Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  That sounded interesting, and the smile Colin aimed at her was more interesting still.

  “We need to set a date soon, Colin MacHugh. There’s a tradition in the Windham family of firstborns coming at seven months. We could find ourselves upholding that tradition.”

  He kissed her with maddening sweetness. “A lovely tradition. I’m happy to do my part.”

  Anwen fisted her hand in his hair and hiked a leg around his hips. “So am I.”

  Epilogue

  “The idea is Anwen’s,” Colin said. “She wasn’t content to allow Lady Rosalyn and Winthrop Montague to simply holiday in Italy when they’d behaved so badly. Has a fine sense of justice, does my Anwen.”

  Moreland sent a creditable glower in Colin’s direction. “She is, and always will be, our Anwen. Just because you married her, don’t think you alone have the privilege of loving her.”

  Sitting behind the massive library desk, surrounded by a wealth of books and expensive art, Moreland looked every inch the duke, just as he had during last week’s uncomfortable encounter at the orphanage. At yesterday’s wedding in the Moreland House conservatory, His Grace had looked ready to shed a sentimental tear.

  “Thank you, Uncle Percival,” Anwen said. “I love you too. What do you think of my idea?”

  Moreland was many things—patriarch, doting husband, and devoted uncle. He was also a wily parliamentarian who could produce votes for any worthy bill.

  “A parliamentary committee to research the plight of the orphaned poor in London?” Moreland replied. “Any measure hinting of reform faces resistance, but with the Earl of Monthaven to chair the body, it should easily gain approval. Would you like me to approach him about it?”

  “No need for you to bother, Uncle,” Anwen said. “He was in favor of the notion. I wanted to resent him, to hold him accountable for the actions of his children, but he struck me as a decent fellow.”

  Colin had been skeptical of Anwen’s plan, and surprised when the earl had received them, but—true to Anwen’s instincts—his lordship had been relieved to be given a means of putting right what his children had nearly put wrong.

  “So I suppose you’ll be leaving for Scotland soon?” Moreland asked. “What of the demolition plans for the House of Urchins?”

  Colin had used every ounce of his charm, stubbornness, and commonsense to gain Anwen’s support for this decision, and then he’d had to convince the other directors, one of whom was now no less person than the ducal heir, the Earl of Westhaven.

  “Demolition of the unused wing will begin next week,” Colin said. “Every brick, windowpane, door latch, and hinge will be sold. The funds resulting will be used to refurbish the remaining wing, hire a new headmaster, and enhance the endowment. The boys are set to foster in pairs with various MacHugh cousins here in London until the work is complete, though the four oldest will come north with us.”

  Hitchings’s mysterious errands had apparently been necessitated by his courtship of a housekeeper in service two streets over from the orphanage. He and the new Mrs. Hitchings were off to a cottage in Cornwall, where he’d tutor the sons of gentry.

  “You have all in hand,” Moreland said, looking a bit peevish to have no contribution to make to the plans. “I’ll wish you safe journey, and exhort you, Anwen, to write frequently. Your sisters will miss you sorely, as will your parents and cousins. And you, sir”—he came around the desk, hand extended—“get as much rest as you can. If my duchess’s predictions have any credibility, you’ll need it. Her Grace raised ten children and knows of what she speaks.”

  As it turned out, the duchess’s prognostications were accurate, and while Colin and Anwen did not have ten children, what children they did have were red-haired and, in the opinion of their great-uncle, Windhams, the lot of them, despite a Scottish patronymic to the contrary.

  Joseph evidenced a talent for music, having discovered that when singing, his stammer did not afflict him. He eventually toured the Continent as a baritone soloist, and caught the eye of a widowed German princess, by which time he’d lost his stammer—and his shyness.

  Dickie became proprietor of a very exclusive tailor’s establishment, John a wealthy solicitor, and Tom—who apprenticed with MacHugh the publisher—a journalist, and then a publisher himself.

