by Meara Platt
She shook her head and laughed. “I think you must be addled, but I do like this softer side of you best.”
“I don’t.” He looked down and saw that his nightshirt was damp and clinging to his body. “I don’t think anyone can like me as I am now. I’m soaked from head to toe and so loaded with laudanum I can’t put two thoughts together.”
“Your conversation isn’t the problem. Nor are your thoughts. What you don’t like is that your guard is down and you’re afraid something you don’t wish to reveal might slip out. You don’t want me, or anyone for that matter, to see beneath your surface.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“But you’re too late. I’ve seen you unguarded.” She caressed his cheek again. “And I like what I see.”
He laughed and reached out to cup her head in his big hand. “How much do you like it?”
“This much,” she said and leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. She couldn’t quite describe the kiss she gave him, for it wasn’t a light peck nor was it a passionate, desperate kiss given with wild abandon. It was full and rich, conveying a deeper meaning, a kiss that spoke of commitment, passion, and enduring love.
Her breasts pressed against his chest as she leaned forward to kiss him, but she didn’t draw away. She wanted nothing to keep them apart—certainly not rules of propriety designed to keep a girl pure until marriage, but allow her to take up as many liaisons as she desired afterward so long as she was discreet.
Her mouth parted against his firm lips as he groaned and drew her closer, enveloping her in his arms and running his tongue across her fleshy lower lip before claiming entrance and rousing sensations throughout her body as explosive and beautiful as fireworks upon the Thames.
Everything about him set her blood on fire. The warmth and strength of his body, the gentleness of his hands as he touched and stroked her with possessive urgency. The scent of heat and sweat and sandalwood on his neck and shoulders.
His kiss was hot and determined, yet also gentle, as though he were purposely letting her know that his attraction to her went beyond a merely physical hunger. In the few weeks she’d known him, she’d grown to understand his wariness and reserve. Having grown up an only child in a cold household, he’d always hidden his feelings to protect his heart. But he wasn’t holding back on this kiss, he was offering to take her into his heart.
There was a possessive honesty about this kiss, an admission that he wanted her for longer than a night, that he could restrain his need and allow friendship and caring to blossom between them. He wanted her, but he’d made her a promise when they’d first met. He wouldn’t impose himself on her unless she was willing, no matter how badly he ached to have her.
Surprisingly, despite her stubbornness and resentment over these past weeks, she’d come to understand his nature well. He certainly understood hers, although she wasn’t very difficult to figure out. She instinctively rebelled against being put on a tether and forced to do something she did not wish to do.
But as her affection for him grew, the tether no longer felt like a restraint but a loving bond.
“Blessed Scottish saints,” he whispered against her mouth, bringing their kiss to an end, his voice a raw, hungry ache.
His arms were still around her, gently swallowing her up as though he never wanted to let her go. She had no desire to draw away either, so she stayed wrapped in his loose embrace. The choice to stay or pull away was always hers. Graelem had gotten that much right. She wanted to stay. “What you do to me, lass.”
She wanted to stay forever.
He ran his big hands along her back and over the swell of her breasts, his thumbs grazing their already taut peaks. His hands trembled and she knew it wasn’t from fever or fatigue, nor was it from bashfulness because Graelem wasn’t the bashful sort.
He wanted her and was struggling to hold back his desire.
“You do the same to me.” She felt breathless and her words mingled with her exhale of air. “Is this what desire feels like?”
“A burning, fiery craving that can’t be doused? Och, lass. That’s desire. The same as I feel for you.”
No, what she felt was more. She was in love with him, not just a physical ache or tingle, but a sensation that penetrated into her soul and made her cry out for him. She wanted to describe this feeling to him, talk to him about it, but she heard her uncle’s snuffling snores, a reminder they were not alone.
She eased away.
He had also begun to ease away, groaning as he fell back against his pillows. “We’ll explore this another time, lass. Soon, I promise. I’m not at my best now anyway. I must smell as rank as a drunk after a night in a dockside ale house.”
