A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  “What? Why, that wretch! Has he agreed to do the dirty work for you?” She marched to the fireplace and picked up one of the heavy irons. “I’ll show him. If he thinks to harm a hair on Brutus’ mane, I’ll shove this thing so far up his—”

  “Laurel! That will be quite enough.” Her father grabbed the fireplace implement out of her hand. “Sit down and behave. Have all these years of etiquette lessons been a waste?”

  “He plans to kill my horse! Am I to smile sweetly and allow it?” She let out an indignant huff. “I think not!”

  Her father set his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly nudged her back into her seat beside her mother. “Think again, child. He has no intention of destroying Brutus. He plans to take the beast back to Scotland as soon as he’s fit to travel and will give him the run of the Moray pasture lands. In exchange for that favor to you—”

  “Ha! Do you expect me to trust his motives?” She shot to her feet again because one could not be properly indignant while seated.

  Her father nudged her down again. “That isn’t my concern. Trust him or don’t trust him, that’s up to you. But the rest is up to me, so after due deliberation with the family elders…” He turned to glance at her mother and the assorted aunts and uncles gathered in the suddenly stuffy parlor, and received approving nods from all of them. “After due deliberation with the elders and with Lord Moray, here’s what is to become of you for the next month.”

  Laurel opened her mouth to protest, but her father’s warning frown silenced her.

  “You are not permitted any social engagements until such time as Lord Moray’s leg is sufficiently healed to enable him to accept similar invitations.”

  Her eyes rounded in dismay. “But that could take the entire month!”

  “So be it. He’s young and strong. Hopefully he’ll recover sooner.”

  “And until he does, am I to be kept a prisoner in my own home?” She wasn’t going to stand for that. Nor would Devlin. She’d send him another note and invite him over so they could work out a plan. The situation was impossible. Devlin needed her. Lord Moray would easily forget her.

  “Not quite. You’ll be permitted out every afternoon to visit Lord Moray. Properly chaperoned, of course. It is my hope that you’ll get to know him. If in three weeks’ time you still wish to be disentangled from your betrothal, I’ll appeal to Lord Moray again.”

  Her mouth gaped open. “Do you mean to say that you haven’t outright refused him?”

  “No, not yet.” He strode to the small desk in the corner and lifted a decanter off a silver tray. He poured himself a glass of sherry and unceremoniously gulped the whole thing down.

  She had never in her life seen her father do such a thing. He was obviously rattled, and it was all her fault. Still, it seemed a harsh punishment for a simple accident. “Oh, and another thing,” he said, turning back to her and pinning her with his sternest glare. “You are not to have any visitors in that time. No young lady friends or gentleman callers will step foot in this house for the next three weeks.”

  “Crumpets,” Dillie said in a whisper.

  “With sugar on top,” Lily added with a nod. “This is worse than the punishment I received when I brought explosives into the house.”

  * * *

  By noon the following day, Laurel couldn’t wait to be allowed out of the house, even if it was to walk next door and sit with Eloise’s oafish grandson for the remainder of the afternoon. The morning rain, little more than a light shower, had passed quickly and the sun now shone brightly amid white tufted clouds. She hated to be trapped indoors on what was turning into a fine day, but Lord Moray was trapped as well.

  Perhaps they could settle by the window in his room, open it wide to at least gaze out on the beautiful day.

  Perhaps I could shove him out of that window.

  “Be nice to him,” her mother had suggested over breakfast this morning, catching her in the guilty thought and muttering some nonsense about flies and honey. Or was it bees and honey? No matter. She had tried being nice and wound up with an unwanted betrothal because of it. She was not going to encourage the man. She wanted him to rue the day he’d ever set eyes upon her.

  However, she had no choice but to be nice to him today because he truly had saved Brutus. She would restrain her murderous thoughts. Tomorrow was an altogether different matter.

  Tomorrow, her delicate lace gloves would come off.

