A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4)

by Meara Platt

  “I knew you were going to say that.” She curled her hands into fists and returned his gaze with a scowl of exasperation. “I do love him. I don’t love you. The kiss we shared was a mistake. I wasn’t myself. I was distraught and uncertain.”

  She paused a moment and swallowed hard. “But thank you for not taking advantage of me. Had you tried, I think I would have let you.” Because she was crazed and hurting. No other reason. Certainly not because she felt any desire for the oaf.

  Goodness and mercy! Why would she feel anything for him?

  “I know, lass,” he said with a nod. “But I gave you my promise that I wouldn’t touch you against your will and I’ll keep to it. You wanted the kiss and it was harmless enough.” He leaned closer still. “Granted, you wanted more. But I will not have you shamed or living with regrets for your actions on one of the most difficult days of your life. When you marry me—”

  “If I marry you. Which I won’t.” Drat! The words sounded uncertain even to her ears.

  “I’ll make you a bargain.”

  She shot to her feet, instantly wary. “What sort of bargain?”

  “I’ll agree to attend these bloody teas and musicales if you stop dismissing the idea of our marriage.”

  She nibbled her lip in thought and noticed that Graelem’s eyes darkened as he watched her. Honestly, why did the oaf have to be blessed with dangerously seductive eyes? They should have been watery or rimmed in red. They weren’t. His eyes were clear and magnificent. “No more dismissing the idea of our marriage? I’ll agree not to mention it when we chat”—but I’ll still think it—“so long as you don’t dismiss out of hand the young ladies I plan to invite to said teas and musicales.”

  “Agreed.” He gave her a heart-melting smile. “Care to seal it with a handshake?”

  No, she’d much rather seal it with a kiss. A lips-locked, tongues-plundering string of kisses to be precise. “Blessed Scottish saints,” he said in a hoarse whisper and rose from his chair to stand beside her. “Don’t look at me that way, lass.”

  “What way?” She felt her heart beating faster and the heat in her cheeks was now spreading through her body, blazing a fiery trail through her veins. Graelem stood too close. She put her hand on his chest to nudge him back, but somehow her hand curled against the front of his shirt and she found herself tugging his big body closer instead.

  Oh, dear. The wrong way.

  “What’s it to be, lass?” His mouth felt feather soft against her ear. “Do we seal our bargain with a safe and proper handshake?” His cool breath sent very hot tingles up and down her spine. “Or would you rather we seal it with a dangerously improper kiss?”

  She let out a soft gasp. Did the man have no shame?

  “A handshake, of course.” But her wanton hands moved up to cup the back of his head and draw his mouth down to hers. She rose on her wanton tiptoes and leaned her wanton body into his because… all right… yes, she wanted the thrill of his mouth on hers. He was remarkably good at kissing, and who knew how many more kisses she’d get from this big oaf before they parted ways before Midsummer’s Day? The two of them unmarried because she wasn’t going to be leg-shackled to a stranger for the rest of her days.

  For now, she loved the way he looked at her in that I’m-so-hungry-for-you way. And loved the way he held her as though she were the most precious thing to him on this good earth. Were all men this good at pretending? And loved the feel of his lips as they descended on hers, the low groan as he captured her mouth, the deeper groan as he ran his tongue across her teeth and gently parted them to plunge inside and explore her mouth.

  He overwhelmed her senses.

  She couldn’t get enough of him, of his fresh, lather scent. Of his muscled arms and hard chest. Of his—

  “Laurel!” Aunt Hortensia called to her in a raspy shriek that shook candles out of their sconces and resounded like a trumpet blare throughout the house. “Step away from that villain at once!”

  She didn’t want to. The kiss hadn’t lasted nearly long enough.

  A softer voice penetrated her ears. “Graelem! Have you lost your senses?”

  Oh, perfect! Hortensia and Eloise had caught them in the act. Laurel’s heart shot upward, constricting her throat so that she could not form the words to reply. Well, they had asked Graelem the question.

  They didn’t need to ask her because it was obvious to one and all that she had lost every blessed one of her senses.

