A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

Laurel felt her face suffuse with heat. “Who’s the doctor here? You two brats or Uncle George?” She truly wished Daisy were here, not only to chase the snoopy twins away. She needed to talk to Daisy in private, but it wasn’t possible while everyone was about. She sighed, deciding there was nothing to be done about it now. She wasn’t about to send Daisy to Hyde Park on her own to deliver a message to Devlin Kirwood. She would simply have to seek out Devlin at Lady Harrow’s musicale this evening and apologize for not meeting him today.

  He would understand and forgive her once she explained.

  Laurel gave no further thought to Devlin, for she felt the subtle undulation of hard muscle beneath her palms and knew Lord Moray was trying to sit up. Goodness! She’d forgotten she still held him.

  The twins were still beside her, inspecting him as though he were an archeological treasure. He squinted a little as the sun glinted through the leaves of the towering oak under which they were settled. “Am I mistaken or do you really look that much alike?”

  “No one can tell us apart,” Dillie said with a chuckle. “Lily and I confuse everyone, even our parents.”

  Lily just stood there gaping at him. “We have a few more years before we’re fit to come out in society, assuming Laurel hasn’t killed off all the eligible bachelors by then.”

  “Don’t jest about it, Lily.” Laurel tried to keep her voice from trembling, but knew she’d failed. Her eyes began to tear again. “I almost did. It was a very close thing.”

  Lord Moray shifted slightly to gaze up at her. “Lass,” he said with aching gentleness, “I’m a big oaf. It’ll take more than an angry horse to kill me.”

  Laurel’s heart leapt into her throat. He had the handsomest smile and dark green eyes that could lead a girl to mischief with very little provocation. Of course, she wouldn’t be that girl. She was loyal to Devlin Kirwood. “Our eldest sister, Rose, married last year,” she began to prattle, for his smile was doing odd things to her. In a nice but confusing way. “Her husband is Lord Julian Emory, the current Viscount Chatham.”

  Lord Graelem nodded. “I know him. Good man.”

  She liked the way the sun warmed the chestnut color of his hair.

  “Done, my lord,” her uncle said, regaining their attention. “Don’t try to get up on your own just yet. We’ll summon help.”

  Once Dillie was sent off to call for Eloise’s footmen, it took only a moment for Lord Moray to grow impatient and attempt once again to sit up.

  “What are you doing?” Laurel immediately positioned her body against his back to catch him if he started to fall, for he’d been hurt enough for one day. Indeed, hurt enough for a lifetime, as far as she was concerned.

  Lily rolled her eyes and began to jabber about linear planes and angles and some nonsense about gravitational thrust, which Laurel would have dismissed had she not found herself suddenly pinned between the trunk of the oak tree and Lord Moray, whose back was unwittingly pressed against her chest.

  Her uncle groaned in exasperation. “Laurel, what are you trying to accomplish? You can’t lift him up on your own.”

  “But I only meant to—” Realizing she was only making matters worse, she tried to slip out from under him. Her breasts accidentally rubbed against his shoulder.

  “Lass! You’d better… blessed Scottish saints… er, just don’t move. I’ll roll out of your way.”

  She nibbled her lip and tried to hold back the tears threatening to well in her eyes, for he sounded so pained and his gaze was now turbulent and fiery. The blaze in his eyes could only signify anger. “I only meant to help.”

  “I think you’ve helped me quite enough for one day.” He fell back as she moved away, knocking his head against the trunk of the oak tree with a soft thuck. “Quite enough.”

  She placed a hand on his arm to lend aid, but received another fiery glance for her attempt. “Lass, it isn’t necessary. My grandmother’s footmen will assist me to my chamber.”

  She nodded, feeling worse for causing him yet more discomfort. “Please, let me do something to make it up to you.”

  “No—”

  “But I don’t mind at all.” Her tears had held off, but no longer. She let out a sniffle. “Just tell me what I can do for you—”

  “Lass, it isn’t necessary.” His gaze was a dangerous smolder that seemed to intensify each time she tried to touch him.

