A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4) (14 page)

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.

She was confused as well, for she wanted to be released from their forced betrothal but not released from
him
. None of it made sense to her either. “Lord Moray is the gentleman you’ve no doubt heard about, the one almost trampled by Brutus.”

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.”

“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.”

Laurel nodded, for she hadn’t the heart to fight with him any longer. That two lords had come to blows over her was already too much of a scandal to tolerate. She nodded again and was turning to walk away when she noticed Daisy standing behind her, concern mirrored in her eyes.

How long had her sister been standing there?

How much had she overheard?

“Laurel, I was worried about you. Are you all right?” Daisy put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Laurel laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think so. I’ve ruined Mother’s party, Uncle George has a busted lip because of me, and Dev and Graelem almost killed each other.”

Daisy grimaced. “Look on the bright side—you’ll make me look brilliant compared to you when I come out next year.”

Laurel shook her head and laughed in true merriment this time. “Of course you’ll be brilliant. You’re the good daughter. What can possibly happen to you?”

They shared a brief, sisterly hug before Daisy drew back and pursed her lips. “You’re trembling. I think you need a breath of air. Go on into the garden and I’ll look after Dev. He looks awfully wretched.”

They both glanced at him.

He was looking downward and gazing at his feet. Everything about him spoke of dejection. Laurel couldn’t bear it and rushed off toward the open doors leading into the garden, needing the privacy of the dark outdoors where she could give in to her own distraught feelings and cry.

However, if she thought the gentle breeze and scent of roses or the clear, starry night and full, silvery moon would help to calm her, she was sadly mistaken. Graelem was seated alone on a garden bench in a distant corner of the garden, his broad shoulders outlined in the moonlight. Anne must have been seated beside him only moments earlier, for she suddenly stormed by Laurel with a look of murder in her eyes.

Oh, dear. What now?

“Anne.” She reached for her friend’s hand to stop her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Ask your Scottish lout.” She tossed back her perfect curls and marched inside.

Were it not for the disappointment her dear mother had to be feeling, Laurel would no longer be thinking of crying but of laughing aloud and not stopping until her sides ached. The evening that was to be so special and delightful was fast turning into a waking nightmare.

She’d spoken to Dev and left him in Daisy’s care.

It was time to speak to Graelem.

“How’s your leg?” she asked, sinking onto the hard, stone bench and scooting next to him. Her body, once cold and shivering, instantly warmed as she nestled beside him.

“I think your uncle had better have a look at it,” he said quietly.

Laurel gasped and regarded him in alarm. She knew Graelem well enough by now to realize he was in agony. Devlin must have broken the bone again when he kicked Graelem, and it must have been a vicious kick to cause that much damage to bones that were well on their way to mending. “I’ll go find him.”

“No, lass. Not necessary.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He knows to look for me once he’s attended to everyone else who needs to be calmed. Your mother. Your father. Your Aunt Hortensia.”

Laurel quirked her head to stare at him. “What happened to Hortensia?”

He laughed softly. “I have no idea.”

She threw back her head and laughed along with him, her anger fading as she sat beside him and commiserated on the disastrous evening. The breeze felt gentle, and there was a softer silver glow to the stars and moon because she was beside Graelem. “We Farthingales are known to be a bit theatrical when displaying our feelings. I’m sure Aunt Hortensia was afflicted by nothing more than a feigned bout of the vapors.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Your family a bit theatrical? That’s rather an understatement.”

“I know.” She took a gulp of fresh air, trying to remain calm even though she caught the scent of lilac against Graelem’s throat and chest, and knew that Anne must have been all over him only moments ago. Then why did Anne rush off in a huff? “You’ll have no protest from me. I know we Farthingales are a menace to society. But… but… but…”

“What, lass?”

She took another gulp of air. “Anne ran past me as I walked into the garden.”

“Ah.” He gave a knowing nod.

“She wasn’t too pleased with you. What happened?” She placed her hand lightly on his arm and felt his shrug.

“It’s what didn’t happen that has her madder than a wounded boar.”

Laurel’s heart began to beat faster. “What didn’t happen?”

“The kiss she wanted, for starters.” He clutched his leg as it began to twinge. “And everything else she wanted that I refused to give.”

“And if I asked you why you refused her, what would you say to me?” She knew that she had no right to cheer, for she was the one who’d purposely introduced them. She had wanted to be free of the betrothal until the moment she realized it might actually come to pass. Then, she’d felt nothing but remorse and jealousy.

He muttered a curse as the twinges grew more intense. “I’d say… better fetch your uncle. I think my damn leg is about to fall off.”

* * *

“Uncle George, he’s burning up with fever.”

Laurel was in Graelem’s bedchamber at Eloise’s house with her hands clasped in worry. She had been seated beside Graelem for the past three hours, watching him grow progressively worse. The party was still going on next door, at her home, and strains of enchanted music wafted in through the open window.

She and her uncle, with the help of Amos, the young Farthingale groom who was big as an ox and twice as strong, had quietly assisted Graelem from their garden into Eloise’s townhouse, where Eloise’s footmen had taken over the duty of carrying him upstairs.

“There’s nothing more we can do but sit and watch him,” her uncle said gently. “I’ll order an ice bath prepared in case his fever spikes higher.”

“What can I do to help?” Laurel hadn’t changed out of her pale rose silk gown, but gave it no further thought. She had several gowns in this same hue, for Madame de Bressard, her modiste, had declared pink was her color. She loved this gown and had been dreaming of the moment she would wear it to the party, but now she didn’t care if it was ruined. Graelem’s recovery was the only thing that mattered.

“Just sitting beside him and holding his hand is doing wonders for him. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He patted her shoulder. “But shout for me at once if he goes into convulsions.”

Convulsions!

“I will.” Her heart began to pound through her chest and all she could think of was Graelem and how she couldn’t bear to lose him.

As little as an hour ago he’d been alert and grinning as they’d listened to the discordant strains of harp and pianoforte filtering in through his open window. The twins had stunned the Farthingale guests with their recital, and Lily’s harp playing could only be described as dreadful. Dillie was splendid, as always. No one understood why she refused to cut Lily from the recital and shine on her own. Perhaps because they were bound to each other, two identical hearts beating as one.

Could she ever have such a connection with Graelem?

Her parents had it, always quietly showing concern and affection for each other. Symbolic of their love, together they had regained control of their party, and everyone now seemed to be having a jolly good time, unaware that Graelem was fighting for his life.