A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4) (5 page)

“
Marmion?
” Eloise shook her head and chuckled. “You are determined to make his life a misery, aren’t you? But my dear, even though Graelem detests poetry, I’m certain he will endure anything that springs from your lips. Men are odd that way.”

Laurel frowned. Endure? She wanted him writhing and screaming in boredom. She didn’t want him to endure. It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped to hear. She leafed through the pages, her eye immediately drawn to a couple of lines. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” She slammed the book shut and moved on. “It won’t do.”

Laurel finally decided upon
The Song of Roland
and its four thousand lines of poetry. Eloise shook her head and sighed. “I do wish you’d give Graelem a chance. It isn’t at all nice of you to force poetry down his throat.”

Laurel tipped her chin up in annoyance. “It isn’t at all nice of him to force marriage down mine.”

Eloise sighed again. “I’m not suggesting what he did is right. But it could work out if only you’d give him a chance.”

“I’m giving him as much of one as he gave me.” Having gotten in the final word, she marched upstairs to his quarters and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” he called, and Laurel felt an inexplicable warmth steal through her at the sound of his deep, commanding voice. She dismissed her response as a case of nerves. Or incipient dyspepsia. But as she walked in and saw him in his bed, sitting up with his back propped against six or seven pillows and his broken leg elevated, she felt a twinge of guilt.

More than a mere twinge of it—a hefty wallop.

He looked handsomer than she remembered and obviously in a lot of pain. “Have you been taking your medicine?” She set the book down on the stool beside his bed and reached for the bottle of laudanum on his night stand.

“Leave it, lass. That concoction tastes like the bottom of my boots after a day of mucking out the stable. I’ll not be drinking it.”

“But how else are you to dull the pain?” It wasn’t any fun taking revenge on a man already in agony. Not that she planned to do her worst today. No, she was grateful to him for saving Brutus and had only planned the mildest of tortures. Tomorrow she’d be back in stride.

“I’ll concentrate on that pretty face of yours. The sight of you will do more good for me than any medicine known to man.” He cast her a boyish grin that seemed to turn up the heat in the room. Or inside her.

“I’ll open the window for you. It’s a beautiful day and…” His window was already open and a pleasant breeze wafted into the room. “Oh, it’s already open.” She fussed a moment with the drapes that were already drawn aside to allow in the air and sunshine.

“Still warm, lass?”

She turned to give him a snide retort, but he chose that moment to cross his arms over his chest and she became distracted by the play of his muscles beneath the white lawn of his nightshirt. His skin looked golden in contrast to that pale white shirt. “What?”

He grinned wryly, no doubt noticing the blush now staining her cheeks. “I’m feeling a little warm myself.”

Oh, drat! Did he think she was affected by him? So what if she was? He was incredibly handsome, even if he was a big oaf. “I’ve brought you a book of poetry. It will take us weeks to get through it.” That ought to wipe the smug grin off his face.

When she returned to his side, he reached out and grabbed the book she had chosen. “
The Song of Roland
. Not a bad choice, but I don’t think you’ll like it. Do you know it, lass?”

“Everyone knows of it.” Did he think she was an uneducated ninny? How dare he consider such a thing!

He set the book back on the stool and trained his gaze on her. “But have you read it yet?”

Was it getting hot again? That warm glint in his eye and the slight upward tilt of his lips, as though he understood her ploy and found it amusing, was wreaking havoc with her composure. “No, I haven’t read it. That’s why I’m so eager to share it with you.” She forced her lips into a cool, responsive smile.

He chuckled and shook his head. “I think you’re eager to cleave me in half with a broadsword, that’s what I think. But don’t do it yet, lass. Show a little patience. Ah, Grandmama. How lovely to see you. Come to protect me from Laurel, have you? She has the look of a bloodthirsty warrior.”

Eloise marched into the room and took a seat beside the door. “She’s delightful. Stop teasing her, Graelem.”

Laurel was surprised that Eloise did not plan to sit beside them. “Won’t you join us by the bed?”

