Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  In the words of countless gentlemen, Lady Rosalyn Montague was lovely, not merely pretty. The matchmakers had bestowed the usual appellations upon her—diamond of the first water, incomparable, jewel of the haute ton—but Rosalyn secretly preferred the nom du guerre given to her by the wallflowers.

  The Problem. As in, “There goes the Problem,” and, “If it weren’t for the Problem.”

  Rosalyn had never meant to be a problem, but when she’d decided Christian charity required her to befriend the merely pretty, the poor dears had resented her. The gentlemen had flocked to Rosalyn’s side as she’d whiled away dance after dance among the potted palms. The wallflowers had apparently felt even more ignored with the Problem in all her loveliness sitting in their very midst.

  One could but try.

  “You have that look about you,” Win said as he entered the library at Monthaven House and went straight to the sideboard. “As if you’ve been too good for too long. Care for a tot?”

  He was the best of brothers. “I’ll have a sip of yours.” The housekeeper would know who’d drunk out of the second glass otherwise, and a lady didn’t partake of strong spirits for any reason save medical necessity.

  In theory.

  Win tossed back a brandy, then refilled the glass and brought it to Rosalyn. “You could have come shooting with Lord Colin and me. Your gracious presence might have spared me an awkward dressing down—an awkward, undeserved dressing down.”

  Rosalyn laid out another card, the knave of clubs, which was of no help at all. “Have you been naughty, Winthrop?”

  Poor Win fancied Mrs. Bellingham, according to Rosalyn’s maid, who’d gleaned that tidbit from the first underfootman, who’d heard it from Win’s valet. Mrs. Bellingham would be a very expensive frolic.

  “How could I be naughty when I am ever a paragon, sister dear?” Win cast himself onto the library sofa and propped his boots on a hassock. “Come sit with me.”

  Even the best of brothers did not deserve Rosalyn’s attention whenever he snapped his fingers, and yet, Win had been out with Lord Colin, who was the brother of a duke, not bad-looking despite his red hair, and rumored to be well off.

  Rosalyn tidied the deck—how she loved the feel of a stack of cards in her hands—put it back into the hidden drawer, took another sip of her drink, and joined Win on the sofa.

  “You’re in a mood,” she said. “I have whiled away a perfectly lovely day, practicing the pianoforte, writing to Aunt Margaret to inquire about the weather in Italy this time of year, and otherwise avoiding Papa’s notice, while you went off to Richmond. One of us has to behave some of the time, Winthrop.”

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the picture of young manhood at his oppressed leisure. Perhaps his new boots had given him a blister or he’d lost a particularly vexing wager.

  “Lord Colin presumed to remonstrate with me.” Win’s tone was slightly bewildered and definitely peevish.

  “He outranks you. He’s a duke’s heir, you’re merely an earl’s spare. I don’t pretend to understand the nuances of gentlemanly posturing, but why shouldn’t he remonstrate with you?”

  “We fellows don’t posture, Roz. We are honorable, civil at all times. We are gentlemen.”

  They were a lot of hypocrites, professing to honor women while making sport half the night with soiled doves; tut-tutting in their clubs about a climbing boy’s death—climbing boys were always meeting horrible fates, given the number of chimneys in London—while doing nothing to amend the laws affecting the poor little wretches.

  “You are merely human,” Rosalyn said, “though I suspect Lord Colin has chosen the wrong time to turn up human himself. His circumstances aren’t easy, Winthrop.”

  “Must you be so good, Roz? I’m embarking on a fit of the dismals, and you’re helping all too effectively.”

  Rosalyn took another swallow of brandy and passed the drink over to Win. Half a glass resulted in an agreeable glow, and Win would pour more for her if she asked it of him.

  “I’m good only because it annoys you. Tell me about Lord Colin.”

  Rosalyn had considered attaching the affections of the new Duke of Murdoch, Lord Colin’s older brother. His Grace was a brute of a man. His past, rife with rumors of scandal and disgrace, had quelled her enthusiasm for his company. While she’d been steeling her nerve to endure his suit despite the gossip—he was a duke, and rumored to be quite wealthy—Miss Megan Windham had stolen a march on her.

