Secrets of Midnight (6 page)

Donovan didn't finish the thought, his eyes sweeping
over the incensed young woman standing before him as if seeing her for the very
first time.

By God, of course! It could work, though it irritated
the hell out of him that he'd have to go to such lengths to gain his
inheritance, damn his father's soul. But he'd do anything if it would help him
find Paloma. Why not use this situation to his benefit? This woman wasn't
gentry, but a country-bred parson's daughter couldn't be said not to come from
good family, oh, no, indeed.

". . . uncaring, selfish creatures who should
crawl under the nearest rock for shame of everything they've done! Better yet,
you deserve every curse that could befall a household. Fire, pestilence, the
pox—"

"Are you betrothed, Miss Easton?"

Startled, Corisande stopped in mid-sentence and gaped
at the man. She'd been expecting some reply, her heated attack clearly riling
him as his swarthy face had grown darker. But this? "I—I don't see that
your having the pox has anything to do with my being betrothed. Or that my
personal affairs are any of your business."

"That's what we're discussing now, Miss Easton.
Business. A business arrangement, to be exact." To her amazement, he took
her by the elbow and half pulled her along with him until, some forty feet from
the stable, he seemed satisfied and stopped beneath a tall, stately elm to face
her, keeping his voice very low. "Are you betrothed or not?"

She felt her face burning as with fever, why, she wasn't
sure. She really shouldn't answer—didn't
have
to answer. But for some strange reason, she slowly shook her head.

"Can't say that I'm surprised,"
came
his wry response, which only made Corisande bristle
again.

"If you mean to insult me, my lord—"

"No, I mean to ask you if you'd be my wife."

She gulped, flushing now all the way down to her toes. But
before she could say a word, he continued, his tone very matter-of-fact and
more than a little brusque.

"It's merely a business arrangement, Miss Easton.
Nothing more, I assure you, and one I believe you'd be a fool to refuse. A very
temporary marriage in exchange for the improved well-being of the miners and
their families—"

"Not miners," she interrupted stiffly,
finding it difficult to believe a thing she was hearing. It was all so
incredible, how could she? "We call them tinners here."

"Very well, tinners. As I was saying, a temporary
marriage that will be annulled no more than a few weeks after the wedding, my
father's will stipulating that I cannot receive my inheritance until I've taken
a bride. But I don't want a bride, and I don't want to be married—especially if
I'm being forced into it. I'm only complying because I need the money. That's
why I'm here in Cornwall." Donovan waved his arm in disgust at the house
and surrounding estate. "Do you think I'd have come to this ramshackle place
for any other reason? Now, you want my help for the tinners, and I need a
bride. You look intelligent enough to recognize a mutually profitable
situation, Miss Easton. What is your answer?"

Corisande met his eyes, which had become as black as
midnight in this shaded spot. "Truthfully, my lord, you're the last man on
God's earth I'd consent to wed, or ever trust for that matter. Don't count on
me to help you win your bloody inheritance."

With that, she wrenched away her arm and turned,
gasping when she was suddenly pulled back to face him.

"So your concern for the tinners and their hungry
families is merely skin-deep, I see."

"Not at all," she answered tightly, lifting
her chin. "I simply don't believe that you're a man of your word. That you
won't lend help simply out of charity for those less fortunate than yourself is
perfect proof of your gross lack of character. How do I know that your promised
support for the tinners wouldn't be just as temporary?"

"My inheritance includes the controlling share of
Arundale's Kitchen, Miss Easton. Therefore anything I say to be
done,
will
be
done. But since you're so distrustful of my word, I'll have a legal document
drawn up that would ensure that the tinners continue to be paid fairly."

"That is all well and good, sir, but as you said,
your word means little to me. Perhaps if I saw that you truly intend to help
the tinners . . . oh!"

Corisande's heart flew to her throat as Donovan grabbed
her by the hand and began to stride toward the stable, making her run to keep
up with him. But he let go of her as soon as they were inside the doors, the
stable quiet but for the low nickering of the horses and a faint wheezing
coming from one of the stalls. She watched wide-eyed as Donovan reached into
the dirty straw and pulled Henry Gilbert out by the seat of his pants, the
agent coughing and sputtering as he gulped fresh air.

