Rules for Reforming a Rake(125)

With love,

Meara





SNEAK PEEK OF THE UPCOMING BOOK


A MIDSUMMER’S KISS


BY MEARA PLATT





CHAPTER 1





Mayfair District, London

May 1814



GRAELEM DAYNE LAY sprawled on his back in the middle of Chipping Way on this warm and sunny morning, writhing in agony and glowering at the snorting beast that had just burst through the open townhouse gate of Number 3 Chipping Way at full gallop and knocked him to the ground.

That horse, the color of devil’s black, was still rearing and fighting its rider while that rider struggled to bring it under control. As Graelem tried to roll out of the way, one of its massive hooves landed with full force on his leg, cracking sturdy bone.

“Hellfire!” The excruciating jolt of pain shot straight up his body and into his temples.

He was in trouble.

Serious trouble, not only because the horse was still rearing and out of control, but Graelem’s now-broken leg would make it impossible to complete the business he’d come down to London to accomplish. At the moment, he couldn’t walk and his every breath was a struggle as it came in short, spurting gasps.

What was he to do now?

There would be no balls, soirees, or musicales for him for the next month, that was for certain. He’d never cut a striking figure hopping about on one leg, for he was a big oaf even when on two functioning legs.

He glanced at the angry beast.

Hellfire again! Just as Graelem thought he was about to be trampled once more, the beast suddenly lowered its massive hooves, let out a few soft neighs, and calmed. In the next moment, a blur of green velvet slid off the saddle and rushed toward him.

“Oh, dear heaven!” The sound of a sweet, feminine voice reached his ears, and a soft hand came to rest upon his much larger, rougher one to draw it off the boot he was clutching. “Sir, you mustn’t touch your leg. I think it’s broken.”

“I know the damn thing is broken. Pull the boot off my leg!” He wished the rider had been a man so he could pound his fist into his face for so recklessly galloping into him and effectively destroying his critical plans along with his leg.

“Now!” he commanded, knowing the task would be much harder once his leg had swelled as it was starting to do now. Cutting through leather was no easy feat, and any attempt to do so would be far more painful than one swift tug done immediately.

“Of course. I’m so sorry!” She knelt beside him and braced her hands on the heel of the boot, letting out a sob as she apologized again.

Damn, why couldn’t she have been a man?

She seemed young, hardly more than a girl.

He inhaled sharply as those soft hands began to tug at his boot.

“I have it,” the young woman said in a soothing voice that flowed over him like warm honey. “Close your eyes and take another deep breath. I’m afraid this will hurt.”

He let loose with a string of invectives as another dagger-sharp jolt of pain stabbed up his leg and into his temples. His heart felt as if it were about to pound a hole through his chest.

“Oh, I’m so very sorry!” She set aside the boot and turned to face him. Her lips quivered as she struggled to hold back anguished tears.

“I know, lass.” He tried his best to answer gently, for she did appear sincerely remorseful. Although why he should care about her feelings when she was the cause of his misery was beyond him.

But whatever had possessed her to ride that demonic beast? Where was she going in such a hurry?

Before he had the chance to ask, he heard male voices calling out and the sound of hurried footsteps coming toward them. His blurred gaze remained on the young woman dressed in the dark green velvet riding habit. Had she really been the rider on that demonic horse?

“Amos,” she said with a shaken breath, “put Brutus back in his stall before Father orders him shot.” Then she turned to the other man who’d run out of the townhouse to lend assistance. “Pruitt, please fetch Uncle George at once.”

“Right away, Miss Laurel.”

As both men left to do her bidding, the girl called Laurel sank onto the grass beside him and took hold of his hand, cradling it in her lap. Her soft hands were shaking. As his vision cleared from the blur of pain, he caught a good look at her face and experienced another jolt. The girl was beautiful.

She was also trembling, obviously distressed by the incident. He felt the urge to squeeze her hand and assure her that all would be well. However, he dismissed the ridiculous notion at once. How could the mere touch of a chit who’d almost killed him affect him in any way but a desire for cold revenge?

Still, he couldn’t deny that his anger was fading... or that his blood was heating.

He attributed that surprising effect to the pain of his broken leg.