A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  Laurel snapped her mouth shut. “But you’re English, too.”

  He nodded. “I was raised in both worlds, which makes me suitable for neither. I’m too Scottish for the English and too English for the Scots.”

  Laurel clutched the book as though it were a shield designed to protect her heart. She had yet to sit beside him for an hour, and he was fast becoming someone she would consider a friend were circumstances other than they were. “I do understand that sense of not belonging. My father and his brothers raised themselves up from the working class to become the respected men they are today. They hate being called gentlemen because it was hard work and rigorous study that got them their success, not idleness or drinking at their clubs.”

  Graelem regarded her in a manner that encouraged her to continue, so she did. “My sisters and I were raised in Coniston. That’s in the Lake District. We only came to London because my parents felt we ought to have a proper introduction into society.” She brushed back a stray lock of her hair and sighed. “No amount of tutoring will ever turn me into a biddable young lady. Nor my sisters, for that matter. Except perhaps Daisy. She’s naturally sweet and always behaves.” Almost always. “I’m sure she’ll find a sober judge to marry and raise the most obedient children ever created on this earth.”

  He glanced over her head at his grandmother and grinned. “Well, if Daisy ever decides to live a little more adventurously, I have a rakish cousin she might like to meet. Gabriel, the scrappy eight-year-old I mentioned.”

  She was trying to disentangle herself from Graelem Dayne and had no desire to entertain a marriage between her sister and Graelem’s cousin, especially if he was an adventurer and a rogue. “I think I’ll go downstairs and find some other reading material.”

  “Stay, lass. No books for now. I’d rather learn more about you.”

  Laurel ignored him and left the room. She didn’t care to know more about Graelem for fear that she might grow to like him. However, she was curious about the look he had given Eloise when she had mentioned his mother. She’d ask Eloise later.

  * * *

  Graelem eased against his pillows and let out an anguished groan the moment Laurel left his quarters. The impudent girl looked so damn delectable that it took all his control to keep from taking her into his arms and kissing her up and down her outrageously beautiful body. The innocent could drive any man to sin.

  She wasn’t purposely trying to arouse him. Quite the opposite, she was doing her best to wriggle out of their betrothal. As far as he was concerned, she was failing miserably, for the more he saw of her, the more he liked her. She seemed genuinely unaware of her charms and used no artifice to enhance her appearance. Her pale blue gown was simply designed and its only adornment was a bit of white lace fabric at the squared-off collar.

  The pale blue of her gown somehow intensified the blue-green swirls of her eyes, and the sun filtering in through the open window made her amber-gold hair glisten. Once again, her hair was bound in a bun that was casually pinned at the nape of her neck. He still ached to pull those pins out and watch her thick curls tumble down her back.

  He glanced upward. Lord, isn’t a broken leg punishment enough? Must you also torture me by making her so beautiful? He could look his fill but never touch, not now that he’d made the girl that idiotic promise never to set a hand on her without her permission.

  Had any able-bodied man ever made a stupider promise?

  Eloise cleared her throat, reminding him that his grandmother was still in the room and intent on dutifully serving as Laurel’s chaperone. There would be no misbehaving, even if Laurel were willing, that was for damn sure. No matter. Laurel would never be willing. Why would she be? No doubt she already had a dozen gentlemen eager to marry her. “Dear boy,” Eloise began slowly, her lips pursed in thought—or was it disapproval? “She’s right, you know. You cannot force her to marry you.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “And I know for a fact that you do. She isn’t a pet dog. You can’t simply train her to sit and obey.” Her lips were still pursed, definitely in disapproval.

  He laughed lightly. “In the brief time I’ve known her, I would say that Laurel obeys no man. She listens only to her heart, much to her father’s dismay. But I like that about her. She thinks for herself and she has a kind and generous nature.”

  Eloise’s eyes rounded in obvious surprise. “How can you tell?”

