallen in love. Which is why I had to write a new letter to you, Corie! Lord Donovan doesn't sound anything like the horrible man you described in your letter, no, not at all! Self-centered? Caring about nothing but himself? It's as if we're talking about two different people. To me, Lord Donovan sounds more like the man you said you wanted to many, remember? When we made our secret pact the day before I left for London? Someone who cares about helping people and righting wrongs? And you have married him! Oh, Corie, I've heard he's terribly handsome and brave and highly respected by his fellow officers, and his friends here wish him the best and you, too, even though they don't know you. But I know you better than you think I do, and I can just imagine the trouble you've been giving him with that temper of yours and all the while thinking the worst of him- "We're nearly home, Corie. Maybe you might want to finish reading later."

Corisande glanced up to see that, indeed, the huge Tudor house was appearing through the trees. She had only another few paragraphs of Lindsay's letter to go, but maybe she had had enough for now. Her head was spinning, her thoughts in a whirl, and now something was plaguing her terribly, something she'd heard about only a short while ago . . .

"Donovan."

She had his attention, his eyes upon her, but suddenly she felt as if she had a huge lump in her throat. For heaven's sake, did she want to know or not? If she'd been struck by a blinding lightning bolt, she couldn't have been more stunned by everything Lindsay had told her. Did she really want to suffer another shock when deep down she already sensed his answer?

"I . . . well, I was wondering-"

"Careful, Corie, tighten up on the reins! Do you want your horse to walk headfirst into a tree?"

She gasped, so lost in her private quandary that she hadn't even noticed she'd let the reins slip in her hands and Pete was veering ominously close to the stately line of elms flanking the drive. Quickly regaining control, she pulled the gelding back closer to Samson, but she knew the moment was lost.

Suddenly she didn't want to hear Donovan tell her that, yes, he had gone very early to Arundale's Kitchen on the same morning they had made their agreement, where he'd spoken to young Morton Robberts among others and learned firsthand of the tinners' wretched plight.

She didn't want to hear that he had spoken to Jack Pascoe either, sensing Donovan had fired that b.a.s.t.a.r.d from the mine hours before he'd even met her and learned she would do almost anything to help the tinners and their families.

Anything. Even marry a man she despised.

Which led her to realize she hadn't needed to marry Lord Donovan Trent to see life improved for the tinners, although he'd made her believe that that was so. But why?

He certainly hadn't married her for love-leave it to Lindsay to hear something like that and latch onto it, hoping for Corisande's sake that it might be true. She could just imagine that was what the rest of Lindsay's letter had to say. So she should write right back and tell her romantic friend that Donovan couldn't b.l.o.o.d.y wait to annul her and return to Spain! In fact, their sham marriage would probably be over in days, even hours. Surely a letter with that wonderful news would be coming anytime soon from His Grace, Nigel Trent, the Duke of Arundale.

"Corie?"

She turned her head as if snapping free of some dream, her eyes meeting Donovan's as he reached up to help her down from her horse. She hadn't even realized they had come to a stop in front of the house, and a liveried footman already hovered to take Pete and Samson back to the stable. But she barely saw the servant, her pulse pounding as she felt Donovan's hands slide around her waist; she felt his strength as he lifted her easily and drew her toward him to set her upon the ground, his expression intent as he searched her face.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me? I'm sorry if I startled you back by the trees, but I didn't want to add bruises to the stiffness you're feeling already."

Another apology. This one uttered so sincerely, she could almost feel herself believing that he might truly care about her welfare. Almost.

"It was nothing. I'm tired, Donovan. It was a long night, and I got little sleep. I'll hardly prove enlivening company at the Somersets' if I don't get some rest."

"Go ahead, then. We're not expected there until six-"

Corisande was gone before he'd finished, leaving him to stare after her as she went inside. And the first thing she did when she got to her room moments later was to crumple Lindsay's letter and throw it into the fire.

Chapter 25.

"I can't believe I agreed to come here."

Corisande's hiss had been meant for Donovan's ears alone, but the stiffly dressed footman taking her cloak raised a brow. She shot a glare at him, and he turned away, leading the way to the Somersets' drawing room although she was loath to follow. Only Donovan's firm hand at her elbow made her move forward reluctantly.

"You see? Even the servants are haughty in this wretched place. I don't know how Lindsay withstood it. I never liked coming here."

"You sound as if you rarely visited."