  These things happened, though Rosalyn would rather they didn’t happen to her. Young, single, wealthy dukes were scarcer than sober university students.

  “About Lord Colin,” Win said, making even the name an ode to long-suffering. “A few of the fellows decided to play a prank on him. We thought we’d lighten his pockets by putting a convivial evening or two on his account. He can stand the expense, believe me, Roz.”

  And Win could not. Rosalyn well knew how financial constraints could pinch worse than an overlaced corset.

  “He failed to see the humor?”

  “I gather Scottish humor is an oxymoron.” Win finished the drink and held the glass up to the light. “I can’t entirely blame him for his pique.”

  “Blame him a little. He’s put you out of sorts, and that I cannot abide.”

  Rosalyn took the glass from Win and refilled it at the sideboard. She helped herself to another sip, brought it back to Win, and settled next to him.

  “What’s the rest of it?” she asked, because in the normal course, Win would have lifted a handsome eyebrow at his lordship, six other lackeys would have lifted their eyebrows—a Greek chorus of manly condescension—and Lord Colin would have fallen into an embarrassed silence.

  He was not a stupid man, even if he was red-haired and Scottish.

  Though his lordship had let Win entangle him with the House of Urchins—not the most shrewd decision, that.

  “The prank got out of hand, which I should have anticipated. Pierpont has never known when to leave well enough alone. He had the tailors bill a new morning coat to Lord Colin, who, thanks to me, patronizes the same establishment. Pointy told them it was in settlement of a wager.”

  “For Hector Pierpont, that verges on genius.”

  “Exactly. Who would have thought Pierpont, of all the dim candles, could have aspired to such cleverness? Not to be outdone, Twillinger decided to try the same tactic at Tatts, and came away with one more horse for his stables, a fine gelding. I gather a pair of boots is on order, a dozen pairs of gloves, three gold-tipped walking sticks, and who knows what else has been put in train.”

  Tatts dealt with only top quality horseflesh, and English law took anything relating to an exchange of equine stock very seriously.

  “You are not concerned for Lord Colin,” Rosalyn said. “You are in a pet because your scheme has taken on a life of its own. Your dearest friends have placed you in an awkward position, though all of them would reciprocate by claiming you put them up to it.”

  And the claims would doubtless be justified. Winthrop had a devious streak, which when combined with his gift for bonhomie could look a lot like manipulation.

  “I hate you.” Said with sincere, if reluctant, brotherly affection. “I very nearly hate old Pointy, Twilly, and the lot of them.” He drained half the glass and passed it to her. “At least it wasn’t entirely my idea.”

  Rosalyn knew an attempt to shift blame when she heard it, for she’d talked herself around many an awkward position.

  “The initial idea was yours, Win. I’d wager your example at the public house was not subtly rendered, nor was it a single instance.”

  Rosalyn could not recall the evening Win had ended entirely sober, and regarding drink, he was a Methodist spinster auntie compared to most of his friends.

  “I might have been a trifle sozzled when the inspiration first came to me,” Win said, studying his brandy. “Not at my best when I’m sozzled.”

  “None of us are, dear heart. I hear your affections a
re attached in an unfortunate direction these days too.”

  “Rosalyn, you are a lady. I’ll thank you not to venture into corners best kept private, or I won’t escort you to Lady Dremel’s whist party tonight.”

  “You must be violently in love.” Which was unusual for Win and probably bewildering. He was utterly selfish regarding intimate matters, as far as Rosalyn could tell. What man wasn’t? “Can you apologize to Lord Colin, Win?”

  “That’s the difficult part. A man apologizes when he’s not wrong, as a polite gesture, a sop to appearances. When he is wrong, the matter becomes more complicated.”

  Pure masculine balderdash. “Is that what you learned at Oxford?”

  “Don’t be a shrew.”

  Rosalyn very much wanted to attend the evening’s card party. No entertainment appealed to her as much as gathering around a table with a deck of cards and three other people, all equally skilled, and equally at the mercy of chance.

