A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  “Her only experience is with her husband. No, I have to find a way to sneak out of the house and see Devlin. He and I have been best friends forever. I love him. I do love him… it must be love. Will you help me?”

  She noted the shadow of concern in Daisy’s eyes, but after a long moment Daisy nodded. “Of course I’ll help you. But you must be honest with me, Laurel. Are you forcing yourself to love Devlin out of loyalty to him? Or are you falling in love with Lord Moray?”

  Laurel drew a deep breath. “I can never love a man who will force me into an unwanted marriage. I will admit that I’m attracted to him. Very attracted,” she said as heat stole up her cheeks, “but I’m sorry I kissed him.” Twice. “I’m sorry that I liked his kisses.” Loved them. “But I refuse to be coerced into marriage. I’d rather die a ruined spinster.”

  Daisy let out the breath she’d been holding. “Don’t be silly, that won’t happen. Devlin adores you. He’ll marry you no matter what you’ve done.”

  That didn’t feel right either.

  She wanted a husband, not a toady who would accept all manner of outrageous behavior simply to remain in her favor.

  Daisy gave her hands a little squeeze. “Very well, I’ll help you and Devlin. It’s time you sorted out your true feelings for him. You and he must be honest with each other. It may be that you are only meant to be friends and nothing more. Where and when should he meet you?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll come up with a plan.”

  * * *

  Graelem’s heart shot into his throat as Laurel entered Eloise’s parlor escorted by Watling. Two days had passed since he’d last seen her, and to say that he’d missed her was an understatement. Every minute of their time apart had passed with agonizing slowness, the girl haunting his inappropriately hot, lewd dreams each night, leaving him a hard, tortured wreck by morning.

  Yes, damn it. He’d missed her, even though he’d filled much of these two days reviewing contracts and corresponding on Moray affairs.

  He refused to consider that he might lose all of it because he hadn’t married by Midsummer’s Day.

  He arched an eyebrow in surprise as she elegantly glided to his side, looking outrageously beautiful in a simple tea gown that picked up the rose blush in her cheeks. The girl usually bounded in with her eyes ablaze and hands curled into fists at her sides, but today she was the model of propriety.

  Proper and demure were not words he’d ever associate with Laurel, but he liked this softer aspect to her temperament. He hoped it boded well, but expected it was merely the calm before the storm, for he had agreed to meet eligible young ladies and this afternoon’s tea was to be his first introduction to them and others in London society.

  Laurel and her uncle George had been invited, and there were to be three other young ladies and their families in attendance, carefully chosen by Laurel and his grandmother, although he suspected that his grandmother had taken the lead in selecting them. The slight description he’d received of these prospects roused his cautious instincts. They did not seem the sort of girls that Laurel would befriend. More to the point, since these girls came from noble ranks, he didn’t think they were the sort to accept Laurel, a merchant’s daughter, as their friend.

  He disliked them already and would have gladly sacrificed his other leg to avoid this party, for he knew who he wanted and was content with his choice of bride, even if London’s elegant society found her lacking.

  “Blessed saints,” he said in a raw whisper, setting down his delicate teacup with a clatter as Laurel settled in the chair beside his and cast him a petulant smile. What was wrong now? Hadn’t he agreed to meet young women of marriageable age even though he hadn’t wanted to? She had forced it on him. Was she regretting her decision? “You look beautiful, lass.”

  Watling had set out refreshments in expectation of the arrival of their guests, a display designed to impress Prinny himself, but Graelem didn’t really give a damn about the food or the impending company.

  Laurel was all that mattered to him.

  He’d come down early to avoid being seen limping in and had bided his time by munching on scones and lemon cake. Although he preferred to wash them down with a smooth, aged whiskey, he knew tea was the safer choice. “Truly, lass. You take my breath away.”

  The compliment appeared to disconcert her, heightening the rose blush in her cheeks that matched the color of her delicate pink gown. Her golden hair was done up in a prim bun adorned with a matching pink ribbon.

  She looked angelic.

