A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  Laurel’s eyes grew wide with concern. What was so important about that day? Lord Moray had mentioned it as well, but she’d dismissed it as an arbitrary date set by a man in ill humor. “But that’s only a month away. Do you mean to say he intends to find himself a suitable girl and marry her all within a month? His companion for life, the woman who will bear his children, and he thinks he can find her in this short a time?” She let out a snort of indignation. “Seems I misjudged him. He appeared to have intelligent eyes and a thoughtful demeanor, but I’m sorry, Eloise. Your grandson is an idiot.”

  “At times, perhaps,” she said with a hearty chuckle. “But,” she added, a merry twinkle now in her eyes, “I think he made an excellent decision. He chose you, didn’t he?”

  Laurel was spared the need to respond when Eloise’s reliable butler entered with a tray of tea and cakes. “Ah, Watling. Set it down right here.” Eloise pointed to the small demi-lune table between them. “Ginger cake is Dillie’s favorite. You must take her a slice or two, Laurel.” She set aside two slices as though all other matters had been resolved and this silly cake was the most important thing on her mind.

  Laurel shook her head in confusion. Eloise’s lack of concern made no sense. How could she treat this day as any other? Laurel had almost killed her grandson. And her grandson now insisted on marrying her. Wasn’t it worth more than a two-minute discussion?

  Apparently not.

  Eloise remained surprisingly cheerful as she moved on to pouring tea into their cups. Laurel sat in silent horror as her dear neighbor handed her one of those delicate cups and continued to chatter while expertly nipping sugar off the small sugar cone beside the teapot and dropping it in her tea. She was chattering about the latest ton gossip as though the matter of Laurel’s marriage to the big oaf lying upstairs with a broken leg was a fait accompli. “Lady Fawnbridge was quite bereft when the Duke of Edgeware called an end to their affair. But we all knew it was in the offing, for they’d dallied almost a month and everyone knows Edgeware does not stay with a woman longer than a month before moving on. It will take a very special girl to steal his heart and shake him out of his solitary existence. I hope he finds her.”

  “Why are we speaking of Edgeware? Or ginger cake?” And what is it about men and thirty days? Is there something terrifying about that period of time? Or what lies beyond it? She thought of ancient sailors who believed the world was flat and they would fall off it into a terrifying abyss if they sailed beyond the edge.

  Eloise gave a casual shrug. “Would you rather speak of my grandson?”

  Laurel blurted out a yes and another quieter, calmer yes. She needed to maintain her composure, for rational thought and conversation would win the day, not stomping and storming about in frustration. “Indeed, I would.”

  Eloise shrugged again. “I don’t know what else there is to say.”

  Laurel shot to her feet, her heart now beating like a war drum against her chest. Stay calm. Stay calm! “There’s everything to say! You cannot think the matter is resolved. Eloise, I can’t marry him!”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Must we parse words? Very well, I can marry him. I’m quite capable of it and there’s no impediment in that sense. However, I won’t marry him. I don’t know him. He could be hot-tempered—”

  “As you are.”

  Laurel blushed. “I… well, yes… I will admit that I am prone to… when I believe passionately about something… but it isn’t at all the same thing.”

  Is Eloise smirking at me?

  “Graelem is an even-tempered man. Very slow to anger. In truth, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry, even after—”

  A yelp of agony from upstairs interrupted their conversation. Laurel forgot all about the tea cakes and ton gossip and hurried upstairs. What was Uncle George doing to Graelem’s leg? Rather, Lord Moray’s leg. She shouldn’t be thinking of him as Graelem even though Eloise had been referring to him by his familiar name. No, he could never be Graelem to her, even though they were now temporarily and unfortunately betrothed.

  The bedchamber door was closed.

  Should she enter?

  Obviously, it was closed for a reason. Uncle George knew what he was doing, no doubt still working on that busted leg. What more needed to be done? She had no business being up here, for she wasn’t medically trained and could do nothing to help. Nor could she simply march in without causing more scandal.

