Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  Charlotte beamed, which had to be at least partly attributable to the cordial.

  “Is Lord Colin in love?” Elizabeth propped her feet at the edge of Anwen’s hassock. “Westhaven would call that a material consideration.”

  “Rosecroft would call it a tactical concern,” Charlotte added, tucking her feet at Anwen’s other side. “He’d be right.”

  “Lord Colin seems enthusiastic about my company, he doesn’t need my settlements, and he argues with me. He might not be smitten, but he’s interested.”

  Anwen hoped. But if he was interested, why hadn’t he paid her a call and reported on the doings at the orphanage?

  Stopped by to ask her to save him a dance at the next ball?

  Sequestered himself with her in the conservatory again?

  “I’m interested.” Elizabeth studied her drink. “I’m interested in paying a call on Ladies Rhona and Edana.”

  “Bit late in the day for that,” Charlotte said.

  “We’ll bring them a bottle of Her Grace’s cordial. Anwen, will you join us?”

  Oh, they were the best of sisters, when they weren’t hovering and fretting over her. “I’ll be at the front door in five minutes, but two bottles of cordial, I think. One for each sister.”

  “Fine notion,” Charlotte said, “and I’ll just take the rest of this one up to my room for safekeeping.”

  Her tone was so like Her Grace’s that Anwen was provoked to giggling, Elizabeth followed suit, and Charlotte soon joined in.

  Five minutes later, though, they were assembled at the front door, prepared to go calling.

  * * *

  The ride back to London did nothing to improve Colin’s mood. He’d been robbed, plain and simple, by a lot of indolent, arrogant English lordlings, and—damn them all to the bottom of Loch Ness—he hadn’t seen this betrayal coming.

  He’d believed he was developing the right associations, more fool him.

  Worse yet, in a few hours he’d be expected to don his dress kilt and go out socializing in company with his sisters. Probably not a fancy ball—those were preceded by bickering between Edana and Rhona, last-minute trips to the modiste, and the occasional slammed door—but a soiree, a musicale, or that worst torment ever devised by woman, the dinner party.

  In every case, he’d be confronted with men who’d spent his coin without his permission. The urge to flee to Scotland, where a thief was a thief and a laird was a laird, nearly overwhelmed him.

  And yet, the whole business with the misappropriated funds was Colin’s problem—not his family’s, not his commanding officer’s, his. A result of his bad judgment and no other’s.

  If Colin spent the evening at home, his sisters would be without an escort, which meant he could not remain home if he valued his continued existence.

  Every path before him was unappealing, and yet, he must go forward.

  He handed Prince Charlie off to the grooms, charged across the garden, and prepared to storm the family parlor. Tonight he’d be home by midnight, come fire, flood, or French foot patrols.

  Feminine voices sounded from the other side of the parlor door. Ronnie and Eddie were likely stirring a cauldron of gossip or deciding with which of their fourteen thousand friends he must stand up and in what order later in the week.

  Colin swung open the door. “I don’t care which infernal waste of time ye think yer dragging me to this evening, I’m leaving at midnight with or without ye.”

  Five female pairs of eyes turned to him. Five pairs was too many, and two of those eyes—a lovely blue pair—belonged to Anwen Windham.

  Shite. Colin managed to not say that aloud, but only just. He was delighted to see her. The joy of beholding her coursed through him the way the fragrance of heather could grace even the dreariest of rainy afternoons.

  He was not delighted to have made an arse of himself in the space of a single sentence.

  “I beg everybody’s pardon. I am tired and out of sorts.” He bowed—even a complete dunderhead bowed before retreating—and headed for the door.

  “Lord Colin, please don’t feel you must change your attire to accommodate company,” Anwen said. “We called late in the day and time has got away from us.”

  The ladies had been conspiring. Their smiles and three open bottles of some potation confirmed it, as did Colin’s sense that he’d interrupted a strategy meeting of senior officers. And yet, he was loath to turn on his heel and give up a chance to spend time with Anwen.

