by Meara Platt
Ian nodded. “Rose, the eldest. He did well for himself. The girl has brains as well as beauty. But why is my presence required, and how is it in any way connected to that family?”
“Harrison Farthingale was injured and possibly captured while battling Napoleon’s army in France. His brothers are frantic with worry. Indeed, all the Farthingales are. You’re needed to—”
He broke off as Julian strode in.
“I’ve just come from Harrison’s regimental headquarters and the news is very bad.” Julian hastily acknowledged Ian. “Your Grace, glad you’re here.” He ran a hand roughly through his hair as he continued. “It’s almost certain Rose’s uncle is dead, but his body hasn’t been recovered yet. The battle was a bloody massacre of our English forces. The dead have yet to be counted, and there are so many injured…” He paused as rage and frustration overwhelmed him.
“I know,” Ian said with a bitterness that surprised Graelem, for the duke rarely showed his feelings. But Ian was clenching and unclenching his fists as though preparing to pound someone to dust, and his eyes were ablaze with anger. “Gabriel sent his report weeks ago warning about the French troop strength at Boulogne. He proposed a damned brilliant alternative to General Kellington’s battle plan, which wasn’t a plan at all, but a death march. That horse’s arse! He ignored the advice.”
Ian, his expression as stormy as the rain now beginning to fall with a vengeance, rose from his chair and began to pace. “I told Prinny that if he didn’t remove Kellington immediately, I’d do it for him. And I’ll do a hell of a lot worse to him than a mere broken leg. He’s destroyed too many lives because of his stupidity.”
Graelem had no doubt that Ian would follow through on his threat, and also had no doubt that Prinny took his words seriously. He expected that within the week, Kellington would be quietly dismissed or promoted to some useless ministry where his stupidity could do little damage.
Of course, too late to save the precious lives lost at Boulogne.
Ian’s eyes suddenly rounded in understanding. “You want me to find Harrison Farthingale when I slip into France. I’m due to leave tomorrow.”
Julian nodded. “We know it’s asking much of you. I volunteered to go, but the others,” he said with a nod in Graelem’s direction, referring not only to him but to all the members in the English spy ring secretly commissioned by Prinny, “refused to permit me the assignment.”
“I should hope not.” There was a determined glint in Ian’s eyes. “You’re married and your wife is with child. You know our rules. No grieving widows and no fatherless children left behind. You’re still an important part of this organization.”
Julian scowled. “But relegated to a clerk’s position.”
“We need operatives within England as well. Your work remains vital, just not as physically dangerous as the missions in France.” Graelem winced as he accidentally moved his leg. “Bollocks! How do you think I feel? I’m the one who should be sailing across the channel. The responsibility should have been mine.”
“Yours?” Both men said at once and stared at him in surprise.
“He’s Laurel’s uncle, and after what I’ve done to the girl—”
“Offering to marry her?” Ian shook his head. “Isn’t it what every debutante desires?”
“I’ve tricked her into marrying me. There’s a difference. She wasn’t given a choice. I’m forcing her to the altar because of that damned contingency in my inheritance.”
Julian nodded. “Rose is quite up in arms about it. I’m doing all I can to keep her from barging in here and doing away with you in the same way we’re all contemplating doing away with Kellington.”
Ian coughed. “These Farthingales sound quite bloodthirsty. I’ll do my best to avoid them. They seem more dangerous than Boney.”
“They are,” Julian agreed, but his tone gentled. “However, I have no complaints. I love Rose.”
Ian turned toward Graelem in expectation.
What did they expect him to say? That he loved Laurel? “I have no complaints either. But ours is a business arrangement.”
Ian sighed. “Another deluded bachelor. I had better warn Gabriel about the Farthingale sisters when I meet him in France. Who’s next to be set loose upon society?”
“Daisy,” Julian said.
“Right, I’ll warn him to keep away from her.” He turned to Graelem once more. “I’ll do what I can to locate Harrison Farthingale and find out about his condition. England can’t afford to lose brave men like him. I sincerely hope I can deliver good news.”
Graelem nodded.
But none of them smiled, for they’d all experienced war and knew its harsh reality.
Harrison Farthingale was not coming home.
* * *
“Come in,” Graelem said when Laurel appeared three days later. Her face was pale, and she was nibbling her lip as though concerned about what he might do to her after the way they’d parted company on her last visit. Her hair was drawn back in a stylishly intricate braided bun, but a few golden curls remained loose to frame her heart-shaped face. Her gown was a soft, sea foam green that subtly enhanced the greenish-blue hue of her eyes.
Unfortunately, her eyes were rimmed in red from the tears she had obviously shed these past few days as her family continued to worry over the fate of Harrison Farthingale. There had been no news and that was probably the hardest to endure.
She remained in his doorway, reluctant to step in.
He grabbed his crutches and hobbled over to her side before she lost her composure and fled. He was dressed now, finally able to wear proper clothes, although his leg was still tightly bound to hold the broken bones in place and he couldn’t put pressure on it yet.
His attire was simple, never to be mistaken for fashionable. He wore buff breeches and a plain shirt of white lawn. No finely woven jacket. No silk vest or perfectly looped cravat. No fancy leather boots on his feet yet, just a slipper on his good foot and bandages on his bad one.