“No, dear.” She tossed Graelem a warning scowl. “Your father and Graelem may have worked out this arrangement, but you and Graelem will never get to know each other if I’m sitting right beside you. So it’s best that I stay out of the way as much as I can.”

“Eloise, this is ridiculous.” Laurel crossed the room intending to move Eloise’s chair, but the stubborn old dowager wouldn’t be budged. “You’re his grandmother and a countess, not my governess or a serving maid to be shunted into a corner. I don’t treat Gladys,” she said, referring to her own maid, “this rudely.”

In this, Eloise appeared quite stubborn. “I’m merely a dowager countess. Gives me no standing whatsoever.”

“You could be a fishmonger’s wife and we’d all love you,” Laurel said in exasperation, turning to her grandson for assistance. What she encountered was a look of genuine gratitude and admiration. What had she just said to warrant approval from the oaf? Oh, she’d admitted that she loved his grandmother. Well, it was true. She had no intention of hiding it.

“Lass,” he said with a gentleness that astonished her, “Eloise can be a disagreeable old battle-axe when she wants to be. You won’t win this fight. But thank you. I can see why she adores you and your sisters. You have kind hearts.”

Laurel wanted to throw her hands up in disgust. She wasn’t special or kind. She simply wanted out of this betrothal. She crossed back to his side, lifted the book from the stool, and sank down in its place. “The Song of Roland,” she said, opening the pages and beginning to read.

She’d only gotten four lines in when Watling strode in, rolling a tea cart before him. “Lemonade and pies,” he announced.

Laurel slammed shut her book. Her attempt to bore Lord Moray into insanity wasn’t working anyway. He was reciting the lines along with her, obviously knowing them by heart. All four thousand of them? It wasn’t possible. She turned to Eloise. “I thought you said your grandson detested poetry.”

Eloise shrugged. “I thought he did.”

“Lass, you simply could have asked me. I would have told you that I do abhor most of that drivel, but this poem is about Charlemagne’s campaign to conquer Spain and claim it for his empire. The story is about battle and betrayal. Lots of military tactics and murder for boys to love. My uncle, the Earl of Trent, read it to me and my cousins during a summer I spent with them.”

She tipped her head, now curious, and couldn’t resist asking, “How old were you?”

“I was all of nine years old,” he said with a wistful smile and a faraway gaze as he momentarily drifted back in time. “My cousin Alexander was the eldest and quite grown up at all of ten years old going on eleven. His brother Gabriel had just turned eight. Their father read to us a little each night before we went to bed.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The ladies did not approve of us dreaming of blood, gore, and death.”

“I should say not,” Eloise intoned from her corner of the room.

“But it was one of my fondest memories,” he said softly.

Laurel’s heart began to beat a little faster, and she stifled the urge to lean close and wrap her arms around him. He’d said that his uncle had read these stories to him. Not his father. And what about his mother? Was she one of “the ladies” he referred to? “I’m sure it upset your mother, as it would any woman who wished their children to have sweet dreams.”

Neither Eloise nor Lord Moray responded to that remark, but they did exchange a glance. Had something happened to his mother? Or was she not the caring sort? Had she mistreated him?

“Laurel, would you mind pouring me a glass of lemonade?” There was a sadness in his voice that didn’t just tug at her heart, it practically wrenched that beating organ from her bosom and slammed it to the floor repeatedly.

Unable to respond, she simply nodded.

She handed him the glass and turned to Eloise. “Would…” She paused to clear the lump suddenly caught in her throat. “Would you care for some?”

“No, dear. Just attend to Graelem. I’ll forage for myself.”

“Lord Moray, I—”

“Laurel, there’s no need for formality between us. Just call me Graelem. Save that stuffy nonsense for
ton
functions. And I’ll not have you referring to me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Moray’ in our marriage either. You’re to be my wife. My equal.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You’re gawking at me again, lass. Ah, it’s that ‘equals in the marriage’ I was just talking about. That’s the Scottish influence, I fear. We seem to think more highly of our women than the English do.”

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.”