by Meara Platt
“You don’t?” Her friend’s views on marriage suddenly seemed awfully cold. “But we used to chat and giggle about finding our handsome dukes and earls and making love matches.”
“Love matches? You did. Not I. No, indeed. I agreed with finding a wealthy duke or earl to marry. Love never entered into my thoughts.” She shook her pert, auburn ringlets. “My parents have been perfectly happy living apart these past twenty years. I haven’t suffered for it either. We get together for the holidays and other occasions, and they’re most cordial to each other. Never any fighting or tears or hurt feelings.”
“Oh.” Why did that sound so cold and empty to her?
“Father sends us our allowances promptly on the first of the month. I suppose his solicitor attends to it because Father spends most of his time in York with his mistress. His current mistress, that is.” She leaned close and smirked. “However, I believe he’ll soon be spending more time in Devonshire. Not that he ever tells me of his amorous adventures, but Lady Withnall seems to know all. I pry information out of her every chance I get.”
The problem wasn’t to pry Lady Withnall’s mouth open but how to plug it up. Laurel stifled her dismay. Until this very moment, she had always thought Anne charming, clever, and a good friend. Well, perhaps she did possess all those qualities as well as beauty, but she was shockingly cynical about marriage.
The realization unsettled Laurel, and she thought it quite sad that a daughter should rely on the town gossip for information about her own father. Laurel’s father was quite the opposite, always available to his daughters and filled with love for all of them no matter how much they vexed him, something Laurel did far too often.
Anne’s gaze shot to the entry hall. “Mother in heaven! Who’s that?”
Laurel swallowed hard. “The gentleman I wrote to you about. Lord Moray.” He’d just walked in with Eloise, and although he was on crutches, hardly anyone noticed for the fine figure he cut in his evening clothes. He was tall and muscular, and the black of his jacket suited him to perfection, giving him an air of power and elegance that made him stand out among the crowd.
Laurel’s heart leapt into her throat and she couldn’t quell her excitement despite her determination to remain unaffected by his appearance. But in that moment, she couldn’t recall why it was so important for her to resist marrying him.
“Dora Pertwhistle said he was magnificent.” Anne’s eyes gleamed and her tongue darted out to wet her mouth. “Perhaps he’ll show me just how magnificent tonight.”
“What?” Laurel clenched and unclenched her fists. Why should she care? She had been begging Anne to help her out of this betrothal and ought not to be feeling the slightest pang of jealousy.
But she was jade green with it, and seriously considering spilling the glass of ratafia she happened to be holding in her itchy hands all over the front of Anne’s gown.
“I’ll gladly enter into a business arrangement with him, but it doesn’t have to be all business, does it?” Anne went on, completely unaware that Laurel was now looking for a cudgel with which to bludgeon her because spilling a drink down her front didn’t seem quite enough. “Surely there are benefits to having such a husband.” She was still ogling Graelem.
No, Anne would never do. Graelem deserved better.
Laurel held her breath as he walked toward her. Or rather, limped on his crutches. “Good evening, Miss Farthingale,” he said, his voice a smooth rumble that warmed her blood and coated her insides like warm honey.
“Good evening, Lord Moray.” She winced at the breathless catch to her voice and willed her heart to stop rampantly dancing within her chest. His gaze dropped to her chest for the briefest of glances as she struggled to regain her composure.
Yes, you oaf. My bosom is heaving because of you.
He knew it and cast her a wickedly appealing grin.
She frowned at him, but that only heightened his amusement. “May I present my dear friend, Lady Anne Hollings?”
Graelem took Anne’s offered hand and politely tipped his head toward her. “A pleasure, Lady Anne.”
Her dark green eyes were wide and innocent as she responded. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” She opened her fan and gave it a seductive wave. “It’s rather stuffy in here, don’t you think? Would you care to escort me into the garden, my lord?”
Why, that predatory feline!
Had she no shame? Not two minutes in his company and she was brazenly declaring herself available for more than a friendly game of whist!
“Alas, another time gladly. I must see to my grandmother’s comfort first.” He turned to Laurel and met her frowning countenance. “Miss Farthingale,” he said with an irreverent smirk, “will you accompany me? She specifically requested your company.”
Laurel was angry enough to kick the crutches out from under him, and might have had she not blamed herself—and only herself—for instigating the shocking exchange between Anne and Graelem.
She simply nodded, still too taken aback to respond without sounding like a shrill harpy.
“Your friend Anne seems lovely.” He was smirking irreverently. “A little too forward for my liking, but otherwise quite pleasant.”
Laurel made a sound of indignation that came out as more of a snort.
Graelem chuckled. “Do I sense disapproval?”
Laurel’s shoulders slumped, and she put a hand on his arm to bring them to a halt. “I like Anne, truly. But I had no idea her ideas on marriage were so… so…”
“In line with those of elegant society?” His gaze was surprisingly affectionate. “You Farthingales are the only ones who hold unusual views on marriage.”
“Love isn’t unusual. Love is special and magical, something to be treasured. But I suppose you’re right. Few families think as we do.” Her hand began to tremble on his arm. “Anne would marry you if you asked her.”