“You’re not quite that bad.” She smiled to hide her disappointment. She wanted to pursue the meaning of that kiss. She wanted to learn so much more from him, for she’d felt the hard length of him along her hip and knew that she had affected him as well.
She liked that his gaze was hot and hungry, that his body was tense and smoldering, as though he wanted to roll her under him and do whatever men did to relieve that hard heat between their loins.
He thought he smelled rank, but he didn’t. Beneath the layer of sweat was a clean, manly scent, a heat and dampness mingling with traces of sandalwood from last evening’s bath before the party.
“My sweet, tough Laurel,” he said in a reverent whisper.
Yes, she was tough because she wanted so badly to be released from her promise to marry him. It wasn’t because she wanted to walk away. She had no intention of walking away now. Quite the opposite, she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. But he’d never know she felt this way—or be certain of it—unless he trusted her enough to set her free.
When she took her vows, it would not be through forced promises and trickery.
“Your lips are pursed,” he said, his brow lightly furrowed in concern. “You have something on your mind.”
She nodded. “But as you said, it’s best we speak later.”
There were loose ends she still needed to tidy up before she discussed the matter of her forced betrothal with Graelem. One of those loose ends was Devlin. She had to see him and let him be the first to know that she intended to become Graelem’s wife.
Poor Dev, he deserved more than a cold letter containing a hastily penned farewell. She’d ask to meet him tomorrow or the day after. She dared not wait longer than that.
She also needed to talk to her parents. Graelem and her father had not discussed terms of the marriage contract yet, and she wanted to be sure her own terms were conveyed and accepted. She wanted to marry Graelem, but theirs could not be a marriage of convenience.
She wanted the sort of marriage her parents had. Love, commitment, shared hopes and dreams. Shared bed.
Shared hearts.
She hoped Graelem would want the same. But what if he didn’t?
Graelem arched an eyebrow, his expression now one of confusion as she slumped in her chair and sighed. “What is it, lass?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You can tell me anything, Laurel. At any time. I don’t want us to hold back secrets from each other, even if it means hurting the other’s feelings or angering the other.”
She nodded. “Neither do I. It’s just that I’m not certain what it is I wish to say to you yet. My brain is a bit scrambled at the moment.” She grinned. “And don’t you dare comment that it’s always scrambled.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he teased, laughing as he ran a hand roughly through his hair, which was damp at the ends and curled messily about his nape and ears. All she could think of was that he looked wonderful and approachable, and she wanted to run her fingers through those thick, brown waves and draw his head to hers for another tenderly scorching kiss.
“Right, not while you’re weak as a lamb and completely at my mercy,” she teased, and then gulped as he shifted toward her, his solid muscles rippling across his chest. He wasn�
��t weak. He was splendid. He wasn’t at her mercy either. Quite the opposite, she had lost her heart to him and was utterly at his mercy.
The notion terrified her.
How could they be equals in the marriage when she loved him more than he could ever love her?
* * *
By eleven o’clock that morning, Laurel’s father entered Graelem’s bedchamber to fetch her home. Julian must have reported to him that Graelem was out of danger. “Come along, child. Your mother is worried about you.” He patted her on the shoulder. “She needs to know that you’re all right.”
“I’m perfectly well. It’s Lord Moray who’s injured.”
Her father shook his head. “But you’re her child and she’s driving us all to distraction fretting over you.”
Graelem nodded. “Lass, you haven’t slept a wink and must be spent. My fever’s broken—”
“As well as your leg,” she said as a reminder that he hadn’t fully mended yet.
“I know, but your uncle is taking excellent care of me and my grandmother has a staff of servants to take care of anything else I can’t do for myself. Go home. Get some rest.”
If they were married, she could have spent the night in bed with him, cuddled against his side. Her thoughts must have been transparent, for Graelem’s eyes suddenly widened in surprise and he cast her an affectionate but gloating smile. Fortunately, she had her back to her uncle and father so neither of them noticed the heat in her gaze. “Lass, go. I’ll see you later.”
