Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  “Rosecroft, are you daft?” Though if the earl was daft, he was cheerful with it.

  “I am in love,” he said, rising. “Meet me at Tatts tomorrow at nine.”

  Thank the winged cherubs. “It’s not a sale day.”

  “Only dandiprats and nincompoops buy from Tatts exclusively on sale days. Those are the horses they want to get rid of. The very best stock never goes on the block. What have you heard from your brother the duke?”

  Colin rose and dusted the cat hairs off his breeches. “Not much. He’s honeymooning with your cousin.”

  “Marital bliss takes a toll on a fellow’s correspondence. You’ll never get that cat hair off your breeches.”

  Colin flicked his lordship’s cravat. “You’re giving me fashion advice?”

  Rosecroft peered at the green stain adorning his linen. “Malcolm’s still learning his manners. Join me for an ale, and I’ll tell you what I know about surviving a courtship. Takes strategy and stamina, but a man fixes his eye on the prize and endures. I suspect a woman does too.”

  Colin could believe that. The other evening, he’d sent Anwen back to her sisters and locked the library door behind her, lest he go blind with thwarted desire. Five minutes later, he’d buttoned up, drained his flask, and rejoined the ladies in the parlor, though he’d taken care not to sit within six feet of Anwen.

  Rosecroft was deep into an analysis of the benefits of a special license—and halfway through a tankard of very fine summer ale—when Colin realized that Rosecroft had been right.

  Winthrop Montague was not Colin’s friend. Around Win, Colin had always felt subtly judged and wary of making a wrong move. Around Rosecroft, who shrugged at a stained cravat and admitted easily to being in love, Colin could relax.

  His instincts had been trying to warn him that Win’s crowd wasn’t where he belonged. Why had he ignored his own instincts, and should he heed them when they prompted him to find some way to even the score?

  * * *

  Megan, Duchess of Murdoch, passed the whisky glass back to her husband without taking a drink.

  “The scent is fruity,” she said, “in a good way. Oranges and limes, rather than lemons. An odd note of cedar too.” Her condition had made her palate and her nose extraordinarily sensitive, and her husband extraordinarily attentive.

  She’d also become extraordinarily eager to reciprocate his attentiveness, even for a newlywed Windham.

  “By God, you’re right,” Hamish muttered, taking a sip of the whisky. “I would have missed the cedar. Colin would have too.”

  As the days since the wedding had turned into weeks, Hamish mentioned Colin more and more. The three youngest MacHugh brothers were off enjoying Edinburgh’s social season, but they’d never served in battle beside Hamish, hadn’t stood with him at the front of St. George’s, hadn’t been his second on the field of honor.

  “Write to him,” Megan said. “Tell Colin you miss him, and that his business needs him.”

  “Bloody correspondence,” Hamish muttered, setting the glass down. “I don’t suppose a wee note could hurt.” He took a seat at Megan’s escritoire, a delicate Louis Quinze item of fanciful inlays, tiny drawers, and shiny brass fittings.

  Hamish should have made an incongruous picture seated there. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and far from handsome by London standards.

  They weren’t in London, though. Megan and her spouse were lazing away a morning in her private parlor, which she’d chosen because it had both south- and east-facing windows. While London townhouses favored fleur-de-lis and gilt, Hamish’s Perthshire estate tended more to exposed beams, plaid wool, and comfort. This parlor, however, was Megan’s domain, and thus the wallpaper was flocked, the desk French, and the carpet a vivid red, gold, and blue Axminster.

  The chair creaked as Hamish settled to his task. Megan took off her slippers, tucked her feet under her, and fought off a wave of drowsiness.

  “Are you having a wee nap, Meggie mine?” Hamish asked sometime later.

  She stretched and yawned, for indeed, she’d curled up on the sofa, and some considerate husband had draped his coat over her.

  “Is this my second or third nap today?” Megan asked.

  “Third, but it won’t be your last. May I read you this letter?”

  Hamish read to her frequently. Her eyesight was poor, and he sought to spare her visual effort. Megan indulged him, mostly because she loved to hear his voice.