  In contrast, his thoughts were decidedly wicked.

  That pea-sized brain of his was dreaming up exquisite erotic pleasures again, all having to do with Laurel. Naked. Beneath him.

  Damn. What was wrong with him? He knew that his tortured dreams would be of her again tonight.

  “Care for some tea?” he asked casually. Not that he cared for anything but her… naked. Beneath him. She could keep that pink ribbon in her hair if she wished. “Or a scone?”

  He imagined himself slowly untying the prim ribbon and watching her golden hair cascade over her shoulders and spill down her back in splendid waves. His favorite fantasy was of spending the afternoon with his hands buried in her glorious curls and himself buried between her thighs.

  Watling cleared his throat to regain his attention. The old butler was usually discreet, never showing his thoughts, but he shot Graelem a disapproving glance that warned he’d better behave himself around Laurel or face dire consequences.

  Was he that obvious?

  He had better get himself under control before the others arrived. But it was so hard to behave when all he wanted to do was plant his lips, tongue, and hands on the girl. He had no need of tea or cakes—he only wished to gorge himself on Laurel. “You may go, Watling.”

  The old goat nodded and, still frowning, quietly disappeared.

  Graelem struggled to his feet and moved across from Laurel’s chair to put some distance between them. He sank onto Eloise’s dainty settee, taking up most of it. “How are you feeling today, lass? You look overset.”

  She was frowning at him, too. “I thought you said I stole your breath away.”

  “You do. Always. But you’re angry and I don’t know why. Your lips are pursed in an adorable pout that makes me want to—” Take your fleshy lower lip between my teeth and kiss the anger out of you, kiss you until I coax a hot moan out of you. “Never mind, my thoughts are not meant for your innocent ears.”

  “Just as I am not meant for you. You’re a beast. Which is why I’ve been miserable ever since the day I met you.” She tipped her chin up and turned her gaze away.

  “Ah, that kiss still bothers you.” Obviously, it bothered him as well. He was hungrier for the girl than ever. He wanted to do something about it, but wasn’t going to. He could see that Laurel was a powder keg of mixed feelings. One wrong step and he would set her off. “You’re safe enough with me. Watling’s got his ear to the door. Right, Watling,” he called out and heard the old man mutter as he hastily shuffled in.

  “Did you call for me, my lord?”

  Graelem laughed. “No, just testing the waters.”

  Watling arched an eyebrow. “I’ll be close by if you require my services, my lord.”

  “What was that about?” Laurel asked when they were once more alone.

  “Nothing.” He eased forward on the settee. “Let me pour you a cup of tea. How about a slice of cake? Or do you prefer a scone? They’re quite good. I’ve had three.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I wondered why the plate looked bare.”

  “I needed a bite after my ordeal.”

  “Ordeal?” A look of concern immediately crossed her face. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  He nodded, amazed by how easily she forgot her anger whenever she believed he might be hurt. “I am now,” he assured, “but it took me forever to make my way downstairs. I finally gave up and slid down the banister.”

  Laurel, her heart already
softened with concern, couldn’t help but laugh. Graelem watched her changing expressions with fascination. She wanted to frown and remain irritated with him, but simply couldn’t. Her pretty eyes glistened with amusement and that kissable mouth of hers curled into a grin. “You did what?”

  “I slid down. Wasn’t too comfortable hitting the newel post when I reached the bottom,” he said with a wince, “but serves me right for going down too fast.”

  “Oh, dear!” Laurel gave up all attempt to remain distant and indignant. He liked that about her. She couldn’t seem to hold onto anger. She’d told him before that she was the forgiving sort. Good thing, for he was an ass in so many ways.

  He’d forced her into an unwanted betrothal, couldn’t look at her without having impure and carnal thoughts, had no intention of giving her up for any of the young ladies he was about to meet, and also intended to have a few words with Devlin Kirwood.

  He needed to confront the man.

  They were bound to meet eventually, but he would rather it were sooner. His leg was not yet healed, but he didn’t care. If there was to be a fight… two cocks fighting over the prettiest hen… he’d rather have done with it now.