  She had already written a note to Devlin about her ridiculously unfair confinement and hidden it in her chest of drawers. Daisy had agreed to secretly hand it to him the next time she rode in Hyde Park, which was something she often did with their cousin William and Aunt Julia when weather permitted, so no one would think anything of it.

  The task was easy enough, and Daisy was a loyal sister, eager to help out in any way she could. Laurel hated to involve her, but there was little risk of her getting caught. William always ogled the young ladies on their fine horses. His attention would be cast everywhere but on his cousin. Julia always enjoyed the latest on dit with friends she encountered while out riding. The pair could be counted on to ignore her sister.

  Still, Laurel suffered a pang of guilt as she entered the bedchamber she now shared with Daisy to retrieve her shawl and the already penned letter. “Daisy, you don’t have to do this for me. I’d feel awful if you got into trouble over helping me.”

  Daisy spared a final glance in the mirror and smoothed out the skirt of her elegant black riding habit that was a shade darker than her hair. “I want to help out. You’ve helped me so many times I’ve lost count.” She rolled her big blue eyes. “It’s the least I can do for you.”

  “But—”

  She put a gentle hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “We sisters are determined to marry for love. Since you love Devlin, I’ll do all I can to help you to that end. There’s nothing more to be said.”

  “Thank you.” But Laurel hesitated another moment before handing over the note. This was her battle and it somehow felt underhanded to involve Daisy, of all her sisters. Daisy was the good daughter, the perfect middle child who was always obedient and sought to please the family. “I won’t be angry or upset if you change your mind.”

  Daisy slipped the note up the sleeve of her jacket. “I have no intention of changing my mind. I know you all think I’m a paragon of virtue… well, I do love the family and I’m much less adventurous than you, Rose, or the twins. But I’m no coward. And I certainly won’t stand by and do nothing while one of my sisters is in trouble.”

  She gave Laurel a quick hug. “Don’t be late for your visit with Lord Moray. You must tell me everything that happens between you. As you know, this paragon,” she teased, referring to herself, “loves gossip.”

  Laurel laughed and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I love you, Daisy. Do be careful.”

  They walked downstairs together, and Laurel waited for her sister to ride out with the others before heading over to Eloise’s home to visit her grandson. Eloise had agreed to act as chaperone for the next few days, but Laurel wasn’t pleased with the prospect. She adored the kindly older woman and knew the feeling was reciprocated. But since Eloise adored her, she was no ally in this campaign. Eloise wanted her to make a match with her grandson.

  Eloise also knew her very well, which could pose a problem. Although Laurel planned on being nice to Lord Moray today, she meant to be petty and insufferable the next day and the next. Eloise would know it wasn’t her true nature and might assure her grandson that it was only a pretense. She didn’t want the kindly dowager undermining her efforts to end the betrothal.

  She stood on the front steps of Eloise’s home and tipped her face up to the sun for she would enjoy little of it in the coming month and had no desire to rush inside. All too soon, the front door swung open. “Good afternoon, Watling.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Laurel.” Eloise’s butler stepped aside to allow her in. She briefly wondered what he thought of this impossible situation, but t
he man’s face was as set as a thousand-year-old rock and he revealed nothing in his expression. “Lady Dayne is in the library.”

  She followed Watling, although she knew the house very well and often made her way in on her own, for Eloise had become quite good friends with the Farthingales. She and her sisters thought of her as the grandmother they’d never known. Similarly, Eloise thought of them as the granddaughters she’d never had. Eloise had two sons and they in turn had only sired sons. Not a single female offspring in the lot.

  “Ah, Laurel. You’re right on time.” Eloise beamed at her. “I’ll order refreshments to be brought up to Graelem’s quarters. In the meantime, choose a book from my library. I think he’ll enjoy Shakespeare’s Henry V or perhaps—”

  “Poetry. He seems just the sort of gentleman to adore poems. Long ones. That seem endless.” She trailed a finger along the spine of several tomes until settling on Walter Scott’s Marmion. She’d never read it, but knew it had been quite popular a few years ago. “Let’s give this a try.”