  She stood in the elegant hallway, simply staring at Lord Moray’s door. She heard the muffled sound of two men bickering inside. Her uncle and Lord Moray, of course. She couldn’t hear much, but her uncle was saying that something must come off… or… he had to take it off… or cut it off.

  Is the man I almost killed about to lose his leg?

  She knew her uncle carried a hacksaw in his medical bag.

  Her hand trembled as she placed it on the knob. Surely her uncle would have said something if that leg was to come off. And he wouldn’t have bound it in a splint if he thought the bones would never knit properly back in place. However, he’d been in the room with his patient an awfully long while.

  And Lily had said that a break just above Graelem’s… Lord Moray’s knee would kill him.

  Had Uncle George discovered a break above the knee?

  No, it couldn’t be. Even if it were, Lord Moray was a big, strong man and would survive. His leg would heal. It simply had to!

  She released the knob and was about to walk back downstairs when he let out another sharp, anguished yelp.

  Laurel changed course and burst in.

  “Laurel! Lass, for the love of… get back downstairs now!” Graelem wasn’t just scowling at her, his face was at full glower. And that glower was the only thing he wore. The only thing!

  He hastily grabbed the sheet off his bed and wrapped it around his waist to cover his lower body.

  Her jaw dropped open and her gaze moved higher. Was she breathing? She didn’t think so. And her heart was no longer calmly lodged within her breast, but violently sinking from her throat into her toes and lurching back upward.

  He wore no shirt over his magnificently formed muscles.

  A well-bred young lady would have turned away at this point, apologized sincerely, and promised never to… why quibble? A well-bred young lady would never have burst into a gentleman’s chamber unannounced in the first place.

  He still wore no shirt.

  No trousers either, obviously, or he wouldn’t have needed to wrap that sheet around himself for modesty. Hers, not his. He didn’t seem the sort to be bashful about his appearance. Nor did he have reason to be.

  His splinted leg was still exposed, and as he groaned and settled back onto his bed still groaning all the while because his pain was overwhelming, he accidentally gave her a glimpse of body bared all the way up to his naked hip.

  She noticed this because she still hadn’t turned away.

  Her heart was still leaping and sinking and leaping again until she was certain it would spurt straight through the top of her head like a volcano spewing lava.

  He sank into the pile of pillows propping his back, then yanked the thin sheet upward to securely cover everything below his chest. He reached for the nightshirt neatly folded beside him and hastily donned it to cover his big, broad shoulders.

  But his sheet fell as he struggled with the nightshirt and she caught the ripple of his chest muscles as he worked to put it on. Saints be praised! Was there ever a better sight than this?

  Now respectably clothed, he scowled at her.

  She ought to have been repentant or contrite. Alas, she wasn’t. Every girl of marriageable age ought to see such a sight as this at least once in her lifetime. Why not include it in a young lady’s grand tour? Visit the Roman Coliseum, the canals of Venice, the palace at Versailles, the Acropolis in Greece, the hanging gardens of Babylon… and Graelem Dayne’s chest.

  Did that make her a sinner? Most likely. She responded to his scowl with an utterly blank
stare. Her senses were in a muddle. She’d seen him. All of him. A nightshirt and a thin sheet could not expunge the shock of taut muscle that had been on glorious display a moment ago.

  Laurel had never seen a naked man before. Did they all look this magnificent? Big and perfectly sculpted with lightly bronzed skin stretched over hard muscle? His muscles were still rippling beneath his nightshirt as he strained to sit up against his pillows. “Why were you howling?” she demanded to know, deciding it was best to go on the offensive because she was never going to admit to this man that she may have been in the wrong.

  May have been?

  There wasn’t a solitary thing right about what she had done.

  Laurel, Laurel, Laurel, you ninny. What other girl would have broken down a gentleman’s door and barged in unannounced?

  She now returned his glare with one of her own, although he might have noticed her distress since her eyes were bulging and her throat was puffing in and out like that of a bullfrog about to let loose with a croak.

  Graelem yanked the spare blanket that sat neatly folded at the foot of his bed and spread it across the sheet, adding another protective layer over himself, as if that would do anything to erase the image scalded into her eyeballs.