  Devlin was going to lose.

  The sooner he realized it and disappeared from Laurel’s life, the better.

  Graelem felt his blood heat, and all manner of churlish, possessive feelings began to war within him. Laurel was his and he wasn’t going to give her up.

  Laurel would never approve of a confrontation between him and Devlin.

  Neither would her father, no doubt turning apoplectic at the idea of said two cocks fighting over his innocent daughter.

  But what choice did he have? He was a big oaf who didn’t know how to seduce a woman. He didn’t know how to flatter or deceive or fill a girl’s head with pretty lies. He was a hulking bear who followed his animal instincts. It was those instincts that had led him to Laurel.

  Grrr. Pretty girl. Want her as my mate.

  Mostly, he wanted her in order to secure Moray. But he was growing used to the idea of having her as his wife, of holding Laurel in his arms each night and waking to the sweet warmth of her body curled against his hard frame each morning.

  “I used to slide down banisters, too.” She cast him a delicious grin, all trace of anger gone for the moment. “That is, until I wound up with a backside full of splinters.”

  He was growing to like the idea of marriage to Laurel immensely, even if it meant having her family about to pester him, for marrying the lass meant his house would be filled with Farthingales from sunup to sundown. Laurel’s sisters weren’t so bad—he actually liked them. “Ouch! That must have hurt. How old were you at the time?”

  A slight blush crept into her cheeks. “It happened last year.”

  He burst out laughing. “Surely, you jest.”

  She winced. “I wish I were, but no. My parents confined me to my bedchamber for an entire week. In truth, it was no loss. I was so sore I couldn’t take Brutus for his morning run, nor could I spend my afternoons visiting friends and family. The carriage ride alone would have been excruciating. And then to sit for hours in someone’s fancy salon, sipping tea and pretending my derriere wasn’t throbbing? No, I accepted my punishment without complaint.”

  He liked that mix of spirit and humility in Laurel. She had the ability to laugh at her antics, which only enhanced her good character in his mind.

  “But I did let Father know in no uncertain terms that the banister was a hazard and had to be repaired at once.”

  He liked her playful honesty, her melodic voice and gentle touch.

  That he might want her beyond the marriage ceremony concerned him, but he’d be safe as long as he concentrated on his objective.

  Bloody hell. He’d never be safe around Laurel.

  “But I didn’t come here to speak of splinters or faulty banisters.” She clasped her hands together and sat up stiffly so that her back was now straight as an arrow. “I’ve come to a decision.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “About our marriage?” By the prim purse of her lips, he knew the decision was not in his favor.

  She now had the look of a warrior, not a helpless debutante ready to surrender.

  Laurel let out a determined breath and glanced toward the door to make certain they were still alone. “I’ve decided that you are never to kiss me again.”

  “That’s it?” He smothered a grin. Was she still thinking about that spectacular kiss? Could she not stop thinking about it? That sounded promising. “Very well. If that is your wish.”

  She had raised her teacup to her lips, but set it down with enough haste to spill some of the tea onto the saucer. “Of course it’s what I wish. Why would I wish anything else?”

  “Because you seemed to enjoy that last kiss. Immensely.” He knew it was dangerous to goad her, but he did it anyway. She felt something for him and it was time she admitted it to herself, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to him yet.

  More tea spilled onto the saucer again. “I did not!”

  “I see.” He stretched his arms across the settee and leaned his large frame against the seat back. “Then we have no problem. You don’t want me to kiss you again… ever.” He shrugged. “So I won’t.”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “I hate it when you’re smug.”

  “I know.” He edged forward and leaned closer. “Next kiss is up to you. Since you’ve just told me that it will never happen, I have no choice but to take you at your word. I know you’re not a liar.”

  “Of course I’m not!” Her glorious bosom began to heave. “How dare you suggest—”

  Blessed Scottish saints! Give me strength to resist temptation. “I just said that I believed you. So let’s speak of something more productive before the other guests arrive. Guests that you demanded I see, although I’m pleased with our betrothal and have no wish to break it off. You’re the one who wants out.”