"Ha! Lady Somerset never wanted me to. The last time was for Lindsay's twentieth birthday party, and oh my, Lady Somerset wasn't very happy to see me appear at her door. But we got her back, Lindsay and I."

"With the champagne?"

Corie nodded as she glanced at Donovan, warmed more than she wanted to be by his amused smile. Warmed to her toes, and it was so ridiculous too!

So she'd been wrong about why he didn't want to be married-and the man wasn't a Don Juan. So he wasn't a gambler, either, or anything at all like his late father. He'd still married her because he needed money-tricked her into becoming his temporary bride, no less!-and what about how surly he'd been to her?

She wished he would go back to being surly, too, instead of holding to his b.l.o.o.d.y truce. His amiability was just making everything worse. And she wished she'd never read that letter; the thoughts roiling through her mind had prevented her from getting any rest this afternoon.

"Ah, Lord Donovan, come in, come in!"

Corisande felt his hand tighten at her elbow as they entered the drawing room; she sensed he didn't like Olympia Somerset any more than she did, and yet he had accepted the invitation, she supposed because it was necessary that they appear socially as husband and wife. And to turn down the premier hostess of the parish? Heaven forbid.

She'd told Donovan in the carriage that Lady Somerset had only asked them to dinner because of who he was. It didn't have anything to do with her. And here was perfect proof. Corisande might have been invisible for all the notice Olympia gave her, the woman one huge rustling mountain of green silk as she rushed forward, her eyes wholly on Donovan.

"I'm so honored, Lord Donovan-Oh, Randolph dear! Bring our guest a brandy, will you?"

Corisande winced for Lindsay's father as he turned away from coming to greet them with a near-inaudible sigh; if there was ever a man who should annul his wife straightaway, it was Sir Randolph Somerset. But she doubted after eight years with such a hideously domineering woman he had the will to speak up, let alone to be rid of her.

"Excuse me, Donovan, will you? Lady Somerset."

Corisande was spared hardly a glance from her hostess as she crossed the room to Sir Randolph. At once a kindly smile split the man's face when he saw her coming, making him look much less browbeaten and weary, his grayish-blue eyes filled with warmth.

"Ah, Corie, you're lovely as a picture in that yellow dress. I've been wondering how you were doing. With Lindsay gone these past two weeks, I feel as if I've lost you as well."

"I'm fine, Sir Randolph, truly," she murmured, noting how the crystal decanter was shaking as he tried to pour brandy into a gla.s.s. "If you'd like, I could help . . ."

"No, no, I have it. Drank too much of the stuff today, I fear, but" -he glanced toward his wife, lowering his voice- "not a word to Olympia now, Corie, are we agreed? A man has to have some pleasure-"

"Randolph!"

Corisande winced again as the decanter hit the gla.s.s with a ring and Sir Randolph cursed under his breath.

"Good heavens, man, what could be taking you so long? I said a brandy for our guest-oh, dear, you must forgive him, Lord Donovan. Welles, our butler, is seeing to the dinner-"

"It's no matter," Donovan said tersely, doing his utmost to remain civil. But it was becoming quite difficult, especially when Lady Somerset leaned toward him conspiratorially, the woman's ma.s.sive b.r.e.a.s.t.s brus.h.i.+ng against his coat as she clucked her tongue in sympathy.

"Such a trying week you must have had since your wedding, my lord. A new bride, and one so . . . well, how shall I put it? One so unaccustomed to the way of things. That's why I withheld my invitation until now. So Corisande might adjust, of course."

"Adjust, madam?" Having a good idea as to exactly what the woman was implying, Donovan took a step backward only to have Lady Somerset draw closer, her voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"Oh, yes, indeed. She must have had a terrible shock, poor dear, but surely by now she's cast aside any romantic illusions and come to understand that many members of our cla.s.s must marry to secure their family's lineage or fortune. I truly feel for you, my lord. To be hastened into a marriage-having to choose a bride so quickly. It's a pity, truly, that my husband's daughter, Lindsay, wasn't here. She's quite aware of her responsibilities, oh, yes, indeed, I saw to her education on that score myself. I'm sure you would have had a much easier time-"

"I already have a wife, Lady Somerset, and so far I'm quite content, thank you," Donovan cut in, thinking with regret that Corisande had been right about gossip flying through the parish. He wanted to say more-h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, having her discussed so callously by this woman was infuriating!-but here Sir Randolph came with his brandy . . .

"Sorry about that, old man. d.a.m.ned gla.s.s cracked, had to fill another."