  They’d had a fair fight at the orphanage—his first with a woman other than Edana or Rhona—and he wanted to do a fair bit of making up with her.

  “You should stay,” Rhona said. “We’re considering the guest list for Anwen’s card party. Who among your circle of acquaintances can stand to lose a substantial sum of money for a good cause?”

  “A substantial sum?” Colin asked, because the fellows Win had introduced him to were for the most part younger sons on allowances or half-pay officers dangling after banker’s daughters.

  “The substantial-er the better,” Miss Charlotte said. “The money is all for Anwen’s orphanage, you know.”

  Her smile was a trifle lopsided.

  “A very good cause,” Edana said, then hiccupped.

  Rhona winked at Colin, or maybe she had something in her eye.

  Anwen rose. “Lord Colin, let’s adjourn to the library, so I might make a list of the names you suggest. I’ll pass them along to Her Grace.”

  “Fine idea,” Miss Elizabeth Windham said. “I am a firm believer in making lisht. Lists, rather.”

  Rhona emitted a delicate burp.

  A good brother would stay and monitor the consumption of whatever was in those bottles, for clearly, the ladies were having a genteel drinking party.

  Well, let them. A very good brother trusted his sisters to be moderate in their indulgences. “Perhaps we should all adjourn to the library?” Colin suggested. For him to be alone with Anwen under her family’s roof with doors open and relations nearby was one thing, but elsewhere…

  “Run along, you two,” Charlotte said, grabbing a bottle by the neck. “We’ll be fine.”

  Anwen made for the door, her stride confident—and steady. When they reached the corridor, she took Colin by the hand and pushed him up against the wall.

  “I’m about to kiss you,” she said, “unless you object now.”

  “I object.”

  Russet brows drew down.

  Colin brought Anwen’s hand to his lips. “As badly as I’ve missed you all night and all day, as much as I have to discuss with you, and as urgently as I long to wrap my arms around you and whisper sweet indecencies into your ear—”

  “Sweet indecencies?”

  “For starts. I’ll progress to the bold sort if you allow me to. Regardless, the privilege of initiating this kiss belongs to me.”

  Colin didn’t simply initiate the kiss, he gave all his frustrations and longings the order to charge headlong into pleasure he could share with Anwen. The hour was such that servants were belowstairs enjoying a cup of tea, guests would not call, and even the front door was unmanned.

  He shifted, so Anwen’s back was to the wall, and he could envelop her in an embrace that included arms, hands, body, mouth, everything. The feel of her clutching at his hair, pressing closer, eased some of the day’s tension, and the taste of her—raspberry, both tart and sweet—drove him to growling.

  Arousal joined the conflagration and Colin was glad for it. Money problems, sororal expectations, the situation at the orphanage—those were all messy, tangled, and unappealing. Desire for Anwen Windham was real too, though, and so very lovely.

  She subsided against him and patted his chest. “That’s better.”

  Better and worse. “I’ve missed ye.” The words of a callow swain, but also the truth. Colin had missed the feel of Anwen in his arms, the sound of her voice, the delicate scent of her lemony perfume, and even the way her hair tickled his cheek.

  “You’re upset a
bout something,” she said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can sense it, taste it. Are the boys all right? Don’t protect me from truths you think I’m too delicate to handle, Colin.”

  “You’re formidable as hell.” Also precious. To hold Anwen like this did more to bring Colin right than all the hard galloping and harder cursing he’d done throughout the day. “I need your advice.”

  He’d never said those words to anybody. In some way, they were more intimate than a kiss.

  “I need yours as well. Shall we to the library? Napoleon mounting an invasion wouldn’t part our sisters from the remaining half bottle of cordial.”

  “Bless the cordial, then,” he said, leading her to the library three doors down the corridor. The room was modest compared to its Windham counterpart, though what books the MacHughs owned had been read—every page cut—and much appreciated. Hamish had used this room as his estate office, and Colin was doing likewise.

  The calculations Maarten had brought remained on the desk, a stack of foolscap weighted with a silver pen tray embossed with the MacHugh crest. A single white rose graced a vase on the windowsill.