He shifted so that he now sat fully upright. “I have Moray matters to attend to anyway. I’ll see you this afternoon. Or tomorrow.” He glanced at his still swollen leg. “I’ll be here. I’m in no condition to go anywhere.”
She let out a squawk as Uncle George playfully ruffled her hair. She supposed her fashionable hairdo had come undone sometime during the long evening and she already looked a fright. “Get some sleep, Laurel. That’s doctor’s orders. I don’t want you falling ill, too.”
Laurel nodded and walked downstairs with her father.
Eloise’s butler, Watling, hurried to open the door. As soon as the door had closed behind them, her father slowed his steps to give them more time to talk during the short trip between the neighboring homes. “I will admit to always wanting a son,” he said with a wistfulness to his voice, “but I accepted my lot in life and didn’t mind that I was graced with five daughters instead. I knew that with five girls, five dutiful daughters, my life would be peaceful.”
Laurel grimaced. “Father, I can explain about—”
“What? About almost trampling Lord Moray? About promising to marry him and then doing everything in your power to beg out of it? About Devlin’s drunken behavior? Or the brawl that appears to have almost taken Lord Moray’s life when that idiot Devlin purposely kicked him in his ruptured leg?” He sighed and shook his head. “Despite all, it appears that Lord Moray remains intent on marrying you. Makes one wonder about the man’s sanity,” he muttered.
She supposed this was not a good time to let her father know that she’d fallen in love with Graelem and actually wanted to marry him.
No, not a good time.
She’d spent the last few weeks angrily stomping and storming throughout the house, resenting his very existence. She’d probably enrage her father if she now told him that she’d changed her mind and all her fuss and feathers was for naught.
However, the problem remained that Graelem hadn’t said he loved her. He’d only asked her to love him, which wasn’t at all the same thing.
Their butler opened the door to their townhouse as they approached. “Good morning, Miss Laurel.”
“Good morning, Pruitt.” She held his gaze, wondering what he thought of Graelem. Pruitt was known to have excellent judgement, and in retrospect, it was clear by the subtle blink of his eyes whenever Devlin came around that he’d never liked him.
Pruitt must have known by her expression that she was hoping for some hint about his opinion of Graelem, even though Pruitt had only seen him the day his leg was broken and briefly yesterday at the party. “Your mother awaits you in the parlor,” was all he said before disappearing to wherever butlers disappeared to whenever they didn’t want to be seen or silently begged for advice about a gentleman’s character.
Butlers noticed things because many in what was known as good society did not think of them as people and allowed their true behavior to show to them. A truly caring and thoughtful person treated servants in that same caring and thoughtful manner. A rude person, no matter how polite and genteel he made sure to behave toward his peers, was always rude to those he considered of inferior standing.
Her father nudged her toward the parlor. “You can pester Pruitt later. As he said, your mother is waiting to talk to you.”
Her mother wasn’t the only one waiting for her. Rose and Julian, Daisy, the twins, Uncle Rupert, and Aunt Hortensia were there to keep her company. Her mother’s concerned gaze shot to her father. “John?”
He nodded. “Everything’s fine, Sophie. Lord Moray is on the mend. Our daughter hasn’t killed him off yet.”
Her sisters giggled.
Her mother looked horrified. “John! What a thing to say!”
“Thank you, Laurel,” Rose teased, a smug grin on her face so that Laurel knew she was not about to receive a compliment.
Laurel rolled her eyes. “And what am I to be thanked for?”
Julian laughed heartily. “For making Rose’s courtship look tame in comparison to yours, of course. I heartily thank you as well. Your father no longer shoots daggers at me whenever I enter your home.”