  “So would you if the decision were forced on you.”

  “It was,” he reminded her. “Silas left me with little time to find a wife. But you know my predicament. Did you know that your sisters called upon me yesterday?”

  “They did?” She eyed him askance. “They didn’t tell me about it.”

  That surprised him, for it was obvious these Farthingales were incapable of discretion. “Should they have?”

  She tipped her chin up and glowered at him once again. “They’re my sisters. Of course they should have let me know.” She paused a moment as though expecting him to speak up. “Well, what did they say to you?”

  “It’s private. Not for your snoopy ears, although they’re very pretty ears. The point is, unlike you Farthingales, I can keep a secret.”

  Laurel shifted in her chair and edged closer so that they were practically nose to nose. Or lips to lips if she’d only tilt her head upward and… no, she had better not. “My sisters do not keep secrets from me. What did they say?”

  He tweaked her nose. “You’ll have to ask them. Later. Right now I’d like you to talk to me.”

  She gritted her teeth and spoke through clenched lips. “I’m trying to, but you’re not making it easy. All you do is gloat. Very well. You’ve won the day. My sisters like you. Hurrah!”

  He took her hands in his and held them lightly. “No, lass. I don’t know what they think of me, only that they’re willing to give me a chance.” And much needed help to survive today’s tea party. He wasn’t a gentleman and didn’t know how to behave in elegant company. “But you’re not.”

  Her bosom heaved again as she mustered her indignation. “Can you blame me?”

  He forced his gaze from her breasts, practically feeling his eyeballs tear from the effort of ripping them away. He was depraved… in so many ways. “I need you to forget for a moment that we’re betrothed. I want you to think of these afternoons together as our courtship.”

  She slipped her hands out of his. “I can’t. We are betrothed. Without my consent, I might add. You’r
e not courting me, but coldly securing your inheritance. You can pretend whatever you like, but I’m not your sweetheart. I’ll never be your sweetheart while I’m your prisoner.”

  That went well.

  He was relieved when his grandmother entered the parlor and soon thereafter, George and the other guests arrived. He was introduced to a beautiful brunette, Lady Jane Hardwick, whose father was the Earl of Staunton, and then a cheerful redhead by the name of Miss Dora Pertwhistle whose mother was the grandniece of a duke, and Lady Katherine Lowesby, another stunner with pale blonde hair whose father was a marquis.

  Their smiles faded as they watched him struggle to his feet to greet them. Lady Jane’s mother turned to Eloise. “Will your grandson be crippled for the rest of his life?”

  Damnation.

  He was standing in front of the old battle-axe. She could have asked him the question directly instead of discussing him as though he weren’t in the room. He was about to respond with typical Scottish impertinence, his intent to bring this idiotic party to an end before it had ever started, when he felt Laurel move to his side.

  She let out a shaky breath. “No, Lady Staunton. It’s a temporary injury. He’ll be fit in another few weeks.”

  But the damage had been done. The sight of his crutches had thrown all three young ladies into a dither. As he responded to the introductions and all heard his Scottish accent, whatever might have been salvaged after Laurel’s explanation was completely destroyed. The mothers turned coldly from him and frowned at Eloise, which irrevocably sealed his poor opinion of them.

  If not for the private grin Eloise cast him, he would have tossed the lot of them out immediately. But this is what his wily grandmother had expected when choosing these particular guests. She knew that a crippled Scot would never be suitable husband material for their precious daughters. He eased back and allowed himself to be ever so politely ignored for the rest of the afternoon.

  Getting the cut direct did not anger Graelem in the least. He wanted to leap up and hug his grandmother for purposely inviting three of the most insufferable families among the ton to her party. Laurel, so innocent and trusting of his fiendish grandmother, didn’t suspect she had been tricked. At first, she looked confused. Then appalled. Then mad as blazes at the lot of them.