Free Secrets of Midnight by Miriam Minger Page A

'Tesn't every day that a duke's son comes
to Porthleven an' picks a bride from one of our very own."
    Donovan looked to Corisande, but she still stood
staring at him as if she couldn't believe what he had said. He could swear he
saw pain in her gaze, too, but it was gone so quickly when he went and took her
by the hand, her lovely brown eyes now sparking with fury, that he was certain
he must have imagined it. Yet she came with him willingly—although she was
ominously silent—as he led her from the kitchen and down the hall, the hubbub
outside the parsonage growing louder as they passed through the parlor.
    "Saints in heaven, have 'ee ever heard such a
stir, Corie?" Frances said excitedly from behind them. "It sounds as
if the entire village is here!"
    It looked like it, too, Corisande seethed to herself as they stepped into the sunshine, a sea of faces
there to greet them. People she'd known since she'd taken her first steps and
babbled her first words come to see the man she'd be marrying within the week,
the man who'd blatantly stated just a few moments ago that he cared nothing for
her reputation.
    Such outrage filled her that she was tempted to expose
the ruse right then and there—they should know Lord Donovan Trent for the
horrible, self-centered man he was!—but she remained silent as a stone, her
thoughts upon the sweat-soaked tinners toiling fathoms underground, who by now
must surely know of their change in fortune. She kept silent and smiled like a
besotted idiot as good wishes were thrown her way, while Donovan was deferred
to and bowed to and fawned over until at last she felt as if she might retch if
she witnessed another moment of such spectacle.
    Donovan must have sensed her mounting revulsion, for he
led her abruptly to his horse and drew her into his arms for all to see. She
stiffened, but at the dark warning in his eyes, she forced herself to relax as
he brushed his lips upon her forehead.
    "Don't forget, Mrs. Polkinghorne awaits you, my
love. Tell her I want the dress finished by Monday morning for our wedding at
eleven. I'm off to Helston to see the bishop about a license, but rest assured
I'll see you at Sunday service tomorrow. In fact, I'll be counting the hours."
    That said, he bent his head to kiss her cheek, and
Corisande seized her chance, flinging her arms around his neck and drawing him
down so she could hiss into his ear, "Bastard! You think you're so very,
very convincing, don't you—"
    She didn't get to say more as Donovan's lips covered
hers so suddenly that she gasped aloud, but the warm pressure of his mouth
stifled that sound too. It couldn't stifle the astonishment rippling through
the crowd, however. Corisande's ears burned as she heard embarrassed coughs and
children giggling.
    Yet still Donovan kissed her, his mouth moving over
hers as with a strange hunger until she felt light-headed, her face on fire, her body going almost limp against him. Only then did he
raise his head, Corisande fluttering open her eyes to find that lazy, charming
smile upon his lips and wry amusement—amusement!—in his devil's eyes.
    "I'll miss you too."
    He released her before she could respond and mounted
Samson while Marguerite came rushing over to her side, her sister fairly
breathless.
    "Oh, Corie, you're so lucky! He's so dashing, so
handsome . . ."
    And so mistaken if he thought she was some naïve
country miss he could toy with, Corisande fumed as Donovan rode away,
Marguerite half swooning beside her.
    Oh, yes, bloody mistaken, and she couldn't wait to set
him straight. In fact, she was counting the hours.

     

     

 
    Chapter 8

     
    It was late by the time Donovan arrived home, so late
that when he let himself in the massive oaken front doors, neither of the two
housemaids were there to receive him.
    He wasn't surprised. Imagining the shiftless pair had
long since retired to their rooms in the attic, he was grateful at least that they
had left a lamp burning in the immense entry hall, the