Donovan gave an unconcerned shrug, tempted to tell the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d that he would have cracked a gla.s.s, too, if he had someone of Olympia Somerset's ilk bellowing at him across a room. He took a drink, his gaze meeting Corisande's. She looked entirely reluctant to join them, miserable even as she stood all alone near the fireplace, and he didn't blame her. Dammit, he should never have brought her here, with Lady Somerset rudely snubbing her from the moment they'd walked in the door. There had to be something he could do to make her feel better.

"I hope the brandy is to your liking, my lord. Oh, splendid, here's Welles now. Shall we adjourn to dinner?"

"Actually, madam, the brandy tastes a bit off to me."

Donovan heard a horrified gasp, which was exactly what he had hoped. Lady Somerset looked quite stricken as she glanced at his gla.s.s. "Off, my lord?"

"Yes, not quite what I'm accustomed to." He set the gla.s.s down with a decided thunk of distaste, pleased to see, too, the astonished look on Corisande's face. "It's dreadful, really, but don't trouble yourself. The barrel could have been bad."

"Bad-oh, my, no, surely not. Welles? Didn't you procure the brandy just this morning? You told me the fellow said it was the very best!"

"Yes, my lady, so he did, so he did," the red-faced butler, as round and squat as a barrel himself, hastened to a.s.sure her while Corisande chewed her lower lip, wondering if the brandy might have been from Oliver Trelawny's s.h.i.+pment last night. Oh, Lord, she hoped not . . .

"I thought it tasted fine," Sir Randolph said to no one in particular. Lady Somerset turned round to glare at him.

"Then it couldn't have been fine because you're certainly no connoisseur!"

"I said it was no matter." Donovan's bored voice rose above the storm while Corisande looked at him in amazement, never having heard him use such a snooty, aristocratic tone. "Didn't you say something about dinner, madam?"

Lady Somerset spun to face him, her double chin bouncing. "Why, yes, yes, I believe everything is ready. Welles?"

"Ready, my lady, yes, everything's ready," the butler a.s.sured her, rus.h.i.+ng forward to lead the way.

"Splendid, then, I'm famished," Donovan announced. "If I may escort you, madam, to the dining room? Sir Randolph, I'll entrust my wife to you."

Corisande had never seen Lady Somerset so fl.u.s.tered as the woman took Donovan's arm and left the room with him, never seen Lady Somerset nonplussed ever before for that matter, and she was immensely enjoying the spectacle. It seemed Sir Randolph was enjoying himself, too, a bemused grin on his face as he offered Corisande his arm. But she waved for him to wait a moment while she went to the small table where Donovan had left his brandy, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he and Olympia weren't waiting for them in the entry hall before she lifted the gla.s.s and took a healthy sip.

"Well? Is it off?"

Relief poured through Corisande as the brandy snaked a warm, silken path down her throat, but to Sir Randolph she gave a noncommittal shrug. In truth, she was no connoisseur either, yet it certainly tasted better than any spirits she'd tried before.

"I suppose my husband would know," she said lamely, hoping Sir Randolph wouldn't feel too offended. But he didn't look offended; instead, he seemed quite eager to make their way to the dining room as he again offered his arm. Corisande was eager, too, giddy excitement rus.h.i.+ng through her as she wondered what Donovan could possibly be up to. Dear Lord, it was almost as if he were baiting Lady Somerset on purpose.

"Yes, a quaint little place you have, Lady Somerset, indeed. Cornwall never ceases to astonish me."

A quaint little place? Corisande would never have called the Somerset residence quaint. Why, it was nearly as large as Donovan's home, and certainly more ancient. Surely he could see that, too, she thought as she accompanied Sir Randolph into the dining room to find Donovan studying the paintings adorning the walls as if he were in some museum, while Lady Somerset seemed to be hanging in agitation upon his every word.

"Hmmm."

Hmmm? Was that all the man planned to say? About a large painting by an Italian master of fat cherubs making music, Lady Somerset's pride and joy? It appeared so as Donovan took his seat at the silver-laden table. Lady Somerset's face was beet-red as she swatted away the a.s.sistance of a footman and signaled for Welles to begin the meal.

Donovan at once sent back his turtle soup, saying it wasn't quite hot enough.

Then, to Corisande's complete astonishment, he sent it back again, saying it had scalded his tongue.