  The tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Anything. You have only to ask and I’ll do it. You have my promise.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  She hated feeling guilty. Why wouldn’t he simply accept her apology? “You have it anyway. My sacred promise. What can I do to atone for the damage I’ve caused?”

  He eyed her for a disconcertingly long moment. “Very well,” he said with quiet authority. “Marry me.”

  Chapter 2

  “WHAT?” LAUREL WAS CERTAIN she’d misunderstood, for no man in his right mind would ask such a thing of the very girl who’d almost cut short his existence. She shook her head and laughed lightly. “Ah, I suppose I deserved that jest. Well done, sir. Marry me? For a moment, you had me believing you were serious.”

  His gaze never left her face. Oh, dear. He wasn’t smiling. “We’ll be wed by Midsummer’s Day.”

  “What?” she repeated, a numbing cold slowly spreading throughout her body despite the warmth of the day. She clasped her trembling hands and rested them on her lap in a useless attempt to keep them from shaking. At the same time, she let out a nervous titter that sounded remarkably like two squirrels scrambling after the same acorn. She never realized her throat had the ability to make such an inane sound. “Well done again, sir. By Midsummer?” Titter, titter. “Why, that’s merely a month away.” She made those hideous squirrel sounds again. “What a jolly jester you are!”

  But Laurel knew by his steadfast green-eyed gaze that he was in earnest. Her heart sank into her toes. Please! No! Devlin wasn’t going to like this one bit. Nor was her family… she hoped. As for her family, she had the two smartest Farthingales at her side right now. Surely they’d think of something to rescue her from this scrape.

  Laurel leaned forward, eager to hear Lily’s thoughts as her young sister cleared her throat and prepared to spout her wisdom. Please, Lily, come up with an answer. But her sister’s mouth was agape and her big blue eyes were wide as saucers, which did not look promising at all. “You’ve really done it this time, Laurel. Whatever possessed you to give him your sacred promise? And we all heard you—”

  “Be quiet, Lily. What do you know of marriage proposals anyway?” Laurel winced at the pettiness in her own tone. Lily wasn’t the one who’d blundered her way into this predicament. “Sorry, Lily.” She turned to her uncle, whose shocked expression mirrored Lily’s.

  Oh, no. Not Uncle George, too? He was unflappable, the calm and brilliant Farthingale who always helped incompetent family members out of their misadventures.

  She gazed at him with pleading eyes.

  Her uncle sighed in resignation and shook his head. “This isn’t a matter to be discussed on the street. Let’s put off further conversation until you’ve both recovered from the scare.” He studied Lord Moray. “I’m afraid you’ll be in quite a bit of pain these next few days, my lord. You’ll need laudanum until the worst of it passes.”

  “So will Laurel, by the look of her,” Lily commented.

  “Be quiet, Lily,” she and her uncle said at the same time.

  Lily shrugged. “I was merely stating the obvious.”

  Dillie returned just then. “Eloise’s footmen will be along shortly.” She paused a moment to catch her breath and glance at all of them. “What’s going on? Have I missed something? Laurel, your complexion is as green as your riding habit.”

  “She’s getting married,” Lily said.

  “I am not!” Laurel dropped her hands to her sides and curled them into fists, wishing to beat sense into Lord Moray even though she’d already caused him enough harm. If only Brutus had knocked him unco
nscious! Their conversation would never have happened and he would not have asked her to marry him.

  In truth, he hadn’t asked.

  She had begged him. Anything. Anything, my lord. Ooh, please! I give you my sacred promise!

  And the cur had taken her up on it!

  Said cur now leaned on his elbows and turned toward her, his every movement causing him obvious agony. “Does your oath mean so little, lass?”

  “Of course not! I keep to my word, but I… you… it isn’t possible.” A gentle breeze blew through her curls, but the light wind ruffling her hair and brushing against her hot cheeks did little to calm her down. Nothing would calm her down until that big Scottish oaf released her from her promise. And if he thought he’d just won himself a biddable wife, he’d have a big surprise coming.

  “She gave Lord Moray her sacred promise,” Lily added, “so there’s no going back on it without risking eternal—”

  “Hot, buttered crumpets!” Dillie gasped. “And I missed all that?”