But he was dressed and that was a step in the right direction. He arched an eyebrow and grinned in response to her questioning gaze. “I’ve had the ewer restocked with water.”
A small smile crept across her lips despite her efforts to hide all trace of enjoyment or desire to be in his presence. “I’m surprised you aren’t wearing your oilskin today or keeping an umbrella beside your bed,” she responded, finally surrendering to his teasing. A delightful rose blush stained her cheeks.
“I’m ever hopeful that I’ll get through this visit without a thorough soaking.” He glanced behind her. “No chaperone?”
Her eyes rounded in surprise and she turned to gaze behind her. “I… Aunt Hortensia is with me… at least, she was with me a moment ago. Oh, dear. Where has she gone off to?”
He stepped aside and invited her in. “She must have stopped a moment to greet Eloise. I’m sure she’ll be along soon.” Not that he wanted to share his time with anyone but Laurel. It wasn’t as though the Farthingale elders were diligent guardians. In truth, they were remarkably inattentive. Almost as inattentive as Eloise had been since the first few days.
It seemed he and Laurel bored everyone but each other.
His heart beat a little faster within his chest. She looked so beautiful. In truth, she grew lovelier with each passing day. He couldn’t blame his feelings on his blurred vision, for his vision had cleared shortly after he’d been kicked by Brutus. Nor could he blame them on his pain or the laudanum he’d refused to take for that pain.
He motioned to the chair he now kept beside his open window in order to enjoy the outdoors, for he had never been one to spend more time than necessary indoors. This enforced confinement was not in his nature. Were it not for Laurel’s visits and the sack of paperwork that arrived each morning requiring his immediate attention, he would have gone stark raving mad by now. “Won’t you have a seat?”
She gave him a curt nod as she glided past, sparing a peek at his bed as she did so. He thought it interesti
ng, but made no remark about it, for she was an innocent and knew that remaining in that genteel state depended on her staying as far away from his bed as possible.
He was not so innocent and ached to have her hot and writhing beneath him, the mattress sinking under the weight of their contorted bodies.
He had to stop these wayward thoughts.
She gazed at his leg. “It appears to be on the mend.”
Her uncle had come by earlier to examine him and seemed pleased with the progress. “It’s healing nicely. George says I’ll be well enough to receive company downstairs within a few days.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled, obviously relieved that he was one step closer to returning to society. “Excellent,” she said with no effort to hide her feelings.
He supposed that he was relieved as well. Laurel’s presence in his bedchamber had been wreaking havoc on his composure. He was no saint and his thoughts about Laurel had been decidedly sinful almost from the moment they’d met.
He had no doubt that he would burn in hell for them.
She’d be much safer once he was able to manage the stairs and meet her each afternoon in Eloise’s parlor. Well, perhaps not all that safe.
But it would be easier for him to keep his distance from the girl. He had to not only maintain a physical distance, but keep her away from his heart.
He needed a convenient bride.
No complications.
No romance.
No broken hearts.
He needed a wife in name only. After the wedding, he’d return to Moray, for there was plenty of work to keep him busy, the first chore being to restore the manor house that Silas had allowed to fall into shocking disrepair.
After the wedding, Laurel could settle wherever she wished.
He would take her back to Moray with him if she asked, the choice hers.
Nor would he stint on her comfort if she preferred to remain in London with her family. He’d provide a generous allowance for her as well as purchase a townhouse for her in Mayfair.
He liked that idea, for he’d have a place to drop his bags on those rare visits to London. A large townhouse where they’d each have their own private quarters on opposite ends of a long hallway, but not so far away that they couldn’t… if they bumped into each other during the night and the urge… Damn! What was he thinking?
“What’s it to be today?” he asked, giving her the opportunity to select the topic of conversation. She had no book in her hands, thank goodness.
“I think we ought to talk about marriage. I need to know what you’ll expect from me. In turn, I’ll set out my list of requirements.” That pretty chin of hers shot up again, daring him to dismiss her suggestion.
Quite the opposite, he was cheering. Silently, of course. The mere fact that she’d mentioned the word “marriage” was a victory for him. A small one, to be sure. “I have no expectations of you. You’ll have as much freedom as you desire.”
She let out a huff. “No demands after the marriage? If my presence is so revolting to you, we can end this farce right now.”
He groaned and shook his head, already knowing the doomed path this conversation was headed. “I will not call off the wedding. And you know very well that your presence is not revolting to me in the least.”
She rolled her eyes. “Be still my fluttering heart.”
He sighed again. “But you do deserve an explanation for our betrothal, lass. Have a seat. I’ll tell you why it’s so important to me.”
* * *
Laurel settled in one of the two red silk chairs placed beside the open window. The stool was tucked beside his bed, and kept out of the way as it had been for her last few visits. She suspected that maintaining identical chairs beside the window was Graelem’s way of keeping them on equal footing. Equals in the marriage. Equals in their seating arrangement. Equals in everything but the decision on whether or not to marry.
