viselike hold
upon her if only a little. "The whole village will be buzzing like
bumblebees in June within the hour—"
"Probably less, from the looks of it, but at least
the news is out in the open."
And too bad that the wind couldn't carry the wonderful
tale straight to Arundale Hall, Donovan thought surlily, wondering how Nigel
would react—probably with unbridled relief—once he knew that Donovan had found
a willing bride virtually overnight. Well, not exactly willing, but a bride
nonetheless.
A bride with fine soft hair that smelled of fresh air
and lemons, Donovan found himself musing, which made
him frown. So, too, did the fact that he found Miss Corisande Easton fit quite
nicely in his arms, her shape lithe and slender, the feel of her firm rounded
bottom bouncing against him having jarred his senses more than a time or two
during their ride to Porthleven. He'd felt her high, pert breasts, too,
swelling against his arms whenever he'd shifted the reins . . .
"Which house is yours?" he barked irritably,
thinking now that he should have let Corisande ride her spotted pony.
"The parsonage, of course, near the church and
adjoining school," came her stiff reply. She pointed to the plain brick
spire rising above the scattered rooftops that sloped all the way down to the
harbor. "At the edge of the heath on the other side of the village. And if
you want us to appear the happy couple, you'd best use a lighter tone. When the
wind isn't blowing from the sea, every sound carries—"
"I stand corrected."
Apparently even that statement did not please her for
she bristled in his arms, her spine as straight as a flagpole.
"See here, I don't like this arrangement any more
than you do. But it was your brilliant idea, after all, so at the very least
you could speak to me civilly, as I'm trying to do to you."
Donovan didn't reply, wondering if she planned as well
to keep her outrageous temper in check. Given what he'd seen of her earlier, he
doubted it, but he had no time to dwell on the unpleasant matter further as
they approached the parsonage. An attractive two-story stone house with bright
blue shutters and creeping geranium vines already halfway up the walls, the
place had a warm friendly look to it that helped to ease his mood somewhat.
"Didn't you say something about having sisters?"
"I've three, all younger than I." Corisande
hoped, too, that they were still hard at their studies in the more modest stone
building on the other side of the church. The last thing she wanted right now
was to be besieged by their wide-eyed stares and questions. Her father was
foremost on her mind as Donovan drew their mount to a halt while Biscuit
trotted obligingly into the tiny stable and the comforts of his stall.
What would her father say? she wondered. Might he protest the marriage? She would be twenty this September,
yet still a year shy of being able to marry without his consent. Of course, she
had always done exactly as she wished . . .
"By the way, you never told me how old you are."
She met Donovan's eyes, so lost in thought that she
hadn't realized he had dismounted. As he reached up to help her down, his hands
easily encircling her waist, she said breezily, "Twenty-one."
She held her breath as he lifted her to the ground, as
much disconcerted by the strength of the man—she wasn't the daintiest of
females, after all, but he handled her as if she were light as air—as the way
he was studying her face. But if he thought she had just lied, he said nothing,
as if mulling her response, until, an interminable moment later, he released her with a shrug.
"Then I won't bother asking your father for your
hand."
She wanted to exhale with relief, nervous elation
sweeping her. She really knew little about the intricacies of annulments,
except that they were sometimes difficult to obtain, at least for common folk.
And though she supposed enough coin could buy a man like Donovan Trent anything
he desired, including an annulment, she
upon her if only a little. "The whole village will be buzzing like
bumblebees in June within the hour—"
"Probably less, from the looks of it, but at least
the news is out in the open."
And too bad that the wind couldn't carry the wonderful
tale straight to Arundale Hall, Donovan thought surlily, wondering how Nigel
would react—probably with unbridled relief—once he knew that Donovan had found
a willing bride virtually overnight. Well, not exactly willing, but a bride
nonetheless.
A bride with fine soft hair that smelled of fresh air
and lemons, Donovan found himself musing, which made
him frown. So, too, did the fact that he found Miss Corisande Easton fit quite
nicely in his arms, her shape lithe and slender, the feel of her firm rounded
bottom bouncing against him having jarred his senses more than a time or two
during their ride to Porthleven. He'd felt her high, pert breasts, too,
swelling against his arms whenever he'd shifted the reins . . .
"Which house is yours?" he barked irritably,
thinking now that he should have let Corisande ride her spotted pony.
"The parsonage, of course, near the church and
adjoining school," came her stiff reply. She pointed to the plain brick
spire rising above the scattered rooftops that sloped all the way down to the
harbor. "At the edge of the heath on the other side of the village. And if
you want us to appear the happy couple, you'd best use a lighter tone. When the
wind isn't blowing from the sea, every sound carries—"
"I stand corrected."
Apparently even that statement did not please her for
she bristled in his arms, her spine as straight as a flagpole.
"See here, I don't like this arrangement any more
than you do. But it was your brilliant idea, after all, so at the very least
you could speak to me civilly, as I'm trying to do to you."
Donovan didn't reply, wondering if she planned as well
to keep her outrageous temper in check. Given what he'd seen of her earlier, he
doubted it, but he had no time to dwell on the unpleasant matter further as
they approached the parsonage. An attractive two-story stone house with bright
blue shutters and creeping geranium vines already halfway up the walls, the
place had a warm friendly look to it that helped to ease his mood somewhat.
"Didn't you say something about having sisters?"
"I've three, all younger than I." Corisande
hoped, too, that they were still hard at their studies in the more modest stone
building on the other side of the church. The last thing she wanted right now
was to be besieged by their wide-eyed stares and questions. Her father was
foremost on her mind as Donovan drew their mount to a halt while Biscuit
trotted obligingly into the tiny stable and the comforts of his stall.
What would her father say? she wondered. Might he protest the marriage? She would be twenty this September,
yet still a year shy of being able to marry without his consent. Of course, she
had always done exactly as she wished . . .
"By the way, you never told me how old you are."
She met Donovan's eyes, so lost in thought that she
hadn't realized he had dismounted. As he reached up to help her down, his hands
easily encircling her waist, she said breezily, "Twenty-one."
She held her breath as he lifted her to the ground, as
much disconcerted by the strength of the man—she wasn't the daintiest of
females, after all, but he handled her as if she were light as air—as the way
he was studying her face. But if he thought she had just lied, he said nothing,
as if mulling her response, until, an interminable moment later, he released her with a shrug.
"Then I won't bother asking your father for your
hand."
She wanted to exhale with relief, nervous elation
sweeping her. She really knew little about the intricacies of annulments,
except that they were sometimes difficult to obtain, at least for common folk.
And though she supposed enough coin could buy a man like Donovan Trent anything
he desired, including an annulment, she
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