  “I can tell you what works for me,” she said, because Win was a prince when sober, but he could be a brat when he imbibed. He’d plead a headache and deny her the only outing she’d looked forward to all week.

  “Do tell,” he muttered, finishing his drink.

  “I throw myself on the other person’s charity,” she said. “If it’s an IOU I can’t pay timely, a comment I shouldn’t have made that was overheard, a bit of confusion regarding who was supposed to dance with whom for the supper waltz. I apologize, I explain why I was not at my best, and I ask them to forgive me. Works a treat every time.”

  Especially with the gentlemen. Other young women were generally tolerant as well, but Rosalyn was careful with the older ladies and with a few of the older gents.

  “You think I should turn up sweet with MacHugh,” Win said, sniffing at his empty glass. “Bat my eyes, simper, and look helpless?”

  “More or less. Has he agreed to pay the shot?”

  “He’ll do it, but it was a near thing. The Scots are so tightfisted.”

  “Then you thank him effusively, tell him you’ll never forget his magnanimity, and assure him you’re in his debt.”

  Win was on his feet, heading back to the sideboard. “A bare-kneed, upstart Scot, and I’m in his debt. I thought merely to curry favor with a new title, and now I’m saddled with a mess, though I suppose you’re right.”

  A mess of Win’s own making. He’d taken aim at Lord Colin’s friendship with the same calculation Rosalyn chose her dancing partners and her reticules, which was entirely understandable.

  Win poured another half a glass, downed it, and set the empty glass on the tray. “I could cut Lord Colin. He’s grown prodigiously tiresome.”

  Good heavens, drink made men imbeciles. “You’d have to deal with him at the orphanage, and Anwen Windham wouldn’t appreciate your change of heart toward her in-law. You should court her, by the way.”

  For the first time, Win smiled, and my, he was a handsome devil when he truly smiled. “Court Anwen Windham? She’s meek, retiring, red-haired, and nowhere near next in line to be fired off.”

  Those same attributes hadn’t stopped her sister Megan from becoming a duchess. “Anwen wouldn’t give you any trouble, and she’s desperate to get out of that household. I like her, when she isn’t being passionate about her orphanage. She’s not catty, even though I’m much prettier than she is.”

  Beauty really could be a burden. So few understood that.

  Anwen was also willing to make a discreet loan to a friend when a loan was much needed, and she didn’t fuss about it. She didn’t tattle, she didn’t put on airs, she never mentioned the favor, and she was genuinely kind.

  Too bad when it came to marriage, she wouldn’t do any better than an earl’s younger son, not with two older sisters left to marry off first and a personality about as colorful as a winter sky.

  “Miss Anwen strikes me as a woman who’d expect her husband to be involved in the marriage,” Win said. “She has a seriousness that bodes ill for a lighthearted fellow like myself. Besides, I’m not ready to get married.”

  “So few of us are. You won’t cut Lord Colin, will you? Snubbing a member of a ducal family, especially a wealthy ducal family with two marriageable daughters, will create endless awkwardness.”

  Winthrop picked up the decanter and headed toward the door. “I won’t cut MacHugh, much as I wish I could. He likely has money coming out his arse, but even more than money, he’s wallowing in honor, and Scottish honor can take a violent turn. He warned me that the joke is over, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Win couldn’t control a dozen drunken fools, no matter how he might flatter himself to the contrary. If the joke wasn’t over for them, no telling who might end up calling out whom.

  “That’s why I won’t cut him,” Win said, one hand on the door latch, the other wrapped around the brandy decanter. “He more or less threatened to lay about with his claymore if the fellows don’t stop their nonsense. I’ll start putting the word out tonight that the joke has run its course, else you’d not get me to move from my bed.”

  Win sauntered on his way, decanter at the ready, and Rosalyn let him go.

  He was a fine brother, but his version of friendship was mercenary even for Rosalyn’s tastes. No wonder Lord Colin was disappointed. Friends were for borrowing from, not stealing from. If one had to steal, better to steal from strangers.

  Even the little pickpockets and housebreakers at the orphanage would know that much.