She began to giggle into her linen napkin; she couldn't help it, but Donovan's raised eyebrow finally made her stop. But he hadn't looked stern, no, not at all. She would swear he was smiling behind his napkin, too, and so was Sir Randolph. At least until he tried to send away his soup, saying he'd never liked turtle, and Lady Somerset in an exasperated huff sent all the bowls away, demanding that the first course should start at once.

Donovan made no complaints about the wide array of dishes appearing at the table-Lady Somerset clearly had gone out of her way to impress him-no, not complaining through the first course or the second. They chatted pleasantly about the weather and the fine choice of wines, nothing controversial at all. But as the third course began, he waved his hand and pushed away from the table.

Lady Somerset's jaw dropped in dismay.

"But-but, my lord, there is the best yet to come. Almond custard and potted pheasant with imported figs and apple tart, my cook's specialties-"

"I am one man, madam, not twenty. Perhaps if you've so much food yet remaining, you might send it to the parish poorhouse. I'm sure Mrs. Eliza Treweake would be very happy, indeed, to offer such delicious fare to her charges."

"Yes, Olympia, I think that's a d.a.m.ned marvelous idea," Sir Randolph spoke up, clearly emboldened by Donovan's example. "You really had the cook make too-"

"Oh, be still, Randolph!" So irritated now that she didn't seem to care how she might appear to Donovan, Lady Somerset turned upon Corisande. "Obviously you've been filling your new husband's head with the same ridiculous notions you foisted upon our Lindsay! Well, I'll have none of it, my girl, not in this house."

"Are you asking us, then, madam, to take leave of your kind hospitality?"

Corisande's gaze jumped to Donovan, whose voice was so forbidding that she began to feel nervous. Suddenly the situation wasn't so humorous anymore, although Lady Somerset at once appeared to back down.

"Of-of course not, Lord Donovan, pray forgive me. Perhaps I did have my cook prepare a bit too much food-yes, I can see that now."

Lady Somerset didn't say, however, as she signaled for the footmen to clear the table, that she planned to send the remainder to the poorhouse, which didn't surprise Corisande. Nor was she surprised that Donovan had suggested such a thing, although even that morning she would have been dumbstruck.

But that he would treat Lady Somerset in so arrogant a manner, yes, that had surprised her. Delighted her, too, and she smiled at him across the white-clothed table. It had been so wonderful to see Olympia Somerset undone. Lindsay would never believe it . . .

"Welles, serve port to the gentlemen while Lady Donovan and I retire to the drawing room."

"I think not, madam," Donovan said firmly, as warmed from the smile Corisande had just gifted him as the wine served at dinner. He rose from his chair, having no intention of letting her go anywhere alone with their hostess, not when he'd done his utmost to cheer her. "No insult to you, of course, Sir Randolph, but it grows late. I think Corie and I must bid you good night."

"No insult taken, old man."

Hearing the telling slur in Sir Randolph's voice, whose eyes had grown puffy and bleary from too much drinking, Donovan felt great pity for his host. He had taken a liking to Sir Randolph from the moment he'd seen how warmly the man had welcomed Corisande; now, as Lady Somerset threw her husband a withering glance, Donovan couldn't help wondering what had ever made him marry such a witch.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to stay longer, my lord? We could all retire to the drawing room, if you prefer-"

"Let them be, Olympia, for G.o.d's sake," Sir Randolph broke in to everyone's surprise and, apparently, his own. He cast a halfway apologetic look at his outraged wife and then got up shakily, a footman rus.h.i.+ng forward to steady him as he waved a hand to the door. "Come, I'll walk with you."

Corisande didn't wait for Donovan but left the table and hurried to offer her arm to Sir Randolph, who leaned upon her heavily as they left the dining room. Donovan was right behind them. Lady Somerset made no effort to follow, obviously too incensed to move.

Which was perfectly fine with Corisande. If she never saw the woman again in her lifetime, it would be too soon, but she didn't feel the same at all about Lindsay's father. Especially when he turned to her as the footman shadowing them went round to open the front door.

"Have you heard from my daughter, Corie?"

"Yes, yes, I have," she murmured, struck by the sadness in Sir Randolph's eyes. "Lindsay's fine, having a lovely time. I'm sure you'll get a letter, too, very soon. I know she must miss you terribly."

"Ah, if she doesn't write, it would be no unexpected thing. The life she had here was not a happy one . . . well, after her mother died. I don't think she's ever forgiven me for bringing Olympia into this house." Then abruptly he shrugged and smiled wanly. "Don't mind me. Go on, go on. A good night to you both. You certainly made it one for me."