  Hah! It wasn’t nearly enough to hide his splendid body. “Laurel, by all the blessed Scottish saints! Get out.”

  Her brain was shouting the same thing, only she couldn’t move.

  How much time had elapsed? It couldn’t have been more than ten or twenty seconds, although it felt like an eternity. Her uncle, who had been standing with his back to her while she barged in, washing his hands in a basin set on a table by the window, now faced her and let out an oath. “Laurel… I… what…” He was sputtering and shaking his head in dismay. “Did Brutus kick you in the head?”

  He started toward her, his hands wet, lathered, and fisted at his sides.

  Not that he would ever raise a hand to her. Never, for he was a healer and one of the kindest, most decent men she’d ever met. They were obviously curled into fists to subdue his frustration at her behavior. “Laurel,” her uncle said, his voice softer in order to control his barely leashed anger, “there’s no coming back from this. If gossip gets out—”

  “I didn’t mean… I thought you were cutting off his leg! I heard you arguing about something that must come off… or stay off… or be kept off.” She turned to Graelem and responded to his continued glower with another one of her own. “We’re betrothed, aren’t we? And you’re in agony, aren’t you?”

  She took a deep breath. Finally, a much needed breath! “Don’t bother to deny it because it’s etched in the stubborn contours of your face. I can’t be expected to sit quietly downstairs nibbling on cake and sipping tea while my uncle hacks off your leg.” The leg I busted!

  “I have no intention of sawing off his leg.” Her uncle rolled his eyes. “We were discussing the reason why Lord Moray should keep his trousers off for the next few days.”

  “His trousers?” Laurel’s face suffused with heat.

  Lord Moray let out a groaning laugh. “That’s all it was, lass. Just my trousers.”

  She wanted to slink away and hide under the nearest rock. “I… I’m so sorry… I just thought you were about to lose your leg… and I couldn’t let you suffer through that agony alone. I thought… if you gripped my hand…”

  “You were worried about me?” Her explanation had obviously surprised him, for his anger faded and his expression softened, but only a little.

  She nodded, closing her eyes a moment while struggling to hold back tears.

  “Lass, you needn’t have,” he said with surprising gentleness when she once more met his gaze. “As for the cries you heard, I had earlier dismissed the footmen thinking I could manage undressing on my own. I found out the hard way that it wasn’t as easy as I’d first thought. But I’m a stubborn dolt, as you’ve certainly realized by now, and refused to admit to your uncle that I needed help. The yelps you heard were merely from my clumsy attempts to remove my trousers.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “I won’t make that mistake next time. When help is offered, I’ll accept it.”

  As Laurel watched him shift about in bed, an intense heat suffused through her entire body, not merely her cheeks. “Do you need anything now?” she asked and received an insistent no from both men as she took a step closer.

  “No, but thank you. Lass, I think it’s best if you just go away.” He grinned lightly and ran a hand through the thick curls of his disheveled hair. There was something endearingly boyish about the way some strands curled at the nape of his neck and others wrapped around his ears.

  She let out a sigh. “Of course. I’ve done nothing but cause you pain.”

  He appeared to soften at her look of hurt, which was ridiculous since he was the injured party and she was merely hindering his treatment. “Lass, I’d appreciate a visit from you tomorrow afternoon,” he said as she was about to turn away. “Properly chaperoned, of course. Choose a book from my grandmother’s library and you can read it to me. I’ll enjoy the distraction.”

  From the pain of his broken leg, no doubt. “Have you taken your first dose of laudanum yet?”

  His endearing grin turned sheepish. “Your uncle and I were discussing that as well.”

  Laurel couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Discussing? Or arguing? You’ll need it, Lord Moray, or the pain will steal your breath away. Please take it, if not for your sake, then for mine. I would never forgive myself if you endured more unbearable pain tonight because of me.”

  “Very well, lass. If it will make you feel better, then I’ll take the laudanum.” He arched a dark eyebrow. “Any other requests of me?”

  Release me from my promise.

  She ought to have asked, for he’d given her the perfect opening. She wanted to ask, for this marriage farce could not be permitted to continue for another day. She cleared her throat. Took a deep breath. “No.”