  “You didn’t miss anything.” Laurel gritted her teeth. “It’s all been a silly misunderstanding. I’m not about to give up my life and happiness over a broken leg that will heal in a couple of days.”

  Lily shook her head. “It’ll take far longer than that. And you ought to be grateful that Brutus only managed to shatter his lower leg, the tibia and fibula.”

  Laurel winced. “Only?”

  Lily nodded. “Had he struck the femur, then poor Lord Moray would likely be dead by Midsummer. It has to do with the dangers of blood congealing in the area of the upper leg. Isn’t that right, Uncle George?”

  For pity’s sake! How did Lily know these things?

  Her uncle knelt beside Lord Moray. “As my niece said, my lord. You had a very close call. Had Brutus struck you above the knee… well, fortunately he didn’t.”

  All the fight drained out of Laurel in that moment. How could she forget that she’d almost killed Eloise’s grandson? She owed him a great debt and had to repay it, even if it meant sacrificing her happiness, setting aside her hopes and dreams, and marrying for reasons other than love. She had opened her big mouth and would now be the first Farthingale to sacrifice herself at the altar of convenience. Although marriage to Lord Moray would be anything but convenient.

  Indeed, it was quite inconvenient. Surely he’d come to the same realization once his pain subsided, and then he’d be eager to release her from her promise. She merely needed to be patient and not ruffle his feathers any worse than she already had today. Ah, patience. Unfortunately, it was a virtue she had never acquired.

  She cast the big oaf a hopeful smile.

  He frowned back.

  Her smile faltered, but she refused to despair for she had a month to gain her release from the hastily made promise. He would relent.

  He simply had to.

  She’d do all in her power to help him realize his mistake. No man wished to be stuck with a wife who loved another. That was it, her way out. She’d tell him all about Devlin. Not now, of course. Perhaps in a day or two when his pain had subsided.

  “Lass,” he said with a wry arch of his eyebrow, speaking softly and with seeming regret, “I can’t let you out of the bargain. Don’t think to change my mind with tricks or pleading or…” he paused for a lengthy moment, “seduction.”

  She curled her hands into fists again. “Me? Seduce you? Hah! You need have no fear of that.” Since I wouldn’t know how, in the first place. “And why would I want my freedom from you, an utter stranger who took advantage of my good nature to trick me into a cold and loveless alliance? That’s right, an alliance. For you and I shall never have a true marriage.”

  “Suits me fine, lass. I have no intention of imposing myself on you.”

  “What?” He didn’t want her? Then why propose? She resisted the urge to strike him even though her fingers were still curled into fists and she was angry. No, not just angry. She was blazing, fiery furious!

  Although she had a retort at the ready, she clamped her lips shut instead because she needed to think and not merely respond like a prickly hen to his goading. Lack of thinking got her into this predicament in the first place. She studied him again.

  Did he have a weakness?

  If he did, it wasn’t obvious. Drat, he really was quite handsome. There was a brooding intelligence about him, the sort of quiet confidence that other men would trust and follow. He wasn’t one for glib words either, but seemed to command attention when he spoke. He certainly had her attention now.

  In truth, she could not draw her gaze away and he seemed smugly aware of it.

  She didn’t wish to like anything about him, but had to admit that he had nice eyes. They were a deep green that drew one in with dangerous appeal. He had nicely formed lips as well. She stole a glance at the rest of him. His clothes were of good quality, or had been until Brutus knocked him to the ground and forced him to roll onto the street to avoid being trampled under his massive hooves.

  Lord Moray was a gentleman, being Eloise’s grandson and a baron. Yet he did not possess a polished air of refinement. No, nothing polished or refined about him. While of good quality, his clothes were not the height of fashion. He was too big and brawny to cut an elegant line. Quite the opposite, he had the mark of a man used to physical labor.

  Others in society would disdain him for it, for a true gentleman never indulged in heavy work. Gentlemen were not required to work at all. However, Laurel never could understand why idleness was so admired by the Upper Crust.

