“Marguerite, whatever is the matter?”
Corisande sank in front of the chair to draw her sister into her arms, Marguerite’s sobbing cutting her to the quick. She glanced up at Donovan, who had accompanied her into the library, his handsome face etched with concern. He appeared as at a loss as she felt, which made her hug Marguerite closer.
“I’m so sorry if I was cross with you, truly. You must tell me what’s wrong. This isn’t like you at all.”
Indeed, Corie had never seen Marguerite cry so piteously, her sister’s lovely face pale and streaked with tears. The most beautiful of all the Easton girls with her auburn hair more a rich burnished red than brown, an incomparable figure, and angelic features that reminded Corie so much of their mother, Marguerite shook her head as if reluctant to answer.
“Come now, what has distressed you so? Please tell us. Donovan is here, too. We only wish to help—”
“L-London,” Marguerite finally offered, hiccupping. “I don’t wish to go—it was so awful last year—”
“Good God, Corie, what is this?” Donovan interrupted, his hands clenching. “Marguerite, did something untoward happen to you there? Someone behave in an ungentlemanly fashion—hell and damnation! If so, you must give me his name at once!”
“No, no, just cruel—the women there. I’m a parson’s daughter! I didn’t fit in at all. Every outing, every ball was so dreadful…”
“Oh, dear, we should have been with you.” Sinking back on her heels, Corie smoothed a tear-dampened tendril from Marguerite’s face. “The twins were so young then, and we thought Lindsay’s aunt Winnie would make a fine chaperone for you, and properly introduce you—”
“She did…she was wonderful, and so kind…but she didn’t see their slights. My hair. My gowns. My country accent…nothing suited them! No voucher ever came from the patronesses of Almack’s, though Aunt Winnie said it would surely be the next week—and then another week passed, and then another. And only the worst sort would dance with me when we did attend parties…ill-mannered fortune hunters, all of them—ah, Corie! Let me stay here with Papa,please!”
Crushed by Marguerite’s renewed sobs and that she would have suffered so, Corie glanced again at Donovan to see he’d gone to sit at his massive desk and put pen to paper. As swarthy as a Gypsy, his grim countenance was truly ominous to behold.
“Donovan?”
“A letter to my brother, Nigel. Clearly Marguerite’s position as my sister-in-law was not enough to spare her such abuse, but I vow it won’t happen again. This Season it will be His Grace, the Duke of Arundale, who introduces her at Almack’s, and we’ll be there with her as well. Let those biddies dare to titter behind their fans and insult my beloved wife’s sister!”
Marguerite’s sobs had stopped and she stared with amazement at Donovan, while Corie flushed with warmth at the heated look he threw her.
How could it be that two people more like oil and water upon meeting could love each other so fiercely? So completely? More grateful than ever for the day she first saw him—threatening to skewer his agent, Henry Gilbert, with a pitchfork no less!—she turned back to Marguerite.
“There, you see? All will be well. You’ll have enough peers of the realm surrounding you that no one will dare utter even an unkind whisper. Now, will you accompany us to London, dearest sister?”
Marguerite felt such a welling of gratitude for Corie and Donovan that she could but nod, while anything more her sister might have said was interrupted by a knock at the library door.
“Enter!” Clearly still furious, Donovan’s raised voice made the footman open the door with some trepidation.
“A-a letter, my lord.”
“Come in, man!”
The footman hastily obliged him and, after handing the letter to Donovan, as quickly left the library.
A letter. Could it be…? Her heart beginning to pound, Marguerite peered through damp lashes at her brother-in-law, whose countenance now appeared more than pleased.
“It’s from Walker Burke. He’s at Summerlin Hall with his father—but will leave for London within the week. Excellent! After three years, I look forward to conversing with him in person rather than by correspondence. What a memorable Season it will be! The future Duke of Summerlin, Andrew’s long-lost brother. Jared Giles, once the hated Phoenix. No doubt the Prince Regent will make an appearance as well to personally greet them and soothe any feathers still ruffled by his royal pardon.”
Donovan strode from the desk to help Corie to her feet, his arm going around her waist to hug her close to him as he smiled down at Marguerite.
“And you, sweet sister. None there will be lovelier—well, other than my beautiful wife.” Donovan pressed a fervent kiss to Corie’s temple; no matter that she was taller than most women, he still towered a head above her.
The moment seemed so personal as the two of them met each other’s eyes that Marguerite rose, too, to excuse herself. She’d never felt her face so aflame, though it wasn’t because she’d been weeping or from the intimate look that passed between Corie and Donovan.
Walker Burke—no, Lord Summerlin!—had arrived in England…and would soon be in London, too. Suddenly Marguerite felt her fingers burning as when he’d squeezed her hand three long years ago.
Oh, Lord.
She murmured her thanks to Corie and Donovan and then fled from the library, not surprised at all that they didn’t follow her.