"Is—is she gone, my lord? God bless me, that was a
close call—" Henry Gilbert didn't finish, gaping at Corisande with teary,
bloodshot eyes—the manure smell emanating from the man so ripe that she felt
her own eyes begin to water. "But—but she's still here, my lord! Right
there, standing right behind you!"

"Get on your horse, Gilbert," Donovan
ordered, hoping that the agent wouldn't say too much and give everything away.
Later he'd speak to the man about keeping his mouth shut, but right now it was
impossible with Corisande only a few feet away. "Don't worry about Miss
Easton or her pitchfork. I want you to ride to the mine and dismiss Jack Pascoe
at once, then hire on a man the tinners trust."

The agent blinked, clearly confused. "But, my
lord, you already—"

"Do as I say, man. And while you're there, tell
the tinners their wages have been doubled and that they can expect a good share
of wheat for their families on Monday morning. Now, go—oh, and Gilbert, one
more thing."

"Yes, my lord?" Looking thoroughly
bewildered, the agent distractedly brushed some straw from his coat.

"If the men ask the reason behind their sudden
change of fortune, tell them to thank Miss Corisande Easton when next they see
her. The good parson's daughter's friendly visit has helped me to see the error
of my family's ways."

Corisande caught the hint of sarcasm in Donovan's
voice, her back stiffening when he glanced at her as Henry Gilbert mounted his
horse. If she hadn't witnessed the two men's incredible exchange with her own
eyes, she'd never have believed it. But it seemed Donovan was dead serious
about his proposed business arrangement. As Gilbert rode from the stable,
Corisande felt her stomach do a strange flip when Donovan came toward her.

"What's been done can easily be undone, Miss
Easton, I think you understand," he said in a gruff half whisper that
oddly enough made her stomach do another flip. "Unless, of course, you and
I reach an agreement. Become my bride and see the tinners profit for years to
come, or have things stay just the way they are. It's up to you."

Corisande stared at him, wanting nothing more in that
moment than to tell this despicable, arrogant, condescending—and altogether too
handsome for his own good—son of a duke what he could do with his accursed
agreement. But the image of that vermin Jack Pascoe being banished from
Arundale's Kitchen stopped her biting retort, even more so the thought of the
tinners having a decent wage again and grain for flour to take home to their
families.

And fair trading certainly couldn't compare with what
Lord Donovan Trent was offering, no matter how much she might wish it to be so.
The sale of smuggled goods had brought some relief to the parish, no one could
deny, the earnings used to purchase everything from cloth to medicine. But it
never seemed enough, the need so vast. Now at least the tinners would have a
way to help themselves as well. How, then, could she say no?

"Very well, my lord. We have an agreement. I will
become your temporary bride."

Corisande was startled by the look of relief that
passed over Donovan's face, but it was gone quickly.

"For no longer than you said," she added,
feeling a good measure of relief herself when he nodded. "A few weeks—"

"As soon as the inheritance is mine and
transferred to my London bank where my brother and his solicitor can't touch
it, our agreement will be annulled. Thus I'll have what I want, you'll have
what you want, and we can go our separate ways."

It all sounded so clear-cut, really, and the fact that
he hadn't said "marriage" only relieved her further. But it did
little to soothe the anger she felt that he hadn't agreed to help the tinners
without this damnable union.

"You know I despise you," she couldn't help
telling him, just so there would be no misunderstanding. She wasn't surprised
when he shrugged his massive shoulders, confirming her opinion that, indeed,
all the Arundales were ruthless, coldhearted cads and only out for their own
gain.

"A small price to pay." Then, just as
brusquely, he warned, "Our arrangement is to be kept secret. No one must
ever know the truth. No one, or you can be assured that—" He didn't
finish, but Corisande knew he was referring to the tinners' wages. "Are we
understood?"

She nodded, again biting her tongue.

"Good. We'll be married as soon as I secure the
license."

"But—but that could be only a matter of days,"
Corisande blurted out, stunned. "It will seem strange . . . to the
villagers, I mean, the tinners, my father, my sisters, everything happening so
fast—why, we only met this morning! What will I say?"