  “The boys are putting the orphanage grounds to rights this week,” Colin said. “If the weather’s fair. If the weather’s not fair, I was hoping you could teach them to knit.”

  “Knitting is easy, needles cost nothing, and I would love to teach them all I know. I’m sure Lady Rosalyn would be willing to help me. The boys are not what troubles you.” Anwen picked up a book of poetry from the desk. “Poetry, Colin?”

  “Robert Burns. Hamish favors him. Did you attend finishing school?”

  She set the book aside. “Yes, for two years, though the school was only two hours’ ride from the Moreland family seat in Kent. I spent many holidays with my cousins, as did my sisters.”

  A pair of straight-backed, utilitarian chairs sat in front of the desk, and a capacious reading chair was angled before the hearth. Colin scooped Anwen up and settled with her in the reading chair.

  “This is friendly, Captain Lord MacHugh.”

  Colin kissed her nose to help quiet his thoughts. Or something. “I’ve been made the butt of a prank, a very expensive prank.”

  She nestled about, like a cat circling before settling to the exact most comfortable spot on a cushion.

  “Is the worse hurt to your pride or to your purse?”

  “The hurt to my purse is considerable.” He named the sum, lest she think him exaggerating the situation, and explained the jest, if a jest it was.

  “They spent that much? In less than a month?”

  “I know who did it, between recollection, Maarten’s research, a few pointed discussions with the trades earlier today, and Win’s confirmation. A dozen men conspired to empty my pockets. I’m supposed to make light of it, pay every penny, and stand the perpetrators to another round.”

  That Win had joined in the joke rankled badly, though he’d seemed remorseful at how far matters had gone.

  Anwen sat up and peered at Colin. “You’re supposed to pretend this is humorous, and merrily hand over a small fortune? That makes no sense. You said it yourself: If our boys had stolen from the orphanage, then letting their misdeeds go unpunished was tempting them to steal again. That would have made us nearly complicit in their next theft.”

  Our boys. They were her boys, not Colin’s.

  “Winthrop Montague isn’t a former cutpurse. He’s my friend.” On the ride back to Town, Colin had figured out the true problem. He could leave Win’s cronies to pay the expenses they’d incurred, meaning the trades would be unreimbursed.

  That in itself was wrong.

  The true problem, though, was that Win would also be held responsible for Colin’s decision to not play along. Win would be subtly excluded, whispered about, and treated to small indignities, because Win had tried to open doors for Colin.

  Colin could not allow his friend to be treated thus over a prank.

  Anwen subsided against Colin’s chest, and if he had been capable of purring, the feel of her in his arms would have inspired him to it. She felt that right, that sweet, and perfect in his lap.

  Also that desirable.

  “Winthrop Montague spent two years marching about in Spain,” Anwen said. “Though if you question him about the battles, he has little to say. I gather he was more of a secretary than a soldier. Other than that, I don’t think he’s worked a day in his life. Most of his friends can’t claim even a stint in the army. If they stole from you, it’s because they have no sense of what it takes to earn money.”

  “They stole from me. They stole my dignity and my coin, and I want both back, but not at the cost of what friendships I have.”

  Colin wanted Anwen too. More with each passing moment, which she had to be aware of. She fiddled with his cravat, with his hair, and with the buttons of his waistcoat, while desire fiddled with Colin’s wits.

  “Can you pay the debts?” Anwen asked, kissing his cheek.

  “Easily, though it will mean moving money from Edinburgh to London. That’s not the point. Win suggests I do nothing in retaliation, and if anybody grasps how gentlemen go on with each other, it’s Winthrop Montague. His advice thus far has been sound.”

  A delicate warmth tricked across Colin’s throat.

  She’d undone his cravat. “Anwen, I didn’t lock the door.”

  “I did. What has Win advised you about?”

  Should Colin be dismayed, terrified, or pleased that she’d locked the door? “Win has told me which clubs to join, which tailors to patronize, when to drop in at Tatts. God, that feels good.”