  The note was chatty by Hamish’s standards, describing various weddings and birthings among the local gentry and tenants, and ending with a stern admonition to “mind the tailors don’t bankrupt you.”

  “A very fraternal letter,” Megan said as Hamish sprinkled sand over the page. “Might I add a line or two?”

  “I can write them for you, Meggie mine. Use wee words, though, for the sight of you asleep in the morning sun befuddles a mere Scottish duke. What would you like to say to our Colin?”

  Very little befuddled Hamish MacHugh. “I had a letter from Anwen yesterday.”

  Hamish stroked the goose quill with blunt fingers. Not a gentleman’s hands, but how Megan loved her husband’s touch.

  “What did Anwen have to say?”

  “She prosed on about her orphanage, which is in dire financial straits, and some card party that she hopes will rescue it. She mentioned that Colin has taken an interest in the orphanage.”

  Hamish folded his arms. Without his coat, Megan could see his biceps bunching and flexing. Her next nap would be in the ducal bed and would involve her husband’s intimate company.

  “Colin has about as much interest in orphans as I have in the quadrille, Meggie.”

  “Anwen would have me believe Colin’s doing his gentlemanly bit for charity.”

  Hamish rose and joined Megan on the sofa. He tucked a blanket over her lap and bare feet, which necessitated several near-caresses to her ankles.

  “Colin does plenty for charity,” Hamish said, shrugging back into his coat, “though mostly he supports wounded veterans who reported to him. He can’t ignore a situation that needs fixing, which is why he served much of his time as an artificer. Tinkering with temperamental stills is apparently fine training for keeping an army in good repair.”

  “My sister is not in want of repair.” Though Anwen was lonely, and as the youngest, she tended to be overlooked. Colin might notice that.

  And Anwen had definitely noticed Colin.

  “I think we should nudge Colin and Anwen in each other’s direction,” Megan said. “Encourage them.”

  “Meddle, you mean? Are you trying to make a Windham duke of me, Meggie? Moreland is doubtless keeping watch. If there’s matchmaking to be done, he’s the fellow to do it.”

  Hamish crossed to the desk and resumed writing without taking a seat.

  “Are you warning Colin about Moreland’s tendency to matchmake?”

  “I’m trying my hand at meddling. I’m a duke now, and mustn’t shirk my responsibilities.” He waved the paper gently and brought it to Megan along with one of her six pairs of spectacles.

  At the bottom of the page Hamish had added a postscript. “Get your handsome arse home where you belong, and don’t forget to bring Ronnie and Eddie with you. If you’re not back by Mid-Summer’s Day, I’m tapping the ’01.”

  “But I don’t want him hurrying home,” Megan said. “Anwen will never leave London if her orphans are imperiled, no matter how many times I invite her to visit.”

  “Done a bit of meddling yourself, have you, Duchess?” Hamish removed her spectacles and tucked them into his pocket, for they were the spare pair he always carried for her. “I know my brother. If I order Colin home, he’ll remain in London out of sheer contrariness.”

  Having been born a Windham, and having married a MacHugh, Megan had a fine appreciation for the contrary male.

  “I suspect you have the right of it, Hamish.”

  “Between the orphanage being in trouble, and a bit of high-handedness on my part, Colin wi
ll not budge from Mayfair until he’s good and ready to. Maybe by then, Anwen will have fixed whatever is ailing Colin.”

  Hamish followed up that observation with a kiss.

  As it happened, Megan’s fourth nap of the day did not take place in the ducal bedchamber, but rather in the duchess’s private parlor, after a thorough loving on the sofa.

  Her second of the day, and not her last.

  * * *

  Anwen’s life had acquired a sense of direction that combined getting the orphanage on sound financial footing with marrying Colin MacHugh. In the three weeks since he’d asked to court her, the board of directors had met weekly, and on the one occasion when they’d had a quorum, Colin had pushed through motions to acquire ponies, sell the coach and team, get estimates for fitting out a wing of rooms as gentlemen’s quarters, and advertise for an assistant headmaster competent in French, music, and drawing.

