A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4) (7 page)

Laurel obviously adored every member of her large extended family despite their quirks and shortcomings. He was an only child and had spent most of his life working on the Moray estate. He had rarely left Moray except for that splendid summer at Trent Hall with his cousins, Alexander and Gabriel, when he was nine years old.

He’d also spent a few years fighting Napoleon’s army in Spain, returning to Moray when Silas fell ill and could no longer manage the estate and the vast Moray holdings. All of it was to be his, after all. Everything
would
be his, provided he married by Midsummer’s Day.

The more he listened to Laurel talk about her family, the more he felt he’d made the right decision in choosing her as his wife. But how would he convince her that his decision was also right for her?

He considered Gabriel and Alexander among the closest of his few friends. Unfortunately, neither cousin was in London at the moment to advise him in matters of courtship. He was on his own, but he’d been on his own most of his life and had managed well enough.

He returned his attention to Laurel as she spoke about her eldest sister and how she’d met and married her husband last year. “Rose wasn’t supposed to be abducted with Julian,” Laurel explained, as though danger and intrigue were a normal part of the courtship process. Perhaps it was with these Farthingale girls. They never meant to get into trouble, if Laurel was to be believed, but trouble always had a way of seeking them out.

He could tell by Laurel’s smile as she spoke of her family that she truly loved them. She was particularly close with her sisters, and he envied that bond. Would she ever feel that same affection toward him?

Bah.
Why should he care? Their marriage was to be an amicable arrangement, one of convenience and nothing more. Upon his granduncle’s death, he had inherited the title of baron and an entailed manor house that was woefully rundown. Marrying Laurel by the Midsummer’s Day deadline would secure him the remaining Moray assets, those that were not entailed and that accounted for the bulk of the baronial wealth.

He had built up the estate and its holdings through toil and sweat, and was not about to allow his profligate, incompetent distant cousin, Jordan Drummond, to destroy all he’d achieved. For that reason, he needed Laurel.

He’d be generous with the girl once they married, giving her independence and financial security for the rest of her life without further obligation to him.

Indeed, he’d do all in his power to make her comfortable.

“And it all started when Rose’s kiln exploded,” Laurel continued as though such occurrences happened every day. “But fortunately, Lily’s cache of explosives was still safely hidden under her bed, so we knew she wasn’t the culprit. Father confiscated them immediately, of course. Although I doubt there was any danger of the townhouse blowing up.”

“What?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Go on.” Her parents obviously had their hands full with five well-meaning but headstrong daughters. Abductions? Explosives? Did they never speak of fashions or dances or summer balls?

Rose had made her debut last year, and Laurel’s come out was this year. A few weeks in, and she was already in trouble. Perhaps that was why John Farthingale had been a bit harsh with her concerning Brutus.

Who was he to judge the father? He seemed a decent sort and clearly loved his daughters. Were they all like Laurel? She was like a fireworks display, beautiful and fascinating, but if mishandled, one would get singed by that fiery temper of hers. Her parents’ goal, no doubt, was to guide her safely through the London season without further mishap.

Laurel paused after they’d been talking for about an hour, judging by the angle of the sun against the blue sky. “I’ve been quite the chatterbox,” she exclaimed. Still shaken by the news about her uncle, she was clasping her hands on her lap to keep them from trembling. “You shouldn’t have let me go on for so long. Your ears must be numb.”

“My leg is numb,” he said, giving her a tender smile. “My ears are fine. More important, how do you feel?” He reached over and took her hands in his, but held them loosely so that she could draw away if his touch displeased her. To his relief, she didn’t.

“I keep hoping that Uncle Harrison’s carriage will draw up to our front gate and he’ll hop out with a jovial smile on his face and a box of silkworms he purchased to create a new line of Farthingale silks,” she said, taking a deep, ragged breath. “I keep thinking that it’s all been a terrible mistake and the regimental commander will hurry over here issuing his apologies and informing us that my uncle has been found and will be fit to travel home soon.”

Her hands were still resting in his as she took another ragged breath. “I know it won’t happen. I dread hearing the worst.” She gazed at him in expectation, as though he had it in his power to make things right. He didn’t. He couldn’t fix anything. Not her marriage plans and not her uncle’s safe return. However, he had a few connections in the highest echelons and would seek them out. “Graelem, you’ve suffered loss and seem to have handled it.”

“My leg—”

“No, I mean the loss of a loved one.” A light blush stained her cheeks. “Are you an orphan?”