  “For one thing, she dotes on you, sincerely cares about you. Most young women would not concern themselves with an old dowager unless they were trying to get something out of her. Laurel’s quite the opposite. She adores you as though you were her own grandmother and looks to your comfort, not hers.”

  He laughed lightly again as he continued. “And even though she detests me, she still can’t help but leap to my rescue whenever she sees that I’m in pain. As for the rest of it, I don’t know. There’s something about the girl. She’s open and honest, makes her easy to understand. Not that I understand a damn thing about women.”

  He eased up against his pillows, wincing at the pain that reared its ugly head each time he moved. “As I said, despite wanting to shoot me for tricking her into a betrothal, there have been occasional moments when she’s wanted to put her arms around me to comfort me.”

  “That was only yesterday while you were writhing on the street.”

  He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out gruffer than intended and with a raspy edge to it. “Her touch felt good, Grandmama.” So good.

  “Oh, dear,” she said in a whisper. There was a tremor to her voice, as though his words had affected her. He hadn’t meant to distress her, but he knew that he had when her eyes began to glisten with tears. “You never knew a parent’s love. I should have taken up the slack after your mother died and your father…” Her voice trailed off, for his father—Eloise’s youngest son—had abandoned him.

  They’d had this conversation before. He’d never blamed her for his situation, but she always insisted on taking the blame. He sighed. “You were always loving and kind to me.”

  “Not kind enough. I should have done more. I should have asked your uncle,” she said, referring to her eldest son, the Earl of Trent, “to take you in. But we never realized how unhappy you were growing up with your mother’s family. At the time we thought it made perfect sense for you to live with them since you were to inherit the Scottish barony.”

  “I would have done the same were I in your position.”

  “No, you would have been more attentive and noticed that—”

  “Stop, Grandmama,” he said gently. “Aunt Jenny and Granduncle Silas fed and clothed me and provided a roof over my head. They were severe, but not cruel. It was the only way either of them knew how to be. Perhaps things might have been different if Silas had ever had children of his own. But he never married and therefore depended upon his nieces to care for him.”

  “And then your mother died, leaving the burden to Jenny alone.”

  He nodded. “The double burden of a demanding old man and a helpless infant. What’s done is done. I wasn’t about to dishonor my mother’s memory by complaining about her family. Nor could I blame Aunt Jenny for resenting me. She was young and ought to have been attending assemblies and musicales instead of sitting trapped with us on a secluded baronial estate.”

  Eloise’s response was cut short by Laurel’s return.

  Graelem was relieved to end the conversation. He turned his attention to Laurel and smothered a grin. The girl had an adorably smug look on her face. Ah, he enjoyed looking at her wonderfully expressive face. One day, she might look upon him with tender passion. Right now, he was the only one fighting off passionate urges. Laurel’s body was like a siren song calling to him with each graceful sway of her hips. “What deadly dull tale have you selected, lass?”

  She tipped her chin upward and cast him a victorious grin. “Your grandmother mentioned that you enjoy Shakespeare, so I chose to read Titus Andronicu
s.”

  He glanced at the freshly baked pies Watling had wheeled in on the tea cart. They were still hot, which intensified their cinnamon and apple aroma. The delightful scent tickled his nostrils. Titus Andronicus had a gory scene with a pie central to the story. Did Laurel know what that tragedy was about? Or know that two of the characters were baked in a pie and given to their unknowing mother to eat?

  Eloise resumed her seat beside the door. “Laurel dear,” she spoke up with concern, “I don’t think this play is appropriate. It—”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Laurel insisted, plunking herself down on the stool and opening the book.

  Graelem smothered another grin. Laurel was the sort of girl who only became further entrenched in her position if told she should not or could not do something. It hadn’t taken Graelem long to figure out that quirk in her character, and he was surprised that his grandmother had yet to discover it. Then again, Laurel adored Eloise and always sought to please her.

  “Is there a reason you chose this particular story?” he asked. “Other than simply because I enjoy his works?”

  She blushed. “Yes.”