  Chapter 3

  LAUREL SLOWLY MADE her way home, although it still didn’t take her very long to walk from Eloise’s townhouse to the Farthingale townhouse since they were neighbors and resided all of twenty paces from each other. The sun still shone and a light breeze caressed her cheeks as she climbed the front steps to her house.

  Daisy must have been watching from the parlor window, for she came rushing out to meet her in the entry hall and caught her in a hearty embrace. “Laurel! The twins told me what happened! What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. Oh, Daisy! I’ve made such a mess of everything.” She eased out of her sister’s embrace. “Where are Mother and Father? I’ll have to break the news to them.”

  “They already know. The twins tattled.” Daisy rolled her vibrant blue eyes, those eyes that marked her sister as a Farthingale. Laurel’s eyes weren’t quite a perfect blue, but muddled with the lightest hint of green as though to mark her as different.

  Laurel’s hair was lighter as well, a confusing mix of amber, gold, and brown curls. Daisy and the twins had the traditional Farthingale dark hair. Fortunately, Rose’s hair was also a mix of amber and gold, so Laurel didn’t feel completely like the goose among the swans. And none of the Farthingale girls had proper society hair, those straight, blonde, never-a-curl-out-of-place locks that were the mark of a well-bred young lady. No, they all had thick, wavy hair with curls that were as spirited as they were.

  “They tattled?” Laurel shook her head in confusion, for she and her sisters were as close as could be and always protected each other. “Why would they do such a thing?”

  “They didn’t mean to betray you. I think they believed the family elders would lighten your punishment if they were given the chance to digest the startling news before you returned.” Daisy nodded toward their father’s library. The doors were closed. “The elders are discussing what to do with you now.”

  “Oh, dear. Already?” Why hadn’t they waited for her to return and mount her own defense? But no, closed doors mea
nt the family council had heard more than enough. “Who’s in there with Father and Mother?”

  “Everyone, except Uncle George since he’s still with the gentleman you almost killed. And Uncle Harrison’s off fighting Napoleon, of course. But the other aunts and uncles are in there, Rupert, Hortensia, Julia, and all of Father’s cousins who came down to London for the season.”

  Oxfordshire Farthingales, Yorkshire Farthingales, Devonshire… the pulse at the base of Laurel’s throat began to beat wildly. “Everyone? Already? They don’t move that quickly even when Mrs. Mayhew’s renowned Yorkshire pudding is served.” She shook her head. “How can they decide anything when they don’t know all the facts?”

  “When has that stopped them?” Daisy let out a grim, mirthless laugh. “What are you going to tell Devlin? He’ll be devastated.”

  Laurel’s heart, already beaten and bedraggled, sank again. “I can’t tell him anything just yet.”

  Daisy let out a soft gasp. “But you must. It won’t take long for gossip to spread among the ton. He ought to hear the news from you first. Poor Dev! He’ll be devastated. He’s so devoted to you.”

  “I’ll tell him this evening at Lady Harrow’s musicale, assuming I’m still permitted to attend.” She shook her head and sighed. “I think Father would like to lock me in a dungeon and toss away the key. I’m not sure that I blame him.” She inhaled lightly as the door to the library opened. “Daisy, if it goes badly for me, I’ll need you to get word to Dev.”

  “Of course. You can rely on me.” She gave Laurel another quick hug. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  * * *

  Graelem was in a laudanum-induced fog, slipping in and out of consciousness and fighting like hell to stay awake when the door to his chamber flew open and Laurel ran in. By all the Scottish saints! Had the girl never learned the art of knocking? “Lass, what are you doing here?”

  Even in his present state, he knew that only a few hours had passed since the accident. He hated being under the influence of laudanum, for it badly clouded his senses. Why else would his heart shoot into his throat at the mere sight of Laurel? Why else would he think her the prettiest girl in existence even though she was modestly dressed, now wearing a simple pale green day gown. The prim white lace trimming along her collar drew his gaze to her heaving breasts and… hell… that thud was his tongue hitting the floor. She was beautiful.