Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  Like many brilliant notions, this scheme had why didn’t I think of that written all over it, not that anybody would have listened to Anwen if she’d suggested it.

  “If Hamish hadn’t opened up the townhouse, I’d be one of those young gentlemen, looking for a quiet, modest place to retreat to when being useless, drunk, and merry paled. Such lodgings are nearly impossible to find during the season, though we’ve missed the opportunity for this year.”

  “But it’s an idea, and the little season attracts some young men to Town, at least until the hunting starts. The holidays are the same, and as soon as Parliament sits again…”

  Anwen had been out of bed for well over an hour, but Lord Colin’s casual suggestion woke her up in a way tea and toast, and even fresh morning air, had not.

  “You don’t think we could start this scheme anytime soon?” she asked.

  “To do this properly, you’d need to fit out the rooms, advertise, interview the gentlemen to ensure the proper sort joined the household, train the boys, work out the budget for such an undertaking. All of that requires time, and the season is, thankfully, half over.”

  Yes, but by autumn, Anwen could manage every task on the list. “Lord Colin, I fear I must pay you another compliment.”

  He brought his horse to the halt, his expression solemn while his eyes danced. “Do your worst, Miss Anwen. I’m braced for the ordeal.”

  “You have given me hope.”

  She expected him to laugh, to fire off a witty rejoinder. Cousin Devlin would hear that laughter and come passaging over, and this magical sense of possibility would fade like the mist over the Long Water.

  “I have given you hope,” Lord Colin repeated softly. “Tell me more.”

  Could she? He wasn’t laughing, he was listening. “I am so worried for those children, and it’s tempting to yield to that worry, to be paralyzed by it. I could ignore the whole problem, and pretend wiser heads than mine will solve it. Any head is supposedly wiser than a single young woman’s. Sometimes, a problem is not solved by wisdom of the head, but by wisdom of the heart. I can aspire to wisdom of the heart, to imagination, to a charity card party because that’s what I can do.”

  Prince Charlie walked on, and Anwen’s mare fell in beside him.

  “I want to hear about this charity card party, but if the sun gets any higher, this park will become too crowded for a good gallop. Shall we?”

  They’d come to a straight stretch of the bridle path, and Lord Colin was inviting her to gallop, to feel the wind in her hair, the horse pounding along beneath her, the greenery going by in a blur.

  Without warning, Anwen cued her mare into the canter, then snugged her knee to the horn as Prince Charlie leapt forward.

  “Go, girl!” Anwen shouted. “Show ’em your heels!”

  The mare was exquisitely trained, but she was also a healthy creature confined to Town rather than enjoying her home pastures in Kent. She burst into a thunderous gallop, and with a whoop, Lord Colin let his gelding stretch out as well.

  The gallop became a race, Anwen tucked like a highwayman over her horse’s withers, Lord Colin’s gelding puffing heartily at her elbow. By the time she pulled up three hundred yards on, she’d had a full length on Lord Colin.

  The grooms were cantering some yards back, so Anwen permitted herself to raise her whip in the air.

  “We beat you! Good girl, Baronessa! You showed them who’s faster.” She patted the mare’s shoulder, and the horse responded by curvetting about on the path, her form worthy of one of Cousin Devlin’s finished mounts.

  “Well, of course you beat us,” Lord Colin said. “You had all the advantages, not that I’m complaining.”

  He wasn’t complaining, he was smiling, his feet kicked out of the stirrups, his horse on a loose rein.

  “What advantages?” Anwen retorted. “I’m riding aside, I haven’t galloped for ages, and I lack your athleticism. I’m also wearing a hat.” Which had more or less stayed affixed to her hair.

  “That is not a hat. That is feathers and flowers intended to call attention to your glorious red hair. Your advantages are numerous, but let’s start with you surprised me with a fast start. You are smaller and lighter, your horse was fresher while this poor fellow was out until all hours last night. Most of all, you were determined to win, while I…”

  “Yes?” If he said he’d let her win, the day would lose much of its glory.