  He waited for her to explain, and when no explanation was forthcoming, he merely arched an eyebrow. “Very well, get on with it. And when you tire of reading, we can simply talk. I’d like to learn more about you.”

  “I have no wish to learn anything about you.” She tipped her chin upward again. “We won’t be marrying. I hope never to see you again once my punishment is over.” She paused a moment and looked down at her toes. “But thank you for saving Brutus.”

  She paused again, raised her gaze to his, and opened her mouth to speak. Shaking her head, she clamped her mouth shut. He grew curious when she repeated the process, opening that perfectly shaped mouth of hers that was meant to be kissed often and thoroughly, and then quickly closing it. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

  She fidgeted a moment, took a deep breath, and then looked him squarely in the eye. “Will you sell Brutus to me once Father calms down and permits me to have him back?”

  “No.”

  She shot to her feet and was about to drop the forgotten Titus Andronicus on her toes, but he caught the book in time. “Hell and damnation,” he said with a yelp, for the quick movement jolted his leg. He tried to ignore the stabbing pains coursing through his body, but the struggle left him in a cold sweat. Moisture beaded across his brow.

  He grabbed her hand when she started to turn away. “I’ll give him back to you,” he explained between clenched teeth, still fighting to subdue his pain. Blessed Scottish saints! Every movement hurts. “I didn’t pay for him and won’t turn a profit at your expense.”

  She stopped trying to draw her hand away. Instead, she wrapped her fingers in his and stared at him, trying to decide whether or not he could be trusted. “You did pay for him,” she said in a whisper of contrition. “You paid dearly with your broken leg.”

  He may have been physically hurt, but she was hurting too and unable to forgive herself for the accident. Damn. When she looked at him in that soft way, he was in danger of giving her anything she wished. “I didn’t spend any blunt on him and won’t make you spend any either. He’ll be returned to you at the proper time. Don’t ever offer to buy him from me, lass. He’ll be yours once your father gives his permission. You obviously love that beast. I won’t keep him from you.”

  He watched her expressive face, the flash of confusion in her exquisite eyes warring with the relief and gratitude she obviously felt.

  She sighed softly and leaned toward him.

  Was she about to give him another prim kiss on his cheek?

  She leaned closer still, and then suddenly remembered that her hand was still wrapped in his. She hastily removed it and took the book back in her grasp.

  The incredible feel of her slender fingers grazing his rough skin remained with him. He fought off the wave of heat now coursing through his body. Could he still blame this hot attraction on the laudanum working its way through him? Or on the fact that he hadn’t taken any laudanum today to stem his pain?

  He didn’t want his heart involved in this marriage business.

  He couldn’t afford to like her.

  Stick to your purpose.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so unpleasant to you today,” Laurel said, withdrawing a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dipping it into the ewer near his bedside that had been freshly filled with water shortly before she’d arrived. After wringing out the moisture, she applied it to his forehead and gently wiped the sweat off his brow. Her light touch felt so good. Too good.

  He needed a girl to marry, not one to love.

  Graelem watched as she set aside the handkerchief and returned to her seat on the stool. She sighed softly, clasped her hands, and then once again stared at her toes. “I chose Titus Andronicus for two reasons.” She spoke so quietly, he almost missed what she was saying. “The first reason is that I thought Shakespeare’s classical tragedies would bore you to tears.”

  “Because you believe me to be a bull-headed, uncouth lout. My grandmother thinks the same of me, so I suppose I am.” He arched an eyebrow. “And the second?”

  Although her face was still angled to gaze at the floor, he caught the rosy stain of a blush on her cheeks. “My parents refused to allow any of us to read this particular Shakespeare tragedy. I’ve been curious about it ever since.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “Very efficient of you, lass. Dispatching two birds with one stone. But there’s good reason for their admonition. It’s a cruel and violent play. Not for tender young hearts or delicate sensibilities.”

  “I won’t be afraid.” Her chin shot up again. “It’s just a play.”