He didn’t wish to speak about himself, but Laurel would never trust him if he held back now. “I’m in my mid-twenties, too old to be considered an orphan. I don’t know how much my grandmother has told you about me.”

“She speaks often of all her grandsons, but mostly in a general way.”

He nodded. “Yes, my parents are both deceased, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She shook her head and sighed. “When did they die?”

He squirmed in his chair, not liking the path of their current conversation, but he reminded himself that it was important for Laurel to understand him. He wasn’t certain why, only that he had no chance of getting her to the altar unless she knew him and trusted him. He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “My mother died giving birth to me.”

She inhaled lightly and gave the hand she was still holding an affectionate squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I, lass. I’ve often wondered what she was like.” He quirked an eyebrow and studied her. “Her family spoke little about her, but the villagers often told me stories of her. She was friendly and caring, but had a willful streak, so I’m told. I think she must have been a little like you.”

Laurel slipped her hand out of his grasp and tipped her chin upward. She grinned as she voiced her mock indignation so that he knew she’d taken no offense. “Nothing wrong with standing up for what one believes in.”

“I agree. I meant the comparison as a compliment, of course.”

She laughed softly. To his surprise, she placed her hands back in his. “All right then. Thank you.” She paused another moment, gazing at him solemnly. “Will you tell me about your father? How old were you when he died?”

It was his turn to hesitate and struggle with his words, but he wasn’t going to hide the truth about that bastard from Laurel either. “I was in my early twenties. He only died a few years ago, but I never knew him. He left shortly after I was born.”

Laurel’s eyes rounded in horror. “He abandoned you?” She sounded forlorn, almost as angry and distressed as he’d felt most of his life.

“He left me in the care of my mother’s family.” Coming from a family such as hers, of course she would equate his father’s leaving with cruelty and neglect. “He knew I’d be well taken care of.”

That part was a fable. Graelem doubted his father had ever thought of him after dropping him off with Silas, the then Baron Moray. He’d purposely left Graelem in Scotland and not brought him back to Eloise or to his own brother, the Earl of Trent, knowing they would never have let him go off on his own without a thought for his own child.

Laurel nibbled her lip, her frown a hint that she hadn’t liked his response. “Were they kind to you?”

“I was never left wanting. One doesn’t get to be a big oaf like me by eating gruel only once a day.”

The girl began to study him far too intently to be considered appropriate. If he were ever the sort to blush, he’d be doing so now.

“You are big,” she agreed. “But I think I’ve been the oaf to you these past few days.” She spoke in a contrite whisper, but her remorse, if she felt any, lasted only a moment before she remembered that she was waging a campaign to end their betrothal. “In my own defense, it’s this marriage nonsense. You can’t seriously wish to marry me.”

She was wrong.

This so-called betrothal was the best decision he’d ever made. All he had to do was convince her of it. But he was no gentleman with fancy words and witty conversation.

He truly was a big oaf.

And big oafs did not know how to win a woman’s heart.

LAUREL KNEW
SHE’D
made a fool of herself in front of Graelem, but he was doing his best not to show his exasperation. She’d spent the first hour a tearful, blubbering mess. Had he understood a word of what she was saying? How could he amid her sniffles, gasping breaths, and hiccups?

And she’d kissed him!

She’d behaved like a deranged wanton who cursed him one moment and then offered her body to him in the next. What did he think of her now? She couldn’t have planned a better way to chase him off. Not that she’d planned any of it. Her heart was broken. Grief had completely muddled her senses. In her grief, she’d run to him.

Him.

Why? And if she were perfectly honest with herself, she hadn’t thought to run to Devlin. Of course, Graelem was closer since he was recovering just next door. But proximity hadn’t crossed her mind. Shelter. Understanding. Warmth. Those were the things she’d been seeking.

Still, why had she run to Graelem? He was handsome as sin, but there were other men who were just as handsome in their own way. Devlin, for example, with his dark hair, hazel eyes, and London sophistication.

But Graelem was here and he had listened to her. Actually
listened.

She almost believed he cared.

He didn’t, of course. How could he when he’d known her a mere five days, most of their time together spent with him in agonizing pain and her reciting epic poetry? She was now convinced that poetry was the most boring art form known to man. Had the Goths used it to destroy the Roman Empire? Slinging endless verses along with their spears and arrows until the Romans had begged for mercy and surrendered or simply fallen asleep?

Yet Graelem had allowed her to read the entire
Song of Roland
to him. Not just once, but several times. He understood it was her way of torturing him and he’d indulged her. She suspected that it was also his way of atoning for forcing her into an unwanted marriage.