She was eager to learn why they had to wed by Midsummer’s Day. The more he confided in her, the better the plan she could devise to thwart him. She watched him settle into the seat beside hers, her heart tightening as he held his breath and tensed his shoulders while easing against the bright red silk with slow, painful movements.
She knew that she could never be completely angry or indignant with him. He was suffering and she was the cause of it. “Tell me why we must marry.”
“Because I’ll lose my inheritance if I don’t have a wife by Midsummer’s Day.”
That was simple and direct. She frowned. “So that’s all I am to you? A means to an inheritance? No noble reason? You want the wealth and standing in society.”
“I don’t give a damn about society. I give a damn about the people who live and work the Moray lands, the families that have called it their home for generations. The title is mine whether or not we marry, of course. So is the manor house since it is entailed. However, that house needs a lot of work to bring it back to its former glory. Silas, the old Baron Moray, was not one to spend on basic comforts.”
She tipped her head, confused. “So you’re marrying me for my dowry?”
“No. Silas died a wealthy man. He could have left it all to me without restraint or restriction since I’m his closest surviving male heir, albeit through the maternal line. But he wanted to be sure I’d continue the Moray bloodline, hence the requirement for me to marry within the month.”
“And if you don’t?”
He ran a hand roughly through his hair. He’d obviously washed it shortly before she’d arrived so that it was clean and shining, and yet a few thick curls remained damp and refused to behave. The style was not elegant, but his slightly too-long hair and those few wayward curls suited him to perfection. Drat!
He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. Clearly he did not like to speak about himself. “I’ll lose the farms and other land holdings, the bonds and investments, the mining and shipping partnerships. I’ve spent most of these last fifteen years building them up for Silas and I’ll be damned if I’m to quietly turn everything over to some worthless popinjay distant cousin who’ll gamble through the assets within the year.”
“Fifteen years? He put you to work by the time you were, what… about ten years old?” She gasped. “He treated you like an orphan in a workhouse.”
“He treated me like a strict, elderly uncle who believed in working for one’s supper. That’s all. Don’t make more of it than that.”
But for one brief moment, she saw the loneliness and bitter struggles of his childhood years reflected in his gaze. “So Silas gave you only a month to find a wife?”
Once again, he shifted uncomfortably. “He gave me a little longer than that. He died almost three months ago.”
She pursed her lips, struggling to rid herself of all sympathetic feelings for this man. It wasn’t quite as easy as she had hoped, but she finally managed to do it. After all, he really didn’t need her. Any girl would do. “Three months is still not a very long time to find a proper wife. However, you have a wide field of prospects available to you in London. If you’re truly to inherit wealth in your own right, and don’t need mine—”
“I don’t. Lass,” he said, his dark green eyes rounding in surprise, “I’d never touch a shilling of yours. What comes from your family is yours to keep.”
She was relieved he wasn’t after her trust fund, but that only heightened her confusion. “If you don’t need my funds—”
“All I need is Moray.” There was a stubborn set to his jaw, a nice jaw that any young lady would be tempted to caress. Just not her, because no matter how appealing he might be under other circumstances, he had unfairly trapped her into a betrothal and she could never forgive him for that.
“Then any young lady will suit your purpose.”
He cast her a hard stare that caused her to blush by its heat and intensity. “I won’t be meeting any of them for another week or two at the earliest. I can’t take the risk of running out of time. Moray means too much to me.”
<
br /> But I don’t.
“Can’t take the risk or won’t?” she asked, repeating the same question Eloise had asked of her when discussing their impossible situation and their not-going-to-happen marriage.
The solution to this problem was so simple that Laurel wanted to grab Graelem by his shirt collar and shake him soundly. “I’ll speak to your grandmother and we’ll arrange a small tea party right here. I’ll also speak to my parents and insist on our hosting a dinner or musicale in our own home. I’m sure you will easily manage to walk next door given a few more days.” The ideas continued to whirl in her head. “I have several friends making their come out this season. They’ll trip over themselves to meet a wealthy baron.”
He arched an eyebrow and leaned closer. “If they’re so eager, then why aren’t you?”
She tipped her chin upward in indignation, the common ending to most of their conversations. “As I said, I’m in love with another.”
“Ah, yes. Devlin, the man who’s kissed you with the ardor of boiled socks.”
Her face began to heat. “If ever he were to kiss me, I can assure you it would be with more ardor than that of boiled socks!”
“If ever he…” He shook his head as though confused, then gaped at her and laughed. “You mean to say that he hasn’t kissed you yet? Not even one stolen kiss under a Yuletide bough?”
She didn’t think that her cheeks could grow any hotter, but they did. “No. Not yet, but—”
“Blessed Scottish saints,” he said in a husky murmur. “Are you saying that I’m the only man who’s ever kissed you?”
“In that crude and plundering way. Yes.” In that wonderful, fires-of-hell-take-me-I’m-yours way that still had her blushing and wanting to rip the shirt off his body and run her hands along his hot, golden skin? She cleared her throat. “In any way at all? Yes. You’re the first.”
A solemn quiet came over him, but he shook out of it quickly. “Laurel, lass.” He spoke with a gentleness not present before. “You can’t possibly love him.”