Too Scot to Handle

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Too Scot to Handle Page 16

by Grace Burrowes


  “This isn’t working,” she said. “I’m getting more bothered.” So was he, if the solid ridge of flesh pressing against her hip was any indication. Impressively bothered.

  “It’s working.”

  They were arguing again, which reassured Anwen that Colin knew what he was about. His caresses drifted higher, to ruffle the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  She turned her face into his shoulder and surrendered herself to his expertise. His touch was at once careful and bold, reassuring and daring.

  “Are you sure this is part of courtship, Colin MacHugh?”

  “It’s part of our courtship. A significant part, if you enjoy it. Or I can stop.”

  Colin’s fingers glossed over intimate flesh, and sensation streaked through Anwen like the ignis fatuus that glowed in wild places deep in the night. Like those elusive lights, the pleasure flickered and faded on the instant.

  “Don’t stop, but don’t…”

  His touched slowed.

  “Colin MacHugh, tease me at your peril.”

  “How I adore a woman who knows what she wants.”

  Anwen didn’t know exactly what she wanted, but she trusted Colin could find it for her. A feeling like vertigo stole over her, so that instead of gravity, Colin’s touch was what kept her oriented. All of Anwen’s awareness focused on his caresses, on the rhythm of his breathing, on the heat and longing he generated.

  “Don’t chase it,” he said, kissing her brow. “Let it light upon you from within.”

  Colin’s breath whispered across her cheek, just as the pleasure caught, ignited, and burst forth into feelings too intense to qualify as mere sensation. Anwen clung to Colin, shuddered against him, bucked up into his touch, and shuddered yet more.

  Nothing about the moment was dignified, but everything about it was precious. Colin’s hand rested over her sex as her body quieted. His heat and strength sheltered her, while a maelstrom of tenderness buffeted her from within.

  “I had no idea,” she said. “No earthly notion. No inkling. No suspicion. Mother of God.”

  If Colin had told her that colors existed she’d never perceived, or there were lands beneath the earth, and kingdoms in the sky, she could not have been more dumbfounded.

  Or pleased.

  “I’m still bothered, in a sense,” she said. “I could not bear for you to touch me like that again just now, but I’m still stirred up too.” In a complete, golden muddle, in fact.

  “Now comes a wee cuddle, while you get your bearings.”

  “What about your bearings?”

  “I didna lose them, this time. We will speak of comfortable things and ease away from the fire. When we leave this library, you will be a woman with a devoted suitor, assuming your uncle doesna object.”

  She loved the feel of his speech when his burr became pronounced. Words rumbled out of him, like water down a burn after a rain, rather than some placid little trickle meandering through a pasture.

  “Uncle will approve,” Anwen said. “He accepted your brother, whose reputation was tarnished by gossip. Why do I want to close my eyes?”

  “Because you’ve earned a rest.”

  He kissed her eyelids again, as if putting a parenthesis of caresses around this extraordinary interlude. For a few luscious moments, Anwen drowsed. As a child, she’d watched butterflies emerging from their cocoons. The process was gradual, and the new butterfly was hardly recognizable until it had taken time to rest, unfold its wings, and bask in the sun.

  Anwen basked in new sensations, in revelations, and in Colin MacHugh’s secure embrace.

  Her last thought before nodding off was that she’d acquired a devoted swain, and their courtship was off to a glorious start.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Miss Anwen suggested I might prevail upon you for some assistance.” Colin liked how that had come out. Not a question, not a demand. A statement. He liked the look of Lord Rosecroft’s stable too, tidy and utilitarian. Horses contentedly munched hay in their loose boxes, a cat napped in a heap of straw at the end of the aisle.

  No piles of horse droppings left about to draw flies, but no engraved brass name plates on the stall doors either.

  The rhythm of Rosecroft’s currycomb on the gelding’s quarters was the steady, unhurried touch of a man who knew his way around the equine.

  “You are granted permission to court a woman one day, and you’re importuning her cousins for favors the next? Fast work, MacHugh.”