  Not to hire an assistant headmaster—Win Montague had bestirred himself to make that point—but to advertise and interview candidates.

  “You want me to ask other ladies for their spare yarn?” Lady Rosalyn said, when the directors had left the meeting room. Two other ladies on the committee had pleaded various excuses, though Anwen couldn’t be bothered to care.

  “Yes, I want you to ask your friends for their spare yarn.” Rosalyn had helped to teach the boys to knit, though Anwen detected a cooling of relations between Winthrop Montague and Colin. “Everybody has yarn they’ve set aside for a specific project, and then didn’t or couldn’t use. I want that yarn.”

  Lady Rosalyn blinked slowly, twice. “Then shouldn’t you ask them for it?”

  “I will ask my acquaintances, and you will ask yours, who are far more numerous than my own. Extra yarn just clutters up a workbasket, and the boys will put it to excellent use. And while you’re about it, please ask your friends to ask their friends, and I’ll do likewise.”

  Her ladyship’s pretty chin acquired an unbecomingly stubborn angle. “We have only twelve boys here, Anwen. How many scarves do you think they can wear? Are they knitting scarves for their ponies?”

  “Rosalyn, they are knitting the scarves to sell and to donate to other orphanages. The orphanage needs to earn money where it can, and even small hands can knit competently. Then too, the boys need to learn that giving ennobles the giver. Consider how something as minor as one of your smiles brightens a gentleman’s entire evening, and how you are gladdened to have cheered him.”

  As flattery went, that should be sufficient to make the point.

  Her ladyship wrinkled a nose about which poetry had been written, albeit bad poetry. “Charity is one thing, Anwen, but once coin is exchanged—you mentioned selling the scarves—the matter veers perilously close to trade.”

  Joseph tapped on the door. He still didn’t say much, but he was more animated, and time in the garden agreed with him.

  “Yes, Joseph?”

  He passed Anwen a note. “The ladies are invited to join me for an inspection of the garden. Lord Colin MacHugh.”

  “Is that a naughty note, Anwen Windham?” Rosalyn asked. “Your smile suggests you’ve received correspondence from a gentleman, and though I would never criticize a friend, even you must admit that certain lines, once crossed—”

  Anwen passed over the scrap of paper. “We have received an invitation, nothing more. Joseph, thank you. We’ll be down in five minutes.”

  Joseph bowed—the older boys were becoming quite mannerly—and withdrew.

  “I must confess that child makes me uneasy,” Rosalyn said. “I’m never certain what he comprehends.”

  “Joe is very bright.” Anwen rose and straightened the chairs around the table one by one. “I assume he understands anything said in plain English. I left my bonnet in the chairman’s office. Let’s fetch it and join his lordship in the garden.”

  Lady Rosalyn had assembled her reticule, pelisse, and parasol, but didn’t move until her gloves were on and smoothed free of wrinkles, and the most elaborately embroidered side of her enormous reticule was showing.

  “Am I presentable? One wishes a mirror were available, though encouraging the children in vanity would be unkind.”

  “You are far beyond presentable. You’ll put the flowers to shame.” Assuming her ladyship arrived in the garden before autumn.

  Lady Rosalyn moved at a decorous pace, as if giving all and sundry time to admire her. When she and Anwen arrived at the chairman’s office, she peered around, running her gloved fingers over the desk surface and lifting the lock on the strongbox.

  “Is there anything inside, or is this for show?”

  Anwen plunked her bonnet on her head—a comfy old straw hat that fit perfectly. “Colin says at least three months’ worth of coin should be on the premises at all times. Banks can be robbed, flooded, and burned to the ground, while Hitchings can haul that box out of the building in all but the most dire emergencies.”

  Rosalyn twiddled the lock’s tumblers. “So the exchequer yet contains three months’ worth of funding?”

  Barely. “It does. Has Win said something to the contrary?”

  “How does one open this? It looks quite secure.”

  “There’s a combination, probably under some candlestick or blotter. Win would know. Shall we be off?”

