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
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
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