  After the encounter with Anwen the day before yesterday, Colin had wasted no time scheduling an interview with Moreland. The discussion had been brief, jovial on Moreland’s part, and terrifying as hell for Colin. Moreland had cheerfully promised to call him out if he broke Anwen’s heart.

  The duke had not been jesting.

  “I had a private interview with His Grace yesterday, and Anwen’s personal business is being discussed by her cousin in the mews today?”

  Rosecroft paused in his currying and banged the brush against the sole of his boot. Horse hair, dander, and dust cascaded to the raked floor of the stable.

  “What sort of assistance do you seek, MacHugh? I refuse to come within fifty yards of that orphanage. By June, my womenfolk and I are for Yorkshire.”

  Tactical retreat, both in the conversation and the travel. Rosecroft’s reputation in the army had been effective prosecution of any task he’d been given. He’d delivered orders against long odds, fought ferociously and often, and had been well liked by his subordinates.

  He’d also been more than fair to Hamish when Colin’s brother had been courting Miss Megan.

  “I need ponies,” Colin said. “Four healthy, sane, well-trained ponies who will mind their manners in traffic and for outings in the park.”

  Rosecroft kept a hand on the horse’s quarters and walked around to the beast’s other side. “You’ll look damned silly on a pony, MacHugh.”

  “As would you. The ponies aren’t for me, they’re for the orphanage.”

  Rosecroft leaned over the horse, one arm draped across the animal’s croup, the other across the withers.

  “You love her, don’t you?” The question was rendered with sympathy rather than menace.

  “Hamish warned me that the Windhams are very much in each other’s pockets.” Colin prevaricated not only because his sentiments toward Anwen were private, but also because they were hard to describe.

  Complicated, which was unnerving.

  “If you don’t love Anwen, you’re an idiot,” Rosecroft said as the horse cocked a hip and sighed. “Because if she wants you for a husband, you’re as good as married, MacHugh. I don’t care if your brother is a duke and your mother plays whist with the archangel Gabriel. Anwen deserves to be happy.”

  “We are agreed on that priority. About the ponies.”

  “Ponies are the equine equivalent of fairies,” Rosecroft said, giving the horse a scratch about the withers. “Not to be trusted, always busy about their own ends, and deceptively adorable. I much prefer horses when there’s a choice.”

  The gelding was a big, raw-boned chestnut, its musculature not yet caught up to its size. For a young animal, it was calm and patient with the grooming routine, and its conformation promised smooth, ridable gaits.

  “I’d put this fellow at about five,” Colin said. “Possibly six, if he was started late. Needs hill work to strengthen the quarters, which is hard to accomplish in London.”

  “That is the bloody damned truth,” Rosecroft said. “I have plans for this one that will have to wait until summer. Until then, boredom is his greatest foe. What do you have planned for four ponies?”

  Rosecroft wouldn’t deal well with boredom either.

  “The orphanage has one pony to pull Cook’s trap when she goes to market, and a team for when Hitchings takes the coach about town, a pair of bays who are mostly idle. When they’re in the traces, they’re cross and Hitchings requires a coachman to harness them and drive them. Keeping those horses costs a small fortun
e, and around ill-tempered equines of that size, boys just learning to groom won’t be safe.”

  If a pony stepped on a boy’s toes, the boy could shove the wee beast off. A coach horse might break the boy’s foot and still not be inclined to move away.

  “Ponies bite,” Rosecroft said. “They kick, rear, strike.”

  “And are more manageable than coach horses when they do. These boys have weathered London winters without shelter, lost their families, and endured hours of detention day after day. They need to learn useful activities through which to support themselves or they’ll revert to lives of crime and chaos when they weary of the orphanage’s rules.”

  Rosecroft exchanged the curry for a soft brush and started at the top of the horse’s neck. “They need to be boys, but if the orphanage is in want of funds, why take on four more mouths to feed?”

  And stalls to bed, feet to trim? Hitchings had asked the same question.

  “We’ll get rid of the coach horses and the coach. The pony trap has a bonnet, and Hitchings can time his few errands for fair weather. The boys can learn to groom, maintain harness, hitch and unhitch, and even ride and drive while the House of Urchins saves money.”