  Graelem tipped her chin up to force her gaze to his as they drew apart. He may have wanted to devour her, but she’d wanted to do the same to him. Ten times over!

  She pushed out of his arms and turned away in mortification, not caring that her shove had almost tipped him over onto his broken leg. But this was Graelem. Big. Stubborn. Immovable. She’d have to push a lot harder to knock him off balance. The man was as sturdy as a slab of Roman marble.

  She glanced back at him.

  He was smirking at her, not in the least distressed that her aunt and his grandmother had caught them in a most shocking position and were still gawking at them. Indeed, Hortensia’s jaw was open so wide her chin almost touched the ground.

  Laurel felt humiliated. Tears welled in her eyes. What was wrong with her? What was it about Graelem that turned her into a demented harlot? She’d shamed herself in front of him, and now in front of her own aunt and his grandmother. Within minutes, every Farthingale in England would know what she’d done because Farthingale gossip spread faster than a raging wildfire.

  “Lass, it was just a kiss. No harm done.” Graelem crossed his arms over his chest and joined their spectators in gazing at her.

  “Just a kiss?” Did she mean so little to him that he could simply dismiss it as a trifle? She was in danger of ruining her reputation over this one kiss, having been caught in a most embarrassing position in his bedchamber. Such behavior would not be excused even if they were betrothed.

  Especially since it was a sham betrothal.

  No, it was no longer a sham. Her father would insist on their marriage once Hortensia told him what she’d seen.

  An ache started in the pit of Laurel’s stomach and spread outward to her limbs in a slowly building wave. Her heart was already awash with pain, for she wasn’t thinking only of herself. She’d betrayed Devlin’s trust.

  She couldn’t blame Graelem for this lapse. He’d kept to his word and only kissed her because she’d wished it, but she couldn’t forgive herself for what she’d just done and he was standing there, gloating over her mistake.

  He wasn’t completely blameless.

  The ewer filled with water beckoned to her from Graelem’s nightstand. “Damn it, Laurel. Don’t—”

  Too late. She poured its contents over his head, and then tossed the empty ewer onto his bed before fleeing the townhouse in sobs.

  * * *

  “You’re not adept with the ladies, are you?” Laurel’s aunt, Hortensia, remarked as Graelem stood in the middle of his bedchamber, dripping wet and quite certain Laurel would never marry him now. He’d had his chance to reason with her. They’d struck a bargain and had only to seal it with a handshake. Prim. Proper. Safe.

  But no, he couldn’t let it go at that.

  “Apparently not.” He’d wanted that kiss so badly. He’d wanted her so badly. Because of it, he had deluded himself into thinking a kiss they both wanted was all it would take for Laurel to end her objections and agree to marry him.

  Eloise approached him with a towel in hand. “This isn’t Scotland, you know. You can’t just grab a girl and pull her into your arms no matter how obviously attracted she is to you.”

  He took the offered towel with a muttered thanks and began to wring the moisture from his hair and clothes. His leg was throbbing and painful. “I know.”

  “Poor thing. She was horrified by her own feelings for you,” Hortensia remarked. “Not that I blame her. You are a nice-looking man.” She harrumphed and shook her head. “Still doesn’t excuse your behavior. What do you
have to say for yourself, young man?”

  He arched an eyebrow and considered his reply. Hortensia was an older woman, closer in age to his grandmother, and although Laurel referred to her as an aunt, Hortensia was actually her father’s aunt. But it didn’t seem to matter to these Farthingales. If you had a drop of Farthingale blood, you were affectionately referred to as an aunt or uncle or cousin. If you were a friend who wandered in often enough at suppertime, you became a cousin.

  “Well?” Hortensia prompted.

  Her hair was a vibrant white and she had those striking blue eyes that truly did mark her as a Farthingale. She was of average size but a bit on the portly side. This woman enjoyed her cakes, but there was no doubt she’d been a beauty in her younger days, for she had retained most of her fine features.

  He sensed that he had an ally in Hortensia, for had she been as shocked or angry as Laurel had been, she would have been beating him about the head with his crutches by now. “Who is this fellow Devlin?”

