Rules for Reforming a Rake(126)
“Sir, is there someone we can summon on your behalf? I’ll send one of our footmen—”
“Lady Eloise Dayne,” he said with a nod. “She resides on this street at Number 5.”
“Lady Dayne? Oh, my heavens!” Laurel let out another unsteady breath. “Sir, are you by chance her grandson? The one who lives in Scotland and just arrived in town last night?”
He nodded again. “Indeed, lass. Graelem Dayne.”
“You’re Graelem... I mean, Lord Moray! And Eloise is your grandmother! Oh, this gets worse and worse.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Those men called you Laurel.”
“Yes, I’m Laurel Farthingale.” She still sounded as though she were about to burst into tears. “I live here at Number 3 along with my parents and sisters, and a horde of Farthingale relations come to London for the season. We’re your grandmother’s neighbors. Friends, too. Though she won’t be too pleased that I’ve almost killed her grandson. Are you in terrible pain?” She let out a quiet sob. “I wish there was something I could do to ease it.”
There was, but she’d finish off the job her horse had started and kill him if he told her what he was truly thinking. Damn. Was he that depraved? At the very least, his senses were addled. How old was she? Old enough to be out in society, he guessed, but not much beyond her first season.
She was pretty enough to be snatched up quickly, assuming she didn’t kill her beaus first.
She eased beside him and let out a mirthless laugh. “I’m in for it now. Probably punished for the entire summer,” she muttered.
“Sorry, lass.”
Her eyes rounded in horror. “You mustn’t be! This is all my fault. Truly, it isn’t much of a loss. This is only my first year out in society and I’m still quite overwhelmed by it. Everyone is so polite and mannered, I worry that I’ll never fit in. My parents think I’m too spirited. That’s the polite term they use, but they really think I’m a hot-tempered hellion. I suppose I am, as you’ve unfortunately discovered.”
He tried to fashion a response, but couldn’t, for he found himself staring into a pair of magnificent blue-green eyes that sparkled like sunshine on a Scottish mountain lake. His own baronial estate was on Loch Moray in the Scottish lowlands near the English border. It was a beautiful lake, almost as breathtaking as Laurel’s eyes.
Damn. The girl also had a body that could bring a man to his knees. She sat too close, leaning over him in a way that got his heart pounding a hole in chest again... no, the pain was still addling his good sense.
He sank back, but couldn’t turn away from the girl. She was a pretty sight indeed. It wasn’t merely her shapely form, for the girl was fully clothed, the jacket of her riding habit buttoned up to her slender throat and the flowing skirt covering everything else that a man would wish to explore. He liked the scent of her as well, a hint of strawberries and warm summer breezes.
“Laurel, what’s happened here?” An efficient-sounding gentleman approached them, a thoughtful frown upon his face. He carried a black satchel with him, obviously a medical bag of some sort.
“Uncle George, this is all my fault! The gentleman is Lord Graelem Dayne. He’s Eloise’s grandson and I almost killed him!” She repeated the details of the accident to Eloise when she came running out and paused with her hand over her heart to stare in horror at his injury.
“Good morning, Grandmama. It’s not quite as bad as it looks.” He got out little else, for Laurel quickly jumped in to assure his grandmother that she had been completely at fault.
Eloise glanced at him and then her gaze shifted to Laurel.
“All my fault,” Laurel repeated with a tip of her chin, obviously determined to endure whatever punishment was to be meted out.
“Now, now, my dear,” Eloise said. “I’m sure my grandson will find it in his heart to forgive you. Won’t you, Graelem?”
He supposed he would. The girl may have been a little reckless, but she had been honest and had readily admitted her mistake. It spoke of her good character. Or was he too quick to forgive her because she was the prettiest thing he’d ever set eyes upon?
A lock of rich, honey-colored hair spilled over her brow.
He felt a sudden desire to undo the pins from Laurel’s hair and run his fingers through her exquisite, dark gold mane.
Laurel’s uncle said something about needing to cut through the fabric of his trousers before setting his broken leg. He nodded, not paying much attention, for his head was beginning to spin.
The last thing he recalled as he was suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea was Laurel nudging him onto his side and wrapping her arms around him as he emptied the contents of that morning’s breakfast onto the grass.