  “Marmion?” Eloise shook her head and chuckled. “You are determined to make his life a misery, aren’t you? But my dear, even though Graelem detests poetry, I’m certain he will endure anything that springs from your lips. Men are odd that way.”

  Laurel frowned. Endure? She wanted him writhing and screaming in boredom. She didn’t want him to endure. It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped to hear. She leafed through the pages, her eye immediately drawn to a couple of lines. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” She slammed the book shut and moved on. “It won’t do.”

  Laurel finally decided upon The Song of Roland and its four thousand lines of poetry. Eloise shook her head and sighed. “I do wish you’d give Graelem a chance. It isn’t at all nice of you to force poetry down his throat.”

  Laurel tipped her chin up in annoyance. “It isn’t at all nice of him to force marriage down mine.”

  Eloise sighed again. “I’m not suggesting what he did is right. But it could work out if only you’d give him a chance.”

  “I’m giving him as much of one as he gave me.” Having gotten in the final word, she marched upstairs to his quarters and knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” he called, and Laurel felt an inexplicable warmth steal through her at the sound of his deep, commanding voice. She dismissed her response as a case of nerves. Or incipient dyspepsia. But as she walked in and saw him in his bed, sitting up with his back propped against six or seven pillows and his broken leg elevated, she felt a twinge of guilt.

  More than a mere twinge of it—a hefty wallop.

  He looked handsomer than she remembered and obviously in a lot of pain. “Have you been taking your medicine?” She set the book down on the stool beside his bed and reached for the bottle of laudanum on his night stand.

  “Leave it, lass. That concoction tastes like the bottom of my boots after a day of mucking out the stable. I’ll not be drinking it.”

  “But how else are you to dull the pain?” It wasn’t any fun taking revenge on a man already in agony. Not that she planned to do her worst today. No, she was grateful to him for saving Brutus and had only planned the mildest of tortures. Tomorrow she’d be back in stride.

  “I’ll concentrate on that pretty face of yours. The sight of you will do more good for me than any medicine known to man.” He cast her a boyish grin that seemed to turn up the heat in the room. Or inside her.

  “I’ll open the window for you. It’s a beautiful day and…” His window was already open and a pleasant breeze wafted into the room. “Oh, it’s already open.” She fussed a moment with the drapes that were already drawn aside to allow in the air and sunshine.

  “Still warm, lass?”

  She turned to give him a snide retort, but he chose that moment to cross his arms over his chest and she became distracted by the play of his muscles beneath the white lawn of his nightshirt. His skin looked golden in contrast to that pale white shirt. “What?”

  He grinned wryly, no doubt noticing the blush now staining her cheeks. “I’m feeling a little warm myself.”

  Oh, drat! Did he think she was affected by him? So what if she was? He was incredibly handsome, even if he was a big oaf. “I’ve brought you a book of poetry. It will take us weeks to get through it.” That ought to wipe the smug grin off his face.

  When she returned to his side, he reached out and grabbed the book she had chosen. “The Song of Roland. Not a bad choice, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Do you know it, lass?”

  “Everyone knows of it.” Did he think she was an uneducated ninny? How dare he consider such a thing!

  He set the book back on the stool and trained his gaze on her. “But have you read it yet?”

  Was it getting hot again? That warm glint in his eye and the slight upward tilt of his lips, as though he understood her ploy and found it amusing, was wreaking havoc with her composure. “No, I haven’t read it. That’s why I’m so eager to share it with you.” She forced her lips into a cool, responsive smile.

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I think you’re eager to cleave me in half with a broadsword, that’s what I think. But don’t do it yet, lass. Show a little patience. Ah, Grandmama. How lovely to see you. Come to protect me from Laurel, have you? She has the look of a bloodthirsty warrior.”

  Eloise marched into the room and took a seat beside the door. “She’s delightful. Stop teasing her, Graelem.”

  Laurel was surprised that Eloise did not plan to sit beside them. “Won’t you join us by the bed?”