  “Lord Devlin Kirwood?” She smiled grimly. “Your competition. He’s now in London, no doubt intending to offer for Laurel now that she’s made her come out.”

  “Tell me about him,” Graelem said while continuing to dry himself off. He wanted to twist his bloody towel around Devlin’s throat. He wanted to kill the cur. A bit possessive perhaps, but he didn’t want the cur sniffing about Laurel.

  He didn’t trust Devlin.

  Hortensia arched an eyebrow. “Our families are neighbors in Coniston and he has long been devoted to Laurel. He’s quite good looking. His father is a viscount and Devlin will inherit the title and likely the estate since he’s the eldest son. His father ceded one of his lesser titles to him a few years ago, so he’s Baron Kirwood now. An English baron, which as you know places him higher in rank than you since your title is Scottish.”

  She marched toward him and boldly patted him on his damp shoulder. “Don’t let your jealousy of Devlin distract you. He isn’t your problem. Laurel is.”

  “I know.” Still, any man who had known Laurel as long as Devlin had and never tried to kiss her was suspect as far as Graelem was concerned. What was his game?

  More important, how was he ever going to convince Laurel that Devlin had no use for her heart? Graelem instinctively knew the man had to be lusting after her trust fund and not her. “I’m not jealous of that ass. I’ll rip out his entrails and stuff them down his miserable throat if he dares come near Laurel.”

  Hortensia sighed and shook her head. “Men,” she muttered. “I had better go find my niece.”

  She hurried out, leaving Graelem alone with his grandmother. Eloise seemed none too pleased with him either. “You shouldn’t have kissed her.”

  “She kissed me.”

  Eloise rolled her eyes. “I didn’t see you resisting. No matter, the point is that she ran off humiliated. You’re not helping your situation.”

  He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Damn it, Grandmama. I’m not some mewling boy who needs his grandmother telling him what to do.”

  “Good heavens, I should hope not! No, I think you must enlist the help of Laurel’s sisters.”

  He groaned low in his throat, knowing his protests would fall upon deaf ears, but he had to try anyway. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m handling things just fine.”

  She eyed him up and down, making no attempt to hide her disbelief. “I can see that.” Nor did she attempt to mask her sarcasm.

  He supposed it didn’t help that water was still dripping off his soaked hair onto his nose or that his shirt was completely soaked through. “I forbid you to invite them here.”

  “What?” She placed a hand to her ear, feigning deafness.

  “Damn it, Grandmama. Do not invite her sisters here.”

  Chapter 8

  BY NOON THE NEXT DAY, Graelem was seated in one of the delicate yellow silk chairs in Eloise’s parlor, smiling politely as he entertained Rose, Lily, and Dillie. His grandmother was not at home, which made him wonder whether she’d extended the invitation and then made a cowardly disappearance to avoid his wrath.

  Hah! As if he’d ever raise his voice or—heaven forbid—a hand to his grandmother. Until now, she’d been the one ray of sunshine in his existence and the closest thing to a mother he’d ever known.

  It was of no moment that right now he wished to strangle her.

  “I hope you don’t mind our intrusion, Lord Moray,” Rose remarked while she and the twins settled in for what was clearly to be a long visit.

  “Not at all,” he lied smoothly, praying that Napoleon’s forces would choose this moment to invade London, for he’d rather face a thousand battle-hardened soldiers than these three Farthingale sisters.

  Rose’s stomach had a light bulge to it, no doubt a sign of her condition. However, she moved with a casual grace that he found alarming. Weren’t women in her delicate state supposed to stay home in bed and knit tiny booties and blankets with which to swaddle their infants once they were born?

  To make matters worse, the twins were giving him eye strain. The same face on two different fidgeting bodies was a little more than his eyeballs could endure at the moment. “Your visit is a most… er, pleasant surprise.”

  Rose arched an eyebrow to signal her disbelief, but she appeared more amused than offended. “I suppose you’re wondering why we’re here, my lord.”

  “Quite the opposite.” He responded with an amused grin of his own. “I know precisely why you’ve come here.”

  “Good, then you won’t mind taking our advice.”

  Hell, yes, I mind!