“Do you want me to, lass?”
In that moment, she realized that a simple nod would set her free. No more betrothal. Not a single obligation toward him. Graelem would move on to draw up the betrothal contracts with Anne’s father and marry her well before Midsummer’s Day.
And why not? Anne was beautiful and charming and would have no qualms about leading separate lives or allowing for an occasional romp in the sack whenever their paths should happen to cross.
But Laurel was frozen in place, unable to blink her eyes much less manage a nod. “No,” she said finally in a raw whisper.
He let out the breath he must have been holding. “It wouldn’t have worked out with her. I’m finding that I—”
“Laurel!”
A man’s voice cut through the noisy crowd, addressing her with unseemly familiarity. She groaned inwardly, recognizing the voice as Devlin’s. This evening was quickly going from bad to worse. First Anne and now Devlin. She knew he would attend, but had expected him to wait for her to approach him at a suitable moment so that they could talk privately.
Apparently he’d decided upon another tactic, for he was coming at her like a charging bull.
“Lord Kirwood, how lovely to see you. May I introduce…” Oh, drat! She refused to acknowledge Graelem as her betrothed even though she was warming to the idea. But to say nothing about their present relation did not feel right either.
“Lord Moray,” Graelem said, absolving her of the need to identify him at all. To Laurel’s surprise, he did not appear irritated or angry by her hesitation. Quite the opposite, he appeared concerned and willing to help her out of an awkward situation, which was surprisingly decent of him. He could have established his claim on her by mentioning their betrothal as a warning for Devlin to keep away, but he didn’t.
Laurel wasn’t certain how she felt about that. His gesture seemed noble, but was she misreading his intent? By his politeness, was Graelem telling her that she could have the sort of fashionable ton marriage arrangement Anne had been talking about? She shot him a pained glance.
He stared back, confused.
Devlin eyed him with unmasked disdain, his lips pursing in disgust as he stared at the broken limb and Graelem’s crutches. “The news is all over London, of course. So it’s true. Your leg appears badly mangled. I’ll relieve you of the obligation to dance with Laurel and take her for this first waltz.” He extended his arm to Laurel.
Her hand was still resting lightly on Graelem’s arm, so she felt his body stiffen and knew Dev’s challenge had enraged him. “The next, perhaps,” she blurted before the animosity between the two men turned physical. Her mother had worked too hard to make this party a success, and she wasn’t going to permit these two preening roosters to ruin it.
“I’m sorry, Dev. This is my mother’s party and I’ve promised to help her settle our guests. I must attend to Lady Eloise first.”
His smiling facade quickly crumbled and he turned surprisingly angry. “So that’s the way it is to be.”
Laurel tipped her chin up in indignation. “To help my mother? Yes, that’s the way it is to be. You know that family always comes first to me.” She spotted Uncle George moving through the crowd toward her and hastily called him over. “I’ve been summoned to assist Lady Eloise. Will you please… er, help… I’m sure these gentlemen must be thirsty.” Although having Dev and Graelem drunk and angry didn’t seem to be a very good idea either. “I’ll be off then and leave you three gentlemen to… to…”
She dashed off, knowing Uncle George would know just what to do.
Then again, perhaps not.
She’d taken no more than three or four steps before she heard the clang of a tray against the marble floor and the tinkle and smash of champagne glasses crashing behind her.
She closed her eyes and groaned.
No! No! No! Please let it be a servant who slipped and dropped his tray.
When she opened them, Lady Withnall was standing in front of her and grinning in that predatory, beady-eyed manner of hers that left everyone trembling in fear. “Interesting,” the old crone said, tapping her ivory-handled cane twice on the floor and calmly moving on.
Laurel was too surprised to take another step and too much of a coward to turn around until she heard another crash and several shrieks from frightened ladies who shoved her aside as they ran past her.
She ought to have run as well, but she wasn’t about to stand idly by while all her mother’s hard work went for naught.
She turned toward the clamor and groaned.
Crumpets! as the twins were known to mutter whenever a situation got out of hand. That corner of the room looked like a battlefield. She didn’t know whom to attend to first. Uncle George was nursing a bloody lip.
Graelem was clutching his broken leg.
Devlin lay sprawled out cold on the marble floor.
All four sisters came to her side to offer their support, or perhaps they simply came to gasp and gawk. Lily seemed to be the only calm one, adjusting her spectacles and clearing her throat before issuing a typical Lily comment. “And here I thought my harp playing was to be the low point of the evening.”
Chapter 11
“UNCLE GEORGE, I’M SO SORRY!” Laurel pushed her way through the gathering crowd to reach the three men she had left only moments ago. “I wouldn’t have left you alone with these two oafs if I thought for a moment they’d harm you.”
Her uncle stopped dabbing the blood at the corner of his lip and managed a lopsided grin. “Not your fault, Laurel.”
“Entirely my fault,” she insisted, struggling to hold back tears. “Mother worked so hard to make this a beautiful party and now these two have ruined everything. It’s because of me. I’ve handled this betrothal matter so badly!”
She frowned at Graelem, who seemed to be fully recovered and was collecting his crutches off the floor. “Did you hit Devlin?”