  The House of Urchins—no longer the House of Wayward Urchins—thrived, in large part because its successful alumni supported it generously, and also because Lord Colin and Miss Anwen—she would always be Miss Anwen to the orphans—would have it no other way.

  Keep reading for a peek at Book 3 in the Windham Brides series.

  No Other Duke Will Do

  Coming in Winter 2017

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth Windham was on trial, and she’d done nothing wrong to merit a place in the dock. She perched on the chair behind her father’s desk, her back not touching the leather.

  “This changes everything,” her father said, pacing before her. “Your great-aunt did you no favors by leaving you that money.”

  “So let me spend it,” Elizabeth replied, rising and bracing both hands on the blotter. “Anwen’s orphanage, some soldier’s relief fund, a lending library for the—”

  “You will be engaged by Michaelmas, Elizabeth. Your mother’s nerves cannot take another attempt to compromise you, nor can mine. If you have no care for your parents, then consider the damage to Charlotte’s reputation when some dashing blade spirits you off to Gretna Green, or worse.”

  Charlotte, Elizabeth’s only unmarried sister, was loyally pretending to have no interest in marriage, simply so Elizabeth did not face spinsterhood alone. Charlotte was also contrary, stubborn, and—though she might not admit it herself—lonely.

  Elizabeth sank back into the chair behind her father’s desk. “That is not fair. Allermain behaves like an ass, and I’m the one nearly ruined, but it’s my cousins’ safety you claim is at risk. I’m not asking them to call anybody out.”

  Papa took the seat opposite. He was lean, fit, the son of a duke, and nobody to trifle with, for all his charm. Had Elizabeth seen a battle light in his eyes she might have steeled herself to meet his display of temper with one of her own.

  Instead, Papa’s expression was exasperated, and…weary.

  Of her, of her unwillingness to marry some mincing fop with clammy hands, merely for the pleasure of risking her life every two years in childbed, to say nothing of how those clammy hands would feel on her person when taking intimate liberties in the dark.

  “Elizabeth, have your mother and I set so awful an example that you dread to marry?”

  “The example you set is the problem,” she replied. “You and Mama are allied in all matters, you are…you love each other, and nothing divides you. Even Uncle Percy and Aunt Esther don’t have the same enthralled air.”

  Aunt and Uncle were devoted partners, Mama and Papa were besotted.

  Papa sat back, crossing one booted foot over the opposite knee. “So your objection is not to the institution of marriage, but to the candidates available to share it with you?”

  Elizabeth nodded, though she feared she’d given away a critical inch of ground. “I want somebody who, in thirty years, still looks at me the way you look at Mama.” That devotion was not merely display. Mama and Papa took holidays together, arrived to and departed from social functions together, and were political allies.

  “Then you will be pleased to learn that the Duke of Haverford is having a house party, to which he’s invited only gentlemen suitable for consideration by his sister. Haverford is a sober fellow, responsible, and well respected. He will assemble only the best of the best for Lady Glenys, and she will choose no more than one man for herself.”

  “A house party?” House parties ran the gamut from near orgies to stupefyingly dull rural purgatories.

  “At Haverford Castle, not far from where your mother’s mother grew up. You and Charlotte have been invited. Your mother sent off an acceptance this morning and your aunt Arabell
a will chaperone.”

  Aunt Arabella espoused liberal politics, and had sneaked Elizabeth the occasional sip of Christmas punch before Elizabeth had put up her hair.

  “You want me to choose a husband from among a herd of men who’re trying to catch the eye of Haverford’s sister?”

  Like Elizabeth, Lady Glenys St. David was fast approaching spinsterhood, and she appeared to relish the prospect. She’d not come to Town much during the past five years, not even when her ducal brother was voting his seat.

  “I want you to consider possibilities,” Papa said, “enjoy the Welsh countryside, and avoid the near occasion of kidnapping. If you see a fellow you approve of, then don’t rebuff him until you’ve given the man a chance. Play fair, Elizabeth, for your mother is at the end of her patience.”