  His smile faded. “I was determined to win too. I simply underestimated you. Ungentlemanly of me, but it’s the truth. Shall we walk for a bit? I still want to hear about your charity card party.”

  “Don’t feel bad. People have been underestimating me since I was seven years old.” Anwen unhooked her knee from the horn, and arranged her skirts so she could dismount. “I was supposed to die on several occasions, but failed to oblige the physicians. Mama would not let them bleed me, and sent them packing when their quackery only made me more ill. I didn’t die, though my recovery took months and featured several relapses.”

  Lord Colin swung off his horse and came around to put his hands on Anwen’s waist. “I’m glad you didn’t die, glad your mama was as fierce as you are, though I suppose this is part of why you’re so protective of your boys.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it,” Lord Colin said, easing her to the ground. “Our early experiences can shape us profoundly. Yours has made you indomitable.”

  A goose honked a greeting to the day out across the water, and the moment imprinted itself on Anwen’s mind. She could smell horse sweat and fresh grass, cedar with a hint of honeysuckle. Beneath her gloves, the muscles of Lord Colin’s arms were firm and vital.

  She woke up yet again, to her own indomitable nature, to the beautiful day, and to the fact that she wanted to kiss the first man to admit he’d underestimated her.

  Chapter Five

  Hiding beneath demure manners and modest tailoring was a stunning young woman. Colin stood a touch too close to Anwen Windham, counting the shades of blue, gray, agate, and indigo in her eyes.

  Would their children have blue eyes and red hair?

  He stepped back and handed off the horses to the grooms. The mare flicked her tail at Charlie—she knew she’d won the race—but let herself be led down the path.

  “We’ll stay in view of the benches,” Colin said, winging his arm. “Or perhaps you’d like to sit for a moment?”

  “That bench,” Anwen nodded in the direction of the placid water sparkling in the morning sun. “Let’s take that bench, and I’ll tell you of my boys.”

  She knew the entire dozen by name, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their personalities, and some of their stories.

  Colin knew what it felt like to touch the nape of Anwen’s neck, which might explain why he stuffed his riding gloves into his pocket.

  “I worry most about the four oldest,” Anwen said when they’d been ensconced on the bench for fifteen minutes. “They are restless, and they need direction, not a constant round of birchings because they can’t sit still.”

  Colin was trying to listen to Anwen’s recitations, but the elegant curve of her cheek, the definition of her jawline, the hint of lace at her throat distracted him endlessly.

  The distraction was not unusual—he adored women on general principles—but his irritation with himself was. He wanted to attend her words, but he also wanted to brush his thumb over the exact arch of her russet eyebrows.

  “Your boys would be well suited to work in the mews or as footmen,” he said. “You say they need activity and those are busy jobs.”

  All boys needed activity, as did girls. Edana and Rhona were an asset to any cricket team and could drive a golf ball nearly as far as any of their brothers could.

  “What I say doesn’t matter,” Anwen replied softly. “I’m merely a member of the ladies’ committee, I’ve never raised a boy. I knit scarves by the hour, but that doesn’t deserve anybody’s notice.”

  She’d also taken off her
gloves and folded them finger-to-finger, then rolled them together.

  “Many a soldier would have kissed your feet in exchange for a warm scarf, madam. We can’t take in gentlemen boarders at the House of Urchins this season, but you could set the boys to doing some of the housework instead of lessons.”

  Anwen stared at the water as if expecting Triton to rise from its depths. “Hitchings won’t like that. He says they’re so far behind in their schooling, every spare moment must be spent with the books.”

  “Then Hitchings is an idiot who’s trying to make his own post seem more necessary than it is.”

  Colin had met such men all over the army. Self-important idlers who’d always found a way to be moving prisoners or carrying orders when battles were fought.

  Anwen offered Colin a sidelong glance that carried a hint of the girl who’d refused to die. The highlights in her hair were countless. Golden white, fiery brandy, copper sun—and those freckles. Exertion had made them more apparent, and brought the color to her cheeks.