He needed only to take it a small step farther. His atonement would best be served by ending their betrothal now. Today. Immediately.

She sighed and shook her head, knowing he would never end it, not after the way she’d kissed him. Why had she thrown her heart and soul into that kiss? She hadn’t meant to, but it had just happened that way.

Nor had she meant to tip her head up and gaze at him in that hungry, I’ll-die-if-you-don’t-kiss-me-now, pleading way. Or stare at his lips as though nothing else on earth mattered more than their warm strength against her mouth. Or breathe in the scent of lather and sandalwood on his throat as though she’d die again if she didn’t breathe all of him in right now.

He smelled so good it was all she could do to keep her distance. Indeed, it was quite a struggle to keep from grabbing him and plundering his lips for another kiss. She could do it and get away with it. Why not? She would blame the wayward impulse on her grief and confusion.

After all, she was grieving and confused.

Kissing Graelem had felt surprisingly wonderful. Never mind that he’d been trapped and unable to run from her because of his hobbled leg.

She glanced down. Her hands were still in his. She’d put them there. Another deranged act, but she loved the roughness of his palms. There was nothing milk-soft or delicate about them, yet he managed to be gentle while holding hers in his grasp.

His touch was rough and exciting, and at the same time soothing.

He made her feel better.

More than better, she had to admit. She was still tingling and aching to be back in his arms. There was a protective strength in the way his fingers entwined with hers, and the light stroke of his thumb along her skin chased the cold and despair out of her heart.

“What are you thinking, lass?”

That she wanted to kiss him again. That she’d never been kissed so ardently by any man before, not even Devlin. That she’d never been kissed by any man before, ever. And now that she had been kissed, how could any man surpass the excellent job he’d done of it? That she’d listened to countless church sermons on the evils of such behavior and still had every intention of kissing Graelem again with exactly that same wanton intensity, assuming he would allow it.

He simply has to allow it.

Oh, dear. What if he doesn’t?

“Lass?” He gave her hands a light squeeze, and then smiled boyishly when her gaze met his. “Are you woolgathering? Run out of conversation? Thinking up new tortures for me?”

If left up to him, he might not ever kiss her again, for he’d been the one to put an end to their passionate and misguided first kiss. If left up to her, she would already be telling him to shut up and get down to the business of looting and pillaging her innocent treasures.

There was something about him that made her wanton and willing to forsake her virtue. Not just willing, but eager. She wanted his touch, needed the assuring strength of his hands and the heat of his big body to make her feel alive. “I’ve stayed too long. I must go.”
Before I do something utterly foolish.

She felt the sudden tension in his body. He drew his hands away from hers. “Then I’ll not delay you.”

“But thank you for listening to me.” Of course, she’d only turned to Graelem because Devlin was not available to her. There was no other explanation for the yearning he roused in her. She was overset and simply misdirecting her desire. Also, Devlin was a gentleman and would never have kissed her back in that shockingly unrestrained manner.

Graelem rose along with her, his movements slow but surprisingly graceful as he reached for his crutches to walk her out.

While she’d always admired Devlin’s social polish and courtly manner, this afternoon she’d needed something more, for her heart was bursting with sorrow and she needed a way to let out the ache before it shattered into a thousand pieces that could never be properly put back together.

Kissing Graelem had helped.

She suspected that kissing him again would help even more.

It would not have been the same with Devlin, for their relationship was built on courtesy and friendship. There could be no blubbering or wild kisses with Devlin. She would have frightened him with the intensity of her need, clutching his perfectly ironed lapels and mussing his stylishly curled hair. She could not have run her hands up and down his chest for fear of wrinkling his immaculate white lawn shirt.

No such worries with Graelem. His hair was too long to be considered stylish and he wasn’t wearing proper clothes, just his nightshirt and black silk dressing gown that accentuated his broad shoulders. She could have ripped the nightshirt off him and he wouldn’t have complained.

She blinked her eyes to banish all thought of naked Graelem from her mind. She’d never seen Devlin in anything other than proper attire and had never thought of him standing before her in his naked glory. She didn’t think he’d be nearly as glorious as Graelem.

Nonsense!
Surely, he would be. One didn’t need to be big or muscled to be splendid.

“Lass, you’re still trembling.” Graelem’s soft rumble cut into her thoughts.

She shook her head. “I’m not cold. Just confused and angry. But you must have felt the same when your father… I’m sorry. Am I overstepping the proper bounds?”