  * * *

  The door to the MacHugh library was locked, and Anwen’s heart was opening in a way that had nothing to do with a glass of cordial, and everything to do with the man she was kissing. Colin not only argued with her when the situation called for it, he confided in her, and he sought her counsel.

  The physical intimacy he offered in addition was like the fragrance enveloping a colorful bouquet, another dimension, more subtle, and apparent only in close proximity. Precious, but by no means the only important attribute of the whole.

  “Anwen Windham, you know how to start off a courtship.”

  “Who swept me off my feet, Colin MacHugh?” Physically and emotionally. Colin had shifted, so Anwen lay across his lap, her back and legs supported by the arms of the chair. The posture was novel, also cozy and—with him—comfortable.

  “I chose a chair for us. How would you like to be courted, Anwen, my dear?”

  “Briefly.”

  His expression turned fierce. “I’m no’ intent on dallyin’. I’m intent on making a proper fuss complete with all the nonsense. Walking you home from the kirk, sitting down to dinner with your family, callow swaining at its handsome best.” He leaned closer. “I want your supper waltzes, woman. Every one of them.”

  He wanted her waltzes. She wanted to have his babies. “We have only a handful of weeks remaining to the season, Colin. Most people announce an engagement before polite society departs for the country at the end of June.”

  His brushed the pad of his thumb over her lips. “We’ll be getting engaged, then?”

  He clearly didn’t assume so.

  “I hope we will, or I wouldn’t have agreed to let you court me.”

  Colin cradled her closer, his cheek against her temple. “The English do things differently. Kiss me.”

  What had he expected? That she’d lead him a dance for the next eight weeks, then flounce off for the dubious pleasures of the house party circuit?

  The Scots apparently did things differently. Perhaps permission to court was a more tentative undertaking with them, but Anwen had made up her mind. No man—not her cousins, not their friends, not the endless procession of handsome bachelors or halfhearted suitors—had ever taken her concerns to heart the way Colin had.

  He trusted her, he talked his frustrations over with her, he—

  He kissed like Anwen’s every fantasy made real, like a raspberry cordial love potion, so Anwen was both bonelessly relaxed and increasingly restless. She scooted close and became abruptly aware that their
kisses had affected him.

  “I’m stirred up.” His smile would stir up a saint. “I hope you are too.”

  “A lady doesn’t…that is…Whatever do you…?” Anwen had no idea what he meant. A glimpse of frisky livestock every so often hardly educated a woman about the details of courting intimacies. “I’m bothered.”

  “Bothered is a fine start. I can show you how to get unbothered. I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

  His smile had muted to an expression both tender and determined.

  “I can’t think, not when you insist on being so handsome.”

  “Close your eyes, bonnie lady. You tell me to cease, and I will, but I won’t want to.”

  Anwen trusted Colin MacHugh. That was what lay beneath all of this marvelous intimacy, beneath their ability to air a difference, to share cares and worries. She trusted him to be honest and honorable, and to offer her marriage in a very short time.

  Anwen closed her eyes, and Colin brushed kisses to her eyelids. “You excel at this callow swaining business, sir.”

  “I’ll excel at the courting too, seeing as we’re off to such a fine start.”

  Anwen’s skirts whispered about her ankles and a warm caress glided up her calf. Colin’s touch was callused, slow, and novel, but not unpleasant.

  “Your mind is busy, lass. I can’t imagine we’re supposed to think our way through a courtship.”

  No witty or even coherent reply occurred to her, so she occupied herself with the interesting task of kissing Colin. He tasted of mint. His tongue brushed her lower lip, and Anwen devoted herself to learning the contours of his mouth.

  Megan had said that being courted had been wonderful beyond description. She had been right.

  “Spread your knees a wee…aye, like that.”

  How bold he was, though Anwen didn’t feel rushed or presumed upon. She felt cherished and curious.

  “Do I get to touch you like this some time?” she asked.

  “Whenever ye like.”

  She slid a hand inside his shirt, felt the beat of his heart beneath her palm, the exact texture of the hair dusting his chest.

  His fingers slid higher, and Anwen went still, focused on the sensations Colin created as he stroked her knees and thighs. Her breasts ached, and frustration entwined with pleasure.