  Portraitists would line up to paint her, and her smile…

  Colin looked away rather than study her mouth. Anwen Windham had a capacity for mischief and mayhem, whether she admitted it to herself or not.

  “I think Hitchings means well,” she said, “but all he knows how to do is teach. He lacks imagination, in the words of a wise gentleman. If we set the boys to some of the lighter jobs, we wouldn’t need to spend as much on domestics.”

  “True. Start with simple tasks—bringing up the coal, setting the table, footman’s work, and each boy gets an allowance if his tasks are done right and timely. If that goes well, then work in the stables and yard will be the reward for the boys who distinguish themselves.”

  Anwen unpinned her hat, or whatever the thing was. A toque, maybe. Her wild gallop had set it askew.

  “Grounds work is a reward? I thought house servants ranked above the outdoor servants?”

  Colin took her hat from her, examining the collection of pheasant feathers and silk roses that had probably cost a footman’s monthly wages.

  “I think we do best that which we enjoy most.” He enjoyed kissing and that which often followed kissing he enjoyed exceedingly. “If a boy is to spend his entire life at a job, it had better be a job that he has some aptitude for. Let the fellow with a passion for horses work in the mews, and the young man who delights in a perfectly starched cravat become a valet. It’s all honorable work.”

  He was being a Scottish commoner with that sentiment.

  “That’s sensible,” Anwen said. “Sense is what the orphanage needs. Not good intentions or idle talk. Common sense. What are you doing with my— Lord Colin?”

  He’d pitched the thing with feathers into the bushes five yards off, so it hung from an obliging branch of the nearest maple.

  “Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “The squirrels have no need of such fetching millinery, and the grooms are busy with the horses.”

  “Right,” Anwen said, rising. “Enough serious talk for now. I’m full of ideas and can’t wait to put them into action.”

  “Exactly so,” Colin said, leading her into the deep shade beneath the tree. “Time to put a few well-chosen ideas into action.”

  Also a few foolish ones.

  He made sure they were safe from view, drew the lady into his arms, and kissed her, as a snippet of her earlier words settled into his imagination. She’d claimed he’d given her hope.

  She’d given him hope too.

  * * *

  “We can’t find Anwen,” Elizabeth announced, Charlotte nodding vigorously at her side. “She’s not in bed, she’s not in the garden, she’s not in the mews.”

  “My dears, good morning,” Percival Windham, Duke of Moreland, replied. “Please do join me. Her Grace has abandoned me to break my fast in the dubious company of the newspaper, and that’s enough to turn any duke’s digestion sour.”

  He smiled his doting uncle smile—Esther said it was one of his best—and rose to hold chairs for a pair of worried nieces.

  “But we can’t find Anwen,” Charlotte said, refusing to be seated. “She’s gone, not in the house, not on the grounds. We checked the library, the music room, everywhere she might be, even the conservatory.”

  “You neglected to check Hyde Park,” Percival replied, patting the back of the chair. “The day is beautiful, and your cousin Devlin was without company for his morning ride. Anwen took pity on him.”

  God forbid these two should learn that Anwen had ridden out on her own initiative. Their feelings would be hurt, and they’d worry as only a Windham could worry about another family member.

  “Rosecroft took her riding?” Charlotte muttered, subsiding into her seat. “At this hour?”

  “You know how he is.” Elizabeth snapped a serviette across her lap. “When he rides, he rides. He’s not visiting, taking the air, or showing off his tailoring. Anwen wouldn’t expect him to be sociable. Pass the teapot, Charl.”

  Charlotte served herself first. Breakfast at Moreland House was enjoyed without servants in attendance, though maids and footmen waited by the kitchen bells should the toast run low or the tea grow cold.

  “How will Anwen keep up with Rosecroft? She’s nowhere near his caliber of equestrian.” Elizabeth poured out for herself, running short after half a cup. “Thank you once again, Charl.”

  Charlotte saluted with her tea. “If I’d known Anwen was up for an outing to the park, I might have joined her. Dawn is chilly this time of year, and it’s easy to overdo.”