He surprised her with a short, chuckling laugh that wrapped around her like a soft blanket. “I don’t think you know any other way to be. But I don’t mind, lass. You’re welcome to ask your questions and stay as long as you need. As for that poetry you’ve been spouting…” He gave a mock shudder. “I’ll endure your recitations if it will make you feel better.”

She tried not to look at him as he shifted uncomfortably on his crutches, his splinted leg held out in front of him. “Earlier you asked what I thought about my father,” he continued. “I was too young to understand his actions back then.”

“And now?” How could anyone abandon their child? Especially a newborn? She studied Graelem. Yes, she really liked the way his dressing gown stretched across his broad shoulders. He took extra care to keep it securely tied as though that simple gesture would lend respectability to the fact that she was alone with him in his bedchamber, that she’d practically rammed her tongue down his throat when kissing him, and that he was wearing no trousers.
I really have to leave.

On the other hand, she’d already seen him in a shocking state of undress the day he’d broken his leg and she’d burst into his room thinking it was about to be sawed off.

She’d seen all of him naked.

Wouldn’t mind seeing that again.

His response to her question about his father brought her back to attention, for he sounded quite bitter about their relationship. “I wish the…
bastard…
I wish he’d died long ago.”

“You’re angry.” She wanted to take his hands, but they were now occupied holding the crutches. She was better off not touching him again anyway. Not ever. “Quite understandable.”

He shook his head and frowned. “No, it isn’t. I don’t wish to be angry. I don’t wish to think of him at all. He doesn’t matter to me. He shared no part of his life with me, and I don’t want him to intrude in mine.”

“I think it’s too late. He has intruded and will continue to do so until you forgive him.”

“Lass, I’m not the forgiving sort.”

She reached out and placed a hand on his chest. The palm of her hand began to tingle against the heat of his body and the strong, steady beat of his heart. She really ought to stop touching him. “I’m quite the opposite. I’ve never been good at holding grudges. I’ll forgive you as soon as you regain your senses and end our betrothal.”

His expression hardened. “That again.”

“Yes, that. It’s the only thing that matters.”

He turned away and limped back to his bed, awkwardly settling atop the covers and muttering a string of oaths as he set aside his crutches and used both of his hands to lift his leg onto the bed, the chore obviously still painful and destroying what little good humor he had left. “Not going to happen, lass.”

“It will happen, mark my words. I will not be marrying you on Midsummer’s Day or any other day.” He’d been so kind to her up until now. Why did their meetings always have to end this way? She ought to have held her tongue and put an end to this afternoon’s visit, but she knew her own flaws. She was like a dog with a bone that she couldn’t let go. “Despite appearances, my father will never permit the wedding to proceed without my blessing.”

He returned her gaze, but his was softer and his frown was one of concern, not anger. “We’ve had this conversation before. I don’t wish to fight with you, lass. Not today. In truth, not ever. If you need to talk about your uncle or any other matter that troubles you, I’ll listen. I’ll do my best to ease your worry. But I will not release you from your promise of marriage.”

She liked so many things about this man, but his stubborn refusal to see reason was not one of them. “Perhaps Devlin will change your opinion.”

He had been lying prone and now struggled to sit up. “Who’s Devlin?”

“The man I love.” She tipped her chin upward in defiance and was about to march out of his quarters when his dismissive laughter stopped her in the middle of her step.

“Lass, I’ll wager that you never kissed him the way you just kissed me.”

She curled her hands into fists. “So what if I haven’t?”

The admission appeared to surprise him, but he also seemed excessively pleased by it. He had an irritating smirk on his face. “I pity the poor bloke.”

Men were so confusing. She’d never understand them. “Why?”

“Because you obviously don’t love him.” He relaxed and settled back against his pillows, tucking his hands behind his head and chortling in such a gloating and possessively superior way that she wanted to pound him into dust. “Lass, you may think you do—”

“I
know
I do.”

“You don’t. No, indeed. Not after the hungry way you held yourself against my body or pulled my head down to yours to give me a scorching kiss that still has me on fire. I suspect that your hot little body is on fire, too.”

“How dare you suggest that I… I…”

“Laurel, you’re a molten pool of unexplored desires, and I’m…”
Bollocks, don’t say it…
“And I’m just the man to release the steamy tempest hidden within you—”

She gasped. “The only one who is scorching and on fire is you! And I know just how to douse your flames.” She stomped over to the ewer on his night stand, saw that it was filled, and unceremoniously dumped the water over his head, leaving him sputtering and howling as she stormed out.

But she paused at the threshold and turned back to shoot him a glower. “That ought to cool your embers, you insufferable ass!”