To her astonishment he smiled, a slow, charming smile
that made him look three times as handsome and sent the oddest thrill tumbling
to the pit of her stomach. Until that moment, she would have doubted he was
capable of such an extraordinary thing.

"Tell them . . . tell them that I simply swept you
off your feet."

"Impossible! No one will believe me—at least no
one who knows me well."

"Then we'll have to show them, won't we?" His
smile faded as he came closer, standing so near to her now that she could feel
his physical presence as surely as if they were touching, his eyes holding
hers. "You may despise me, Miss Easton, but you and I now have a part to
play, the happy couple eager to be wed. If I know my brother, Nigel, he's
arranged for spies—"

"Spies?"

"In the guise of servants, yes, whom I imagine
have
been paid quite well to serve as his eyes and ears. If
they suspect that things are not what they seem . . . if anyone begins to
suspect . . ."

He took her hand, and she jumped, flushing hotly, but
if he noticed he made no mention of it. Instead, he led her to the stall where
a magnificent gray stallion swung his sculpted head to look at them. "Beautiful,
isn't he? I just bought Samson in London. Come, we'll ride together."

"But Biscuit, my pony—"

"He can run alongside. How long of a ride would
you say it is to your home?"

"My home?"

"Of course. A prospective groom should meet his
bride's family, wouldn't you say?"

Speechless, Corisande had no answer as he shrugged into
his coat and then mounted; she numbly accepted his assistance when he hoisted
her up in front of him.

In minutes they were galloping across the gorse-covered
heath toward Porthleven, Donovan's arms locked around her, his incredibly hard
thighs pressing against her hips, Corisande certain she might have just made
the biggest mistake of her life.

Chapter 6

Corisande was even more certain as they reached the
main road to the village, people she'd known all her life popping their heads
from doorways and cottage windows or wheeling around in their gardens to stare
openmouthed as she and Donovan rode by. And, as her luck would have it, one of
them was Rose Polkinghorne, the plump, apple-shaped woman knocking her starched
white cap askew in her haste to reach her gate and wave them down.

"Oh, Lord."

"An acquaintance, my love?"

Corisande snapped her head around to face Donovan, his
pleasant expression belying the tension she suddenly felt in his body. "Don't
you dare call me—
"

"Keep your voice down, woman, and plant an adoring
smile on your face," he interrupted her in a low growl that demanded her
immediate compliance. "We're playing a bloody part, remember? Swept off
your feet? Now, who is that frenzied lady?"

"Mrs. Rose Polkinghorne." Corisande forced a
smile that felt more like a tight grimace. "The village's best seamstress
and the most flagrant gossip this parish has ever known."

"Perfect. Just the woman to hear our happy news."

Corisande groaned to herself as Donovan veered his
stallion toward the neat whitewashed cottage on the left, all the while doing
her best to keep the smile pasted upon her face even when Donovan tightened his
arms possessively around her waist. So possessively in fact, that even Mrs.
Polkinghorne noticed, the woman's bright blue eyes bulging in surprise as she
glanced from Donovan to Corisande.

"Oh, Lord—"

"Leave this to me," Donovan silenced her with
a curt aside even as he nodded cordially to the gaping woman.

Leave this to
him?
Corisande fumed, as affronted by his tone as by his overweening
confidence. Arrogant bastard! Did he think that he could just blow like a rogue
sou'westerly into the parish and find himself readily accepted? He was a
stranger, for heaven's sake, while she'd lived here all her life, and yet he
obviously didn't think he even needed a proper introduction-

"Ah, Mrs. Polkinghorne, you're looking very well
today. It is Mrs. Polkinghorne, is it not?"

Is it not?
Corisande silently mimicked Donovan's gallant tone, glancing over her shoulder
to glare at him. Instead, she found herself staring in awe, her breath caught,
the man smiling as charmingly as he had done in the stable and looking even
more handsome in the bright midday sun. But he wasn't smiling at her, she soon
realized with an unexpected bit of annoyance when Mrs. Polkinghorne's flustered
stuttering broke the spell, the woman fumbling in vain to right her ruffled
cap.