  The chestnut’s coat glowed as Rosecroft worked his way all over the horse. Rosecroft knew what he was doing too, knew where the horse was more sensitive, and where a firmer touch was in order.

  “You’re daft, replacing a proper team with demon ponies,” Rosecroft said. “What will you do if the orphanage has to haul something substantial? Say, a lot of desks donated by a patron? A piano or two?”

  “I’ll borrow a team from my brother’s London brewery,” Colin said. “I’ll prevail on MacHugh the publisher to lend me his team. MacHugh the saddle maker could probably oblige me as well, and MacHugh the fishmonger has a huge wagon, though it reeks of fish. You know what it costs to maintain a coaching team.”

  “That I do,” Rosecroft said, taking a comb to the horse’s mane. “What about when the boys outgrow these ponies?”

  “Then the boys will be old enough to start in some fine gent’s stables, and younger boys can take their places. If you’re not interested in helping, Anwen suggested Lord Westhaven can be relied upon—”

  Rosecroft glowered across the horse’s neck. “Don’t be bothering his lordship. His youngest is teething. The man gets no peace, and I suspect he’s to be a papa again. Don’t tell him I said that. Your idea is unconventional.”

  Rosecroft had the look of the duke about the chin and nose. He also had a green smear of horse slobber across his cravat.

  “Adhering to convention has left the orphanage facing penury. The four oldest boys all slept in one bed last winter because it was the only way to keep warm. They heaped all their blankets together, dove under, and shivered until morning. They organized the smaller boys’ dormitory in the same fashion, else half the children would likely have perished of lung fever.”

  Colin hated that the children had had to make shift for themselves, but he delighted in their ability to solve a serious problem on their own—and convention be damned.

  “So you’ll give them ponies, the finest guilt offering any parent ever made. Four ponies, not just one or two. Heaven help you if your union with Anwen is fruitful. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Did every Windham have this compulsion to argue? “Rosecroft, what are you doing?”

  “Combing my horse’s mane. He likes it, and he’s a handsome lad when properly turned out, if a bit stiff to the right and lacking in courage.”

  “You’re an earl in your own right. Your father is a duke, and here you are, your fingernails dirty, your boots in need of a serious shine. What are you doing?”

  Every hair of the horse’s mane lay tidily against its neck. “I’m caring for my cattle.”

  “Exactly. Even the son of an English duke is taught how to look after a horse, not because that boy will need employment someday, but because horsemanship builds character. Work in the stables also builds the physique, self-discipline, and organizational abilities.

  “Ponies are a way for the orphanage to offer the boys all of that,” Colin went on, “while cutting costs. What’s unconventional is that I want those children to have access to at least one of the lessons considered indispensable for every gentleman’s son. Not Latin, not philosophy, not ancient history that they’ll never use, but simple horsemanship. Even an English earl ought to understand that much.”

  “Half-English,” Rosecroft said, fishing a lump of carrot from his pocket. “My mother was an Irishwoman who had an irregular relationship with Moreland before he met his duchess.”

  Colin knew that Rosecroft cared greatly for Anwen, that he admired her and wanted to protect her. When Colin had asked to court her, he hadn’t quite bargained on her bringing such a lot of family to the undertaking.

  Hamish had married into the Windham family less than a month ago, and Colin was still not entirely sure where his brother had found the courage.

  “Rosecroft, why would I give a pig’s fart about what Moreland got up to more than thirty years ago? You’re here, you’re part of Anwen’s family, and I need four good ponies.”

  The earl unfasted the crossties on both sides of the horse’s headstall, and still the animal stood as if rooted.

  “Glad to know Anwen is being courted by a man of sensible—though unconventional—priorities. If I catch you frequenting dark balconies with merry widows, though, you will learn the pleasure of flying headfirst into a bed of roses.”

  “That must be the Irish half of you threatening violence, because I have it on good authority English gentlemen never stoop to acknowledging bad behavior.”

  Rosecroft fed the horse another lump of carrot. “Good boy, Malcolm. Come along.”