  Anwen had wound her hand around Colin’s neck and was massaging his nape. He’d touched her in the same fashion in the park, making the caress all the more intimate.

  “My cousins could have told you the same things,” she said, “and done a better job of it. Their friends would not have set you up for penury and called it a jest. Had Win advised you regarding investments, which entertainments to avoid, or whose sister had taken an extended repairing lease in the north last year, I might see your point.”

  Anwen made sense, even as she made a muddle of Colin’s ability to think. Hamish was a shy man, not given to even brotherly displays of affection. Edana and Rhona expected Colin to offer his arm at their whim. The men in the clubs might slap Colin on the back or shake his hand.

  Nobody offered this, this bliss, this warmth, this combination of affection, pleasure, friendship, and desire.

  “If you keep that up, madam, I will become incoherent.”

  She kept it up. “I caught Uncle Percival rubbing Aunt’s feet once. I’d forgotten my workbasket in the music room. They didn’t see me.”

  Colin would adore having his feet rubbed, among other places. “You’re not the least bit tipsy, are you?” He’d have to return her to her sisters if she was.

  “I am drunk on the pleasure of your company,” she said, quite briskly. “You argued with me at the orphanage, Colin. Went figuratively toe to toe with me. Nobody has paid me that compliment since I was six years old. You don’t treat me as if I’m a porcelain shepherdess perched too near the edge of the mantel, and that makes me happy.”

  He had no idea what she was going on about, but she was either able to hold her cordial, or exercise restraint around an open bottle. Regardless, he approved. A wife who was too fond of drink, no matter how lovely, sweet, delightful, and passionate, would always cause a man worry.

  Colin kissed Anwen, and the closeness necessitated by that liberty meant he caught a whiff of her, up close, where she was warm and well-endowed. Her lemony fragrance acquired a spicy undertone, much as Colin’s falls acquired a snugness.

  A wife who greeted her husband like this, who listened to him, who saw him honestly, who took his troubles to heart, such a wife would be…

  Wife.

  Husbands had wives. For the first time, Colin envied them that good fortune. “Hamish and Megan are happy with each other,” Co
lin said, “and I know they had their differences. He’s deliriously happy. I’ve never seen Hamish so happy. He glows with it. He laughs, he—”

  Anwen’s fingers had gone still. “Megan too. I watched her walk up the church aisle on her wedding day, and I wondered, what fools, what blind idiots, said my sister was plain? She’s never been plain, and to Hamish MacHugh she never will be.”

  A certainty took possession of Colin’s heart, a knowing born of instinct, but also of sense and experience. Anwen Windham was different, special, and precious. For a long moment, he simply held her, savoring a sense of peace where all had been frustration and tumult before.

  “I’d like to ask you something, Anwen.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder, the weight of her in his arms exceeding even perfection, and achieving a sense of completion.

  “Ask me anything. I’ll argue with you if we disagree.”

  That pleased her, so it pleased Colin. “Would you think me very forward if I requested permission from Moreland to pay you my addresses? Please be honest, because with you, I want no posturing, no prevaricating to spare me embarrassment. I’m known to be precipitous, but that’s not truly my nature. I can be patient, it’s just that—”

  “Yes, I would think you forward.”

  Well, all right, then. Colin’s heart sank, but he couldn’t blame her. They hadn’t known each other long, and her family had much more consequence than his. He’d bear up, somehow, under a disappointment that made his earlier foul language look like casual remarks in the church yard.

  “I would think you forward,” Anwen said, “and I would approve heartily of your initiative. I am so blessed sick of wasting each spring on the company of men I cannot esteem, and I esteem you ferociously, Colin MacHugh.”

  That was…that was a yes. That was permission to court, and a lady did not grant permission to court unless she was mightily impressed with a fellow.

  “Are you sure, Anwen? Are you very, very sure?”

  She scooted around, so she was facing him. “I’m very, very sure, and the door is very, very locked.”

  Chapter Ten