  Easy to overdo the sibling concern too. “Charlotte, you insult your cousin,” Percival said. “His lordship would never allow Anwen to come to harm. The butter, please, before Bethan requires that I add to the dairy herd for want of same.”

  All of Tony and Gladys’s girls had good appetites—including Anwen. Only Percival referred to these young ladies by their childhood names, and Elizabeth—Bethan, once upon a time—glowered at him for his consideration.

  “Rosecroft is a dear,” she said, rising to give the bell pull a single tug. “But he’s Rosecroft. If his gelding starts going unevenly, Anwen could fall into the Long Water or be kidnapped by brigands, and Rosecroft wouldn’t notice. Who ate all the raspberry jam?”

  “Her Grace.” Abetted by Percival himself. “Did you two know the duchess is planning a charity card party?”

  “She’s what?” they asked in unison.

  Percival was permitted to share the news within the family, and the longer he kept this pair at the table, the more time Anwen would enjoy at liberty. The girl needed to get out more, and to somewhere besides that dreary orphanage.

  “A charity card party instead of our farewell soiree as the season nears its end,” Percival went on. “Her Grace has a kind heart, else she would never have married the undeserving soul you see before you. She’s—”

  “A handsome, undeserving soul,” Elizabeth interjected.

  “Who we’re told was an accomplished flirt,” Charlotte added.

  Lord Colin, who might well chance upon Anwen in the park, was also an accomplished flirt. Percival kept that observation to himself, lest two nieces bolt for the mews before he’d put his serviette down.

  “Windham menfolk are gallant,” Percival said, passing Elizabeth the butter, as the footman arrived with a fresh pat. “Thank you, Thomas. Have we any more raspberry jam?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll bring some up straightaway, and a fresh pot of tea.”

  “Compliments to Cook on the eggs,” Charlotte said. “Nobody gets them as light as she does.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so, Miss Charlotte. Do you need anything else from the kitchen?” Thomas was a handsome lad, as footmen were supposed to be. Tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and cheerful without being obsequious.

  “That will be all,” Percival said. “Be off with you, and don’t waste too much time flirting with the tweenie.”

  Thomas bowed and withdrew in diplomatic silence.

>   “Her Grace has him in mind for the underbutler’s job at Morelands,” Percival said. “I think the poor tweenie will go into a permanent decline if young Thomas removes to Kent.” Better a decline than an untimely occasion of motherhood, in Esther’s opinion.

  “The tweenie is Evans,” Elizabeth said. “If I were allowed to set up my own establishment, I could provide employment for them both.”

  This again. Under protest, Percival had allowed his oldest daughter, Maggie, to have her own household when she’d turned thirty. Now the precedent had been set, and Elizabeth was determined on the same path.

  “Elizabeth, you’d leave us desolate should you defect to your own household,” Percival replied, “and don’t bother haranguing me on the topic because your parents must be involved in any discussion of such an arrangement. As your devoted uncle, I seek only to keep you safe and happy.”

  “Were you safe and happy wintering in Canada as a cavalry officer?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oddly enough, I was, for the most part, but if you continue along these contentious lines, my dears, I won’t tell of your aunt’s card party. I believe she’s making up the guest list while you bring acrimony to my breakfast table.”

  The sisters exchanged a look: Fall back and retreat. Perhaps they were hatching a plot to establish a spinster household together, which would break dear Tony’s heart.

  “You say the card party is to be in place of the farewell soiree?” Elizabeth asked. “Let me guess. This charity will benefit Anwen’s urchins, and next year Mayfair will see a half-dozen charity card parties every Friday evening.”

  Not a bad idea.

  “Charity card parties will have caught on by the little season,” Charlotte rejoined. “If we inspired the gentlemen’s clubs to set aside one table each for charity play, even one night a week, London would soon run out of urchins.”

  “You must suggest these ideas to your aunt,” Percival said. “You have the Windham genius for turning a situation to its best advantage. The Second Coming will arrive before the Church of England or my friends in Parliament address the issue of London’s poor children.”