  Without Rosecroft touching the headstall, the horse followed as meekly as an elderly pug, straight into a stall at the end of the row. Rosecroft said a few more words to the horse, then slid the half door closed.

  “You named your horse Malcolm?”

  “My daughter names all the horses,” Rosecroft said. “Who told you English gentlemen don’t acknowledge bad behavior?”

  “No less personage than Winthrop Montague assured me that if I remark ill usage by some of his associates, I’ll be considered ungentlemanly. The repercussions will be endless and severe.”

  “What in the hell are you going on about?”

  Hamish had said that of the three male cousins—Westhaven, Lord Valentine, and Rosecroft—Rosecroft was the one most sympathetic to an outsider. He was also the oldest of the ducal siblings, and Anwen liked him.

  “I’ve been made the butt of a joke,” Colin said. “An expensive joke.”

  He explained, and the retelling left him angry all over again. He’d arranged to borrow from Hamish’s brewery while funds were being transferred between Edinburgh and London because he wanted the debts paid in full immediately.

  “I’m not to even the score,” he said, “but I can’t abide the notion that twenty years from now, these prancing ninnies will snicker into their port because Colin MacHugh was an easy mark. Then I tell myself, twenty years from now, I’ll have much better ways to occupy myself than with what a lot of overgrown English schoolboys think of me.”

  He offered that bit of manly philosophizing while the barn cat stropped itself against his boots.

  “Winthrop Montague is a philandering sot who can barely afford his tailor’s bills,” Rosecroft said. “Pay the trades, MacHugh. Not because you need Montague’s approval, but because he’s not worth your aggravation. You will join my brothers and me for cards on Tuesday, and let that be known among Montague’s little friends.”

  Colin picked up the cat, a sleek tabby that had likely been the doom of many a mouse. “Montague fancies himself quite the arbiter of gentlemanly deportment, the heir apparent to Brummel.”

  “The Beau is kicking his heels in Calais because he has no funds to go elsewhere. He’s a charity case. If Montague doesn’t marry very well
and soon, he’ll end up likewise.”

  Colin scratched the cat behind the ears. Hearing Rosecroft’s assessment of Win’s situation should have been unsettling rather than reassuring.

  “You forgot to pick out the gelding’s hooves.” Even if a horse was put up without being groomed, a conscientious owner picked out the feet, lest a stone lodge against the sole and cause an abscess.

  Rosecroft subsided onto a tack trunk. “I leave that to the lads, because nobody cares if they get dirt on their breeches. Montague is not your friend, MacHugh.”

  Colin took the place beside him and let the cat go free. “I should tell you that Win Montague isn’t responsible for the behavior of a lot of drunken fools, and he means only to preserve me from more mischief.”

  Except, Montague had been in on it, very likely an instigator, and he’d done nothing to monitor the situation or stop it, until Colin had been on the verge of calling somebody out.

  Anwen had certainly been angry.

  “A friend should have told you immediately what was afoot if he couldn’t prevent it,” Rosecroft countered. “I take it you will be in attendance at Anwen’s card party?”

  The Windham family was like a Highland village. News traveled faster than pigeons, and in all directions at once.

  And that was more unexpected reassurance.

  “I am on the board of directors at the orphanage now, so yes. I’ll be in attendance at the card party, prepared to gracefully lose a decent sum. You?”

  “Oh, of course. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm for hours of polite society pretending it gives a damn about the poor children it ignores starving in the streets.”

  No wonder Rosecroft longed for his Yorkshire acres, if he was always plagued by such honesty.

  “I can’t do anything for the whole of London’s poor,” Colin said, “but these children matter to Anwen. I’ll be at the damned card party.”

  “You’re in love,” Rosecroft said, whacking him on the back. “If it’s a matter of first impression, sometimes a fellow isn’t sure. The proof is in the suffering. Wait until you’re reading Gulliver’s Travels to your children yet again, or forgoing the pleasures of the marriage bed because a thunderstorm descends in the same hour you find yourself private with your wife for the first time in a fortnight. Then there’s teething, and—”

 

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