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.
"Why, y-yes, sir, it is, indeed, an' so nice of
you to say so. Th- that I'm looking well, I mean. Oh,
yes, kind of you to say, uh . . ."
"Lord Donovan Trent."
"Oh, my, Lord Donovan. Of the Arundale family?"
"The same, but I regret to say, Mrs. Polkinghorne, that my bride-to-be and I have little time
right now to chat. Isn't that so, my darling?"
Stunned that such a nosy busybody as Rose Polkinghorne
could be blushing as ridiculously as a green girl, Corisande wasn't aware that
Donovan had addressed her until he squeezed her round the middle.
"I said, isn't that right, darling?"
"Oh, yes, of course . . . my love." Nearly
choking on the words, Corisande was thankfully saved from saying anything more
when Donovan continued courteously.
"My bride-to-be will be calling on you this very
afternoon, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I'd like Corisande to have the finest wedding
gown you can make, and as quickly as you can manage it. Ah, and she'll need
some new gowns, too, the latest fashions, if you please. Send the bills to my
agent, Henry Gilbert, and he'll see that they're promptly paid."
Corisande heard a strange sucking sound but no response
from Rose Polkinghorne, as if the woman couldn't quite gather enough air to
fill her lungs. But Donovan didn't seem to need a reply as he kicked Samson
into a trot and rode on, leaving the poor seamstress to stare after them, her
fleshy pink cheeks ablaze while neighbors came running from all directions to
cluster around her.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Corisande
accused under her breath, grateful that Donovan had eased his
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.
"Why, y-yes, sir, it is, indeed, an' so nice of
you to say so. Th- that I'm looking well, I mean. Oh,
yes, kind of you to say, uh . . ."
"Lord Donovan Trent."
"Oh, my, Lord Donovan. Of the Arundale family?"
"The same, but I regret to say, Mrs. Polkinghorne, that my bride-to-be and I have little time
right now to chat. Isn't that so, my darling?"
Stunned that such a nosy busybody as Rose Polkinghorne
could be blushing as ridiculously as a green girl, Corisande wasn't aware that
Donovan had addressed her until he squeezed her round the middle.
"I said, isn't that right, darling?"
"Oh, yes, of course . . . my love." Nearly
choking on the words, Corisande was thankfully saved from saying anything more
when Donovan continued courteously.
"My bride-to-be will be calling on you this very
afternoon, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I'd like Corisande to have the finest wedding
gown you can make, and as quickly as you can manage it. Ah, and she'll need
some new gowns, too, the latest fashions, if you please. Send the bills to my
agent, Henry Gilbert, and he'll see that they're promptly paid."
Corisande heard a strange sucking sound but no response
from Rose Polkinghorne, as if the woman couldn't quite gather enough air to
fill her lungs. But Donovan didn't seem to need a reply as he kicked Samson
into a trot and rode on, leaving the poor seamstress to stare after them, her
fleshy pink cheeks ablaze while neighbors came running from all directions to
cluster around her.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Corisande
accused under her breath, grateful that Donovan had eased his
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