  No sane Windham tempted Mama past the end of her patience. “If I’m to endure marriage, then I’ll not put up with some strutting nincompoop who lives at his clubs. I want a sensible man, in good health, honorable, solvent, and sober. A man who will support my interest in worthy charities.”

  Most importantly, this paragon would have to be the un-bothersome sort, once the obvious duties had been tended to. Elizabeth would not approach the marriage bed in ignorance of those duties, but neither would she approach it with any enthusiasm.

  Papa pushed to his feet, his movements uncharacteristically stiff and slow. He’d doubtless been up until all hours last night, praying and hoping for Elizabeth’s safe return.

  Abruptly, she felt like a petulant, ungrateful child, one who’d been rescued from considerable peril.

  “I want you happy as well as safe, Elizabeth, and the right man will double your joys and halve your sorrows. You must be willing to double his joys as well, though. You’re a fair-minded young lady. Meet the fellows halfway, and see what develops.”

  Nothing would develop, because the knight in sober armor Elizabeth sought did not exist. “If I meet a man who conforms to my requirements, I will consider him. When do we leave?” she asked, rising.

  Papa came around the desk and kissed her forehead, which gesture, Elizabeth had loathed for as long as she could recall. Why did nobody kiss the foreheads of gentlemen or boys?

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “I’d best start packing, then.”

  * * *

  “You are a horrid brother,” Glenys said. “I sought to while away a few weeks of summer in the company of congenial young ladies, and you’ve turned my gathering into a summons for every solvent bachelor under the age of fifty.”

  Julian Andreas Cynan Evan St. David, twelfth Duke of Haverford, gave the reins of his horse over to a groom, propped a boot on a pot of salvia, and slapped at his dusty toe with his riding gloves.

  “I will be present in all my ducal splendor for the gathering before dinner, Glenys. This party was not my idea, but you are my sister and I would never bring shame upon you.”

  Glenys was tall and handsomely proportioned, if not exactly pretty. She was also worried, and not very good at hiding it. She glanced around at the bustle of porters lugging trunks to the castle’s side entrance, grooms leading teams off to the carriage house, and footmen ordering each other about, then patted Julian’s lapel.

  “I wish, just once, you’d do something a bit naughty, Haverford. Arrive tipsy to services, forget the words to a verse of hymnody, trip over the fringe of a carpet.”

  Another baggage wagon rolled around to the side of the castle.

  “I went to university, Glenys. I wasn’t a saint.”

  “You went up to university more than half your lifetime ago. But for Radnor, you’d have taken firsts in every subject. One despairs of you.”

  The moment took on an odd quality, such that Julian knew he would recall it decades into the future, should he live so long. He’d gone up to Oxford at sixteen, the normal age, and indeed, that had somehow become more than half his lifetime ago.

  Not a few years, not a decade or so, but more than half his lifetime.

  Across the crushed shell drive, Haverford Castle sat in its gleaming golden glory, turreted towers swaddled in ivy, massive front door open in welcome. The crunch of carriage wheels, the dust rising behind each conveyance, and the light rose scent of Glenys’s perfume blended into an indelible moment.

  In the blink of an eye, Julian would become just one more poorly maintained portrait among the many paintings crowding onto the walls of the second floor gallery. Where were the years going, and what legacy would he leave behind?

  “Perhaps you ought to find a bit of mischief to get into yourself,” Julian said.

  “Me? Get into mischief? At my own house party?”

  “Yes, you,” Julian said, wrapping an arm around Glenys’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “Be discreet, though, else I’ll have to shoot somebody, and dueling is a damned waste of a pretty morning.”

  An enormous traveling coach went rattling past, making room for yet another arrival to advance up the drive and disgorge its occupants.

  “I’d best greet our guests,” Glenys said. “You stink of horse, so away with you. Dust off what meager stores of charm you claim, and display them on the back terrace promptly at seven.”

  She was already smiling, moving in the direction of the coach, when Julian caught her by the arm.

  “Don’t wait for me to choose a wife before you consider marriage, Glenys. You aren’t responsible for looking after me.”