  Her own family had elevated their stature through hard work in their mercantile endeavors. For this reason, they had yet to be received in the finer homes, but Rose’s marriage to Lord Julian Emory, eldest son of a marquis and holder of the title Viscount Chatham in his own right, had gone a long way toward opening doors for them.

  Laurel’s gaze drifted back to Lord Moray’s face and she was once again captivated by his eyes, the sort of eyes that made her melt a little each time he looked at her. Oh, why was it suddenly so hot? And why couldn’t she stop gawking at him?

  It signified nothing, of course.

  She felt guilty about what she’d done to him, that was all.

  Eloise’s footmen arrived to carry him into the bedchamber she’d had her staff prepare for him. Her uncle accompanied them, as expected, for he wouldn’t leave until making certain his patient was well settled and comfortable. Laurel meant to return home, but instead found herself following them up the stairs and into the guest bedchamber where Lord Moray was to spend the next few days recovering.

  Goodness! She hoped it wouldn’t take longer than a few days for him to be up and about. She stood quietly while her uncle gave instructions to the footmen to help the patient out of his clothes. “Laurel, dear.” Eloise, who had also followed them upstairs, gently took her by the shoulders. “I believe it is time for us to leave.”

  Laurel nodded, but her feet refused to comply until Eloise gave her a soft nudge toward the door. She managed a quick glance at her victim and noticed that he took up most of the bed. A jolt of heat coursed through her. If they married, she might be required to share that bed with him. Ridiculous! There was no room. She’d have to sleep practically atop him or somehow nestled in the crook of his arm.

  Why was she even thinking such thoughts? There would be no marriage. Devlin was the man for her. He’d find a way to rescue her from this nightmare. And he wasn’t a big oaf who’d take up most of the bed!

  She followed Eloise downstairs into her summer salon, a cheerful room decorated in floral silk wallpaper, yellow silk chairs, and polished mahogany tables. “Laurel, are you all right?” Eloise frowned, obviously concerned as she motioned for her to sit down.

  Laurel sank into one of the delicate chairs and moaned. “How can I be? I wish I could crawl back in bed and pretend this morning had never happened.”

  And since she was thinking of beds, seeing Lord Moray stretched out on his bed made her realize that she’d never given mu
ch thought to being a wife. She and Devlin had been best friends since childhood. Their amiable relation had blossomed into something more, and each now believed marriage was their natural next step. But she hadn’t thought beyond the wedding celebration.

  Would Devlin want her to share his bed?

  Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  She sat silently as Eloise crossed to the bellpull to ring for tea. Laurel cast her a wincing smile when she returned to her side and settled in the chair beside hers. She waited for Eloise’s assurance that her grandson would regain his senses. “Well, unfortunately the events of this morning cannot be undone,” Eloise said, reaching for Laurel’s hand and taking it in hers with a motherly affection. “My dear, shall we talk about what happened?”

  “Oh, Eloise! I can’t marry your grandson.” She edged forward, practically off her seat. “Please, you must pound sense into him.”

  Eloise gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing it. “I don’t know that I can. You see, his purpose in coming to London was to find himself a wife.”

  “Then let him find one! Just not me! There are dozens of delightful young women who would leap at the chance to become Baroness Moray. He’s not only titled, but handsome. Exceptionally handsome.” Why did that slip out? “He’ll be considered quite the catch.”

  “All well and good, but Graelem isn’t fit to court anyone in his present condition.” She raised her gaze to the ceiling as though Laurel needed the reminder that Eloise’s wounded grandson was undergoing medical treatment upstairs and presently writhing in agony.

  Laurel let out a soft groan. “But he will be soon. Uncle George will see to it, for he’s the best doctor in all of England. Then you can introduce your grandson to a flock of sweet, biddable young ladies. A quiet tea or dinner party here at home two or three weeks from now ought to do the trick. That’s all it will take for the marriage-minded mamas and their dainty daughters to notice him and give chase. He can sort out the prospects at his leisure. He has the entire season to decide. Longer if he wishes.”

  “I don’t think so. You see, he’s determined to have it all settled by Midsummer’s Day.”