  “No, dear.” She tossed Graelem a warning scowl. “Your father and Graelem may have worked out this arrangement, but you and Graelem will never get to know each other if I’m sitting right beside you. So it’s best that I stay out of the way as much as I can.”

  “Eloise, this is ridiculous.” Laurel crossed the room intending to move Eloise’s chair, but the stubborn old dowager wouldn’t be budged. “You’re his grandmother and a countess, not my governess or a serving maid to be shunted into a corner. I don’t treat Gladys,” she said, referring to her own maid, “this rudely.”

  In this, Eloise appeared quite stubborn. “I’m merely a dowager countess. Gives me no standing whatsoever.”

  “You could be a fishmonger’s wife and we’d all love you,” Laurel said in exasperation, turning to her grandson for assistance. What she encountered was a look of genuine gratitude and admiration. What had she just said to warrant approval from the oaf? Oh, she’d admitted that she loved his grandmother. Well, it was true. She had no intention of hiding it.

  “Lass,” he said with a gentleness that astonished her, “Eloise can be a disagreeable old battle-axe when she wants to be. You won’t win this fight. But thank you. I can see why she adores you and your sisters. You have kind hearts.”

  Laurel wanted to throw her hands up in disgust. She wasn’t special or kind. She simply wanted out of this betrothal. She crossed back to his side, lifted the book from the stool, and sank down in its place. “The Song of Roland,” she said, opening the pages and beginning to read.

  She’d only gotten four lines in when Watling strode in, rolling a tea cart before him. “Lemonade and pies,” he announced.

  Laurel slammed shut her book. Her attempt to bore Lord Moray into insanity wasn’t working anyway. He was reciting the lines along with her, obviously knowing them by heart. All four thousand of them? It wasn’t possible. She turned to Eloise. “I thought you said your grandson detested poetry.”

  Eloise shrugged. “I thought he did.”

  “Lass, you simply could have asked me. I would have told you that I do abhor most of that drivel, but this poem is about Charlemagne’s campaign to conquer Spain and claim it for his empire. The story is about battle and betrayal. Lots of military tactics and murder for boys to love. My uncle, the Earl of Trent, read it to me and my cousins during a summer I spent with them.”

  She tipped her head, now curious, and couldn’t resist asking, �
�How old were you?”

  “I was all of nine years old,” he said with a wistful smile and a faraway gaze as he momentarily drifted back in time. “My cousin Alexander was the eldest and quite grown up at all of ten years old going on eleven. His brother Gabriel had just turned eight. Their father read to us a little each night before we went to bed.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The ladies did not approve of us dreaming of blood, gore, and death.”

  “I should say not,” Eloise intoned from her corner of the room.

  “But it was one of my fondest memories,” he said softly.

  Laurel’s heart began to beat a little faster, and she stifled the urge to lean close and wrap her arms around him. He’d said that his uncle had read these stories to him. Not his father. And what about his mother? Was she one of “the ladies” he referred to? “I’m sure it upset your mother, as it would any woman who wished their children to have sweet dreams.”

  Neither Eloise nor Lord Moray responded to that remark, but they did exchange a glance. Had something happened to his mother? Or was she not the caring sort? Had she mistreated him?

  “Laurel, would you mind pouring me a glass of lemonade?” There was a sadness in his voice that didn’t just tug at her heart, it practically wrenched that beating organ from her bosom and slammed it to the floor repeatedly.

  Unable to respond, she simply nodded.

  She handed him the glass and turned to Eloise. “Would…” She paused to clear the lump suddenly caught in her throat. “Would you care for some?”

  “No, dear. Just attend to Graelem. I’ll forage for myself.”

  “Lord Moray, I—”

  “Laurel, there’s no need for formality between us. Just call me Graelem. Save that stuffy nonsense for ton functions. And I’ll not have you referring to me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Moray’ in our marriage either. You’re to be my wife. My equal.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “You’re gawking at me again, lass. Ah, it’s that ‘equals in the marriage’ I was just talking about. That’s the Scottish influence, I fear. We seem to think more highly of our women than the English do.”