  Before he could answer, Watling rolled in a tray laden with lemonade, poppy cakes, currant buns, and ginger tarts. Dillie’s blue eyes popped wide as she grabbed a ginger tart. “My favorite,” she cheered and took a large bite.

  Rose shook her head in disapproval before returning her attention to him. “We simply had to come. You see, Mother sent word that Laurel cried herself to sleep last night.”

  Damn. “I’m sorry, Lady Emory. I know she left here quite distressed. My fault, of course.”

  Rose nodded. She had lovely, dark gold hair much like Laurel’s, and she resembled Laurel in height and slender frame. However, her eyes were a vivid blue with no hint of green in them. “Please, call me Rose. I’ve only been a lady for a few months and I’m still not used to it.”

  He agreed. “I hope you’ll call me Graelem. Same can be said for my title. The ink’s still wet on my Letters Patent.”

  Rose chuckled at the remark, but her amusement quickly faded. “Laurel is unhappy, and only you can change the way she feels.”

  Graelem shifted uncomfortably, for he wasn’t about to release Laurel from their betrothal. “If Laurel sent you over here to—”

  “Oh, dear me. No, she doesn’t know we’re here.” A light blush stained Rose’s cheeks. “She’d be appalled to know we’ve… well, taken on the role of mediators. I suppose that’s what you would call us.”

  Dillie hastily swallowed the last of her ginger cake. “Simply put, we’re doing what we Farthingales do best, meddling. If you understood Laurel at all, you’d know she wouldn’t want any of us to interfere. But she may as well wish for the moon to turn green because that isn’t likely to happen either, is it?”

  She smiled sweetly and continued. “Laurel never cries, but you have her filling buckets with her tears. What did you say to her?”

  “The usual, that I won’t let her out of the betrothal.” However, he shifted uncomfortably because he knew damn well that it was the spectacular kiss they’d shared yesterday that had set off those tears.

  Lily pursed her lips and frowned. “No, that’s not it. You’ve been spouting that same nonsense since the day Brutus trampled you. Something else happened yesterday.”

  Hadn’t Hortensia told every Farthingale in existence about that kiss by now? Come to think of it, why wasn’t John Farthingale at his door with every able-bodied Farthingale male over the age of seven threatening to beat t
he stuffing out of him?

  Or at his door with a vicar and a special license in hand. Were he Laurel’s father, he would be more determined than ever to see them married at once. Laurel had been caught kissing a man—him—in his bedchamber. The scandal would ruin her chances of ever receiving another offer of marriage.

  Damn. Of course, Devlin would still want her. The scandal would only clear the field for him, making it easier for the bastard to get his hands on Laurel’s wealth. Graelem was sure getting his hands on Laurel was unnecessary, for Devlin was using their childhood acquaintance as the means to lure the innocent into his trap.

  Graelem knew men like that cur, men who used their wives as a lending bank and nothing more. Their marriage would be cold and loveless, a living death sentence for a girl as passionate as Laurel. As for himself, he’d do everything in his power to make Laurel happy every day of their marriage, assuming she kept her promise to marry him.

  But how was he to prove his good intentions when the means used to bring her to the altar were heartless and cruel?

  He considered exposing Devlin for the fortune hunter that he was, but he doubted the plan would succeed. He needed time to dig up dirt on the man, and he was sure there was plenty to be found. He had even considered engaging a Bow Street runner to gather information, but the problem was, he’d never prove Devlin unworthy before Midsummer’s Day.

  Devlin wasn’t to be trusted, that much was certain. Graelem knew it even though he’d never met him.

  But how could he convince Laurel?

  The short hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the mere thought of that bounder.

  It wasn’t jealousy.

  It was instinct.

  The man was a disreputable character. He’d just kept it well hidden from the Farthingales.

  However, the problem remained. No matter how many secrets and scandals Devlin sought to hide, and even if he could find them before Midsummer’s Day, Graelem’s bringing them to light and destroying the bounder’s reputation would not gain him Laurel’s favor. She would never believe ill of her childhood friend, and even if she did, she would then be furious with Graelem for tossing the unpleasant truth in her face.