Secrets of Midnight by Miriam Minger Page B

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."
    She bristled, wanting to resist, but his harsh grip on
her arm brooked no argument. Somehow she found it within herself to smile as
she made a hasty excuse to Mrs. Treweake, the poor besieged woman surrounded by
so many squealing children hopping up and down like rabbits and weary older
folk anxious to return to their places before the sitting room fire that she
looked almost relieved to see them go.
    Corisande was relieved, too, when at last she and
Donovan had stepped outside, her cheeks so flame-hot with anger that only fresh
air could cool them. Fresh air and an explanation, but that, she saw from the
numbers of people strolling in the street and enjoying the sunshine, would have
to wait until they were alone once again.
    To that end, she summoned the last ounce of her
composure and said pleasantly, "Perhaps you might help me once we're back
at the parsonage, my lord. As I told you earlier, I've calls to make for my
father, and everything's ready in the stable. I've only to hitch the cart to
Biscuit—"
    "Yes, let's head to the stable. I left my horse
there."
    With that brusque reply, they walked silently the rest
of the way, only speaking