Daisy grinned and scooted next to their mother, who was seated on the blue silk sofa with her hands tensely folded on her lap. “Don’t you worry, Mother. I’ve paid attention throughout our years of etiquette lessons, dance lessons, and every other lesson imaginable to train us to catch suitable husbands. I’ll have a perfectly dull debut season, accept an offer of marriage from a respectable gentleman with impeccable credentials, and enlist you to plan a traditional wedding that won’t be a rushed, patched-up affair.”
Her mother patted Daisy’s hand. “You’ve always been a good, sweet child.”
Lily and Dillie kept their mouths shut, because although they tried to be good daughters as well, they still had a giant African fertility god sitting in the middle of their room that they’d purloined from the Royal Society. Laurel silently prayed that the Duke of Lotheil would not notice the theft and send his hounds on the scent to track it down before Graelem had a chance to arrange its return.
Julian rose from his chair and bowed to all in the room. “I promised to help Lord Moray with some matters concerning his estate. Since he’s apparently feeling better and Laurel is safely back home now, I’ll go bother him.” He gave Rose a kiss on her lips that lasted a bit too long to be considered polite and evoked oohs and giggles from the twins.
Their mother sighed in exasperation at her young sisters. “Daisy, take them upstairs. Obviously they haven’t been paying attention to their lessons on decorum and genteel manners.”
Laurel kept silent.
She’d been worse than the twins, always sneaking off to ride Brutus instead of learning to sew a perfect stitch or make a perfect curtsy.
She was left to face her parents, Rose, who she hoped was an ally, Uncle Rupert, and Aunt Hortensia, who must have dropped a bottle of lilac water on herself and not bothered to wash it off. Laurel put a hand to her mouth and coughed lightly, but didn’t have the heart to remark upon it. Neither had the others, even though all of them were struggling not to grin or cough.
“Have you made a decision, Laurel?” her mother asked after a long, awkward silence.
“About Lord Moray?”
Her mother nodded. “Midsummer’s Day is almost upon us. Now that our time and attention are no longer distracted by the party—”
“Which was splendid, Mother. A job well done.” Laurel came to her side and gave her a quick hug before sin
king into the seat Daisy had vacated.
“Yes, dear. But your ploy to distract me with praise won’t work.” She tried to stifle a grin but couldn’t. “Despite your brawling barons and Lily’s determination to render us deaf with her untuned harp strings, the party was a success. Don’t you think so, John?”
“Indeed, my love.” Her father gave her mother a private smile.
Laurel gulped. This was exactly the sort of marriage she wanted. Private smiles, just like her parents. Kisses that went on too long to be proper, just like Rose and Julian. Would she ever share that intimacy with Graelem? She had to be sure before she went through with a midsummer wedding. “I think I’m in love with him.”
Oops, didn’t mean to blurt that.
The admission brought the others instantly to attention. Uncle Rupert twirled his big black moustache. “Then congratulations are in order, Laurel dear.”
Hortensia agreed.
Her parents stared blankly at her for the longest time, until her mother finally spoke up. “You’re in love with him, but still reticent. What’s wrong?”
She sighed. “I want a love match. It’s the Farthingale way and I couldn’t be happy with anything less. I love him, but I don’t know that he feels the same about me.”
Hortensia shook her head in disbelief. “How could he not? You’re an angel and he’s fortunate to have found you.” She shook her hand to wave off Laurel’s protests, but the gesture caused the scent of lilac water to waft through the air and further permeate the parlor, if that was possible. “He put up with your reading that hideous poetry to him and never once complained. If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.”
No one dared mention that she was a spinster and had rejected almost a dozen suitors in her younger day. In Laurel’s opinion, Hortensia didn’t know anything about love.
“You’re wrong, Laurel,” Rupert said gently, obviously reading her thoughts. “Hortensia rejected the young men who offered for her hand because she knew precisely what she wanted in a marriage and none of those clots would provide it.” He glanced at her parents. “We aren’t all as fortunate as John and Sophie. Sometimes we never find the one mate destined to steal our heart and touch our soul.”