  She shrugged free, her smile faltering. “Somebody has to look after you. The job falls to me because you won’t let anybody else near.”

  She strode off, a lady very much on her dignity, and thus she could ignore Julian’s parting shot.

  “If I won’t let anybody else near, then why do I have so little solitude, and even less privacy?”

  * * *

  “Shoot me,” Charlotte moaned. “Please, if you have any love for me at all, take out the coach pistol and end my torment.”

  “I never took you for a coward, Charl,” Elizabeth replied from the coach’s backward-facing seat. “Other people are fatigued by long journeys.”

  Charlotte sprawled on the forward-facing seat, one foot braced on the floor, one hand on her middle. “I am not fatigued, I am dying. Why did nobody warn me that the roads in Wales are instruments of torture?”

  “It’s not the roads serving you ill, it’s probably the ale you had at the last inn.”

  Charlotte was pale, dyspeptic, and had stopped to visit the bushes three times in the last five miles. Thank goodness, bushes were in generous supply in this part of Wales. Aunt had chosen to ride in the next coach back with the ladies’ maids, so that “poor Charlotte” had room to stretch out on the bench.

  “I stink,” Charlotte said. “I hate to stink. A lady isn’t supposed to perspire, much less cast up her accounts, much less—dear God, have we arrived?”

  The coach had turned up a long drive shaded on both sides by towering oaks. In deference to Charlotte’s condition, progress was stately.

  The dwelling at the end of the drive was splendidly regal. Crenelated turrets stood at either end of a golden façade five stories tall, and the circular end of the drive curved around a fountain that sprayed water a good twenty feet into the air. Potted flowers adorned a raised front terrace and circled the fountain, creating red, white, and green splashes of color against the stonework.

  “Haverford owns all this?” Charlotte asked, sitting up enough to peer out the window. “Moreland isn’t half so grand.”

  “Moreland is probably two centuries more modern. You’re at death’s door, though, so what do you care?”

  “I feel a miraculous revival coming on,” Charlotte said, straightening her skirts. “Or I might presently. Ye gods, I shall never drink another drop of ale.”

  The coach lurched forward, and Charlotte’s pallor became more marked.

  “Lie back down,” Elizabeth said. “The bushes are disobligingly sparse along this drive.”

  Charlotte subsided to t
he bench. “I’m to be humiliated before all of society, dragged from the coach in a state of obvious ill health. Perhaps I will die in Mama’s homeland, and out of guilt, Papa will grant you the spinsterdom you long for.”

  “Spinsterdom is not a word. If you die, may I have your mare?” Charlotte’s ill health was real, but as long as she responded to sororal teasing, Elizabeth’s worry would remain manageable.

  “You may have my jewels.”

  “You have the same pearls and pins I do.”

  Charlotte put her wrist to her brow. “I yield my entire treasure to you. Elizabeth, can’t you have the coach circle around to the back of the house? I truly do not want to appear before the most eligible bachelors in the realm looking like some cupshot tweenie.”

  Vanity was a reassuring sign when a sister professed to be expiring. “I’ll get you up to a bedroom, and nobody will think you’re anything but travel weary.”

  “I will write to Mama of the foul brew served to the unsuspecting in her homeland. Rest assured the Welsh bachelors just lost considerable ground in the race to offer for my hand. Such misery would never befall me in England.”

  “You speak as an earnest husband-hunter.”

  “As a dying husband-hunter. No harm in looking over the eligibles as they pay their final respects to one cut down in the full flower of her youth. How long is this dratted drive?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  The coach soon swayed to a halt, and Charlotte pressed a wrinkled handkerchief to her lips. The vehicle rocked as a footman climbed down, then the door opened and the steps were unfolded.

  “I suppose I must move,” Charlotte muttered.

  “I can have the footmen carry you,” Elizabeth said. Charlotte was nearly gray about the mouth.

  “Oh, the ignominy. Dragged to the door like some tomcat’s decapitated sparrow—”