  He glanced at the uncut pie on the tea tray. The enticing aroma of cinnamon and apples still filled the air. “Hand me the book.”

  She hesitated only a moment before doing so.

  He began to read her the part where the queen was told her children had been baked in the pie she’d just eaten. Laurel shot to her feet. “Wait! Let me see that.” She grabbed it from his hands and began to silently peruse the passage, her eyes widening and gracefully curved mouth now pursed in disgust as she snapped the book shut. “You weren’t making it up.”

  “No, lass. I’m an oaf, remember? I could never write or express myself so eloquently.” He leaned over and reached for the cake knife to slice himself a bit of pie. Perhaps it wasn’t an appropriate moment, but he was hungry and the scent of apples was tickling his nostrils. “Care for some? I promise, there are no children baked inside.”

  “Graelem! Really, I must protest,” his grandmother intoned from across the room. “That’s too, too ghoulish of you!”

  Laurel didn’t appear nearly as overset, for she was merely shaking her head and laughing. It was a sweet, conciliatory laugh acknowledging that she’d been caught in this scheme of her own making. She leaned forward and inhaled the scent of the pie. “I’d love some. Here, let me help you.” She placed her hand over his, the casual act setting off a cannon burst within his chest. Damn. Why was he so affected by this girl? The pain, no doubt. It was addling his senses.

  He had no intention of falling in love with his wife.

  Assuming he and Laurel ever made it to the altar.

  He ceded the chore of cutting the pie to her capable hands, and then groaned inwardly when her pink tongue darted out to lick a few stray crumbs off her finger. His entire body caught fire. Fortunately, the girl had no idea the impact she was having on his composure.

  Unfortunately, he understood exactly what the girl was doing to his composure.

  Blessed Scottish saints! This was only his first day with Laurel. What would tomorrow bring?

  Chapter 5

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS were a disaster in Graelem’s mind, for Laurel refused to engage in conversation and spent the entire time reading The Song of Roland to him. Over and over again. By day four, he swore that if she walked in with the damn poem again, he was g
oing to toss it out the window. Or toss himself out the window if he couldn’t wrest the book out of her hands.

  His own grandmother had abandoned him to his punishment by day two. She had been slipping out of his chamber each day shortly after Laurel’s arrival, knowing the girl’s intent and not about to suffer through hours of that wretched poetry recitation along with him.

  So much for being chaperoned.

  Laurel’s attention had been so focused on her mission to make him rue their betrothal that she’d never noticed they’d been left alone each afternoon. He’d survived these visits by closing his eyes and listening to the soft purr of her voice. While she primly read to him, he fantasized about peeling the fashionable day gown off her splendid body and exploring each delicate curve and perfect line of her warm, pink skin with his lips and tongue.

  The innocent would bludgeon him if she ever realized what he was thinking.

  He was an uncouth lout and proud of it.

  And now they were at day five and Laurel was late. He’d earlier washed and shaved, and then donned a fresh nightshirt because he still couldn’t fit his splinted leg into a pair of trousers. Now restless, he eased from his bed and carefully lowered his leg to avoid putting any weight on his foot as it touched the floor. After some false starts, he’d learned to shift his weight onto his healthy leg without too much difficulty.

  Once standing, he reached for his dressing gown and then his crutches. He’d just secured the belt of his dressing gown around his waist and was about to make his way to the window on his crutches when his door flew open and Laurel burst in. Would the girl never learn the art of knocking?

  A mere glance at Laurel’s reddened eyes and tear-dampened cheeks warned him this was no time for glib remarks. “Lass, what’s wrong?” On instinct, he set aside his crutches and opened his arms to her.

  She let out a sob and flew into his offered embrace, her riot of dark gold curls unbound and flowing down her back.

  “Blessed saints, what’s happened?” He wrapped her in his arms, pleasantly surprised and at the same time dreading the news that had put her there. “Is it Brutus?” He didn’t know her father very well, but the man didn’t seem the sort to go back on his word and have the beast destroyed.