He returned her accusatory frown with a dangerous glower of his own. “Yes.”
“How dare you!” she said in a harsh whisper, curling her hands into fists as she contemplated pounding them against his arrogant chest. She wouldn’t, of course. She had no intention of giving their guests more of a show.
George put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Laurel, stop. Lord Moray only hit him after Dev hit me.”
She gasped as she stared at his cut lip. “Dev struck you?”
He nodded. “In Dev’s defense, meager as it is, he was aiming for Lord Moray but missed. As Lord Moray turned to assist me, that’s when Dev came at him again and kicked him in his busted leg.”
Laurel gasped again, realizing she’d misunderstood the situation entirely. Graelem had to be in agony! She turned to apologize to him, but he shrugged her off and limped from the room on his crutches.
Anne rushed to his side and he didn’t shrug her off.
Laurel felt as though she wanted to die inside. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the pair. Anne had her hands all over Graelem, but the fact that he didn’t seem to mind is what destroyed her the most. After tonight’s spectacle, he’d be eager to release her from their betrothal.
Just when she was coming to the realization that she didn’t want to be released.
She turned toward Dev as he groaned and slowly got to his feet with the help of Uncle George, the one man who had every reason not to help him. But that was her uncle, a soft-hearted, generous man who put healing others above danger to himself, above his pride and creature comforts.
Laurel took Dev’s other arm to support him until he’d regained his balance. “Dev, you fool. What did you think you were doing?”
Graelem was taller and far more muscular. Next to him, Dev looked like one of those frail romantic poets, and after days and days and days of reading nothing but odes and sonnets and The Song of Roland to an injured Graelem, she really hated those poets.
“You belong to me, Laurel,” he said in bitter frustration. “Who is this man to steal you away from me after knowing you less than five minutes? I’ve known you all my life. We’ve been friends since childhood. Does he think he can snatch that from me without a fight?”
Laurel stiffened. “Snatch that? And what is that exactly?” He hadn’t said snatch you, and amid all his ire and bluster he’d made no mention of loving her. Then what was he courting? Her trust fund?
“You, of course. What else do you think I’m talking about?” He winced and closed his eyes as she and her uncle helped him to their ballroom and into one of the many chairs lining the dance floor. The chairs had been set there to accommodate dowagers and wallflowers, although her male cousins had been ordered to see to those young ladies and ensure each had a dance partner to properly attend to them throughout the evening.
This was a Farthingale party and all their guests were to be entertained, especially the wallflowers. Of course, their guests had been unexpectedly and most shockingly entertained by flying fists and clattering champagne trays just now.
How was she ever going to make it up to her parents? They didn’t deserve to be humiliated like this.
“Laurel, dare I leave this fool alone with you?” her uncle asked. “Your mother must be in a state of shock. I’m certain your father isn’t dancing a jig either. I need to help them out.”
Laurel nodded. “Of course. I’ll be safe.” Other guests were strolling back into the ballroom now, fortunately to dance and not to gawk or sneer at them, for the orchestra had resumed playing a lively reel and that seemed more fun than watching Devlin wobble in his chair.
Dev exhaled as Laurel settled beside him. She caught a strong whiff of whiskey on his breath. “You’ve been drinking?”
He shrugged off the accusation. “You’ve given me cause.”
She scowled at him. “You came to the party drunk and intending to cause mischief.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I needed
the fortification to face you. Don’t you realize that you broke my heart?” He paused a long moment, the tension between them at odds with the gaiety of the music and the giggles and chatter of their guests. “I love you, Laurel.”
She leapt to her feet, refusing to accept his declaration because her heart was already ripping into little pieces, and because knowing that Devlin had truly cared for her all these years would simply tear it to shreds. “Why didn’t you ever tell me before?”
His gaze was hot and angry. “I didn’t think I needed to remind you until tonight.”
“Remind me of what? Of something you’ve never once expressed in all the years we’ve known each other? How convenient of you to wait until the worst possible moment—”
He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “Are you saying that you don’t love me? That you’ve fallen in love with that ruffian? That you’ll allow him to steal your fortune and leave you to pine away in isolation on his Scottish estate?” She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. “Anne will have him. She told me so earlier today. Leave them to their business arrangement and come away with me.”
“No, my parents won’t—”
“Do you love me, Laurel? If you do, then meet me one week from tonight in the mews behind Chipping Way. I’ll be there at midnight and we’ll steal off to Gretna Green together. No one will catch us if we ride on horseback instead of going by carriage. Brutus remains in your stable. I’ll bribe your groom to have him saddled and ready for you.”
“Don’t you dare, Dev!” She shook her head vehemently. “First of all, Amos is loyal to our family. He cannot be bribed and I’d be so ashamed if you tried.” She let out a ragged breath as he released her. “I won’t be forced into marriage. Not by you or Lord Moray.”
“Forced? Is that what you think I’m doing?” Dev appeared to lose all anger. He rubbed a hand across his face as though to sober himself up. “Laurel, I love you. I’ll be at the mews one week from tonight. Meet me there at midnight and I’ll take you to Gretna Green. It will all work out. You’ll see. I’ll make you a good husband.”