  Rosalyn had started to lift the candlesticks on the mantel, one by one. She reminded Anwen of a small child in new surroundings.

  “You referred to Lord Colin as Colin, Anwen. You seem quite friendly with him.”

  “His brother is married to my sister. I should hope we’re friendly. Do you know not a single invitation to the card party has sent regrets so far?”

  Rosalyn promenaded down the corridor, her arm linked with Anwen’s. “You fancy him, don’t you?”

  The last three weeks had been the happiest of Anwen’s life. Colin called almost every day, danced with her at least once at each social gathering, and had twice sent her a note that purported to deal with business at the orphanage.

  And on two magnificent occasions, they’d found the privacy to renew the intimacies Colin had introduced Anwen to in the library.

  “Would it create awkwardness if I said yes, I do fancy him?” Anwen congratulated herself on a diplomatic understatement, not only because her friend’s sensibilities should be spared, but also because Rosalyn could pitch a fit of pique like no other.

  Her ladyship stopped at the foot of the stairs. Beyond the doorway, the boys were lined up along the steps leading to the garden, and Anwen heard Colin holding forth about…slugs?

  “I had considered Lord Colin,” Rosalyn said. “He’s modestly good-looking, and his brother is a duke. His lordship owns a distillery, but I understand that’s not unusual in Scotland, rather like owning a mill in more civilized environs.”

  Rosalyn was serious, or as serious as she ever was.

  “Are you still considering him?”

  The moment became fraught as Anwen realized that she pitied Rosalyn. Her ladyship had no idea that Colin more or less tolerated her. True pity was not a comfortable emotion, including as it did the knowledge that nothing Rosalyn could do, promise, say, or become would render her more attractive to Anwen’s intended.

  Colin could not be tempted by Rosalyn, because he was Anwen’s.

  As Anwen was his.

  And Lady Rosalyn Montague of the beautiful perfection was in some way pathetic.

  “The red hair puts me off,” Rosalyn said, “meaning no insult to you, of course. If you married him, he couldn’t blame red-haired children exclusively on you.” She shot a glance toward the side door and leaned closer. “I think you should consider him. Your sister will bide in Scotland, and she might need the moral support. You’re inclined toward charity by nature, after all.”

  She patted Anwen’s arm, clearly pleased with having found a solution to the problem of Anwen’s red hair.

  “No need to thank me,” she said, swanning off toward the door. “I’m good at managing delicate subje
cts, and at least until your sister increases, you’ll be married to a duke’s heir. Let’s get this garden tour out of the way, shall we? Win is taking me to a musicale tonight, and one does want to dress carefully when most of the evening consists of sitting about, looking beautiful and gracious, hmm?”

  And hiding one’s general lack of usefulness, and the anger that likely engendered. Anwen suspected Rosalyn hid the frustration of being ornamental even from herself.

  “I’ll be along in a moment,” Anwen said. “I forgot my spare knitting needles.”

  Lady Rosalyn snapped open her parasol. “Don’t tarry, please. I’ve no wish to hear about noxious weeds and burrowing rodents. The company of small boys is trial enough for a lady’s delicate sensibilities.”

  As Rosalyn made her way out to the garden, Anwen scampered back up to the first landing, where she tried to decide whether she ought to laugh, ignore the entire exchange with Rosalyn, or say a prayer for the poor fellow her ladyship eventually married.

  Anwen did laugh quietly, and was still trying to compose herself into a semblance of ladylike decorum when Mr. Hitchings passed her on the landing five minutes later.

  Chapter Twelve

  “She won’t know you’re keen on her if you’re always so serious-like,” Tom said, because clearly, Lord Colin was not the brightest of fellows when it came to the ladies.

  “Tom’s right,” Dickie said, sniffing at his fingers. He liked to brush them over the lavender bushes and then not wash his hands until supper. “Miss Anwen likes you. She says any question we have about manners that we don’t want to ask her, we’re to ask you because you are a very fine gentleman.”

  Lord Colin propped one boot on the upper step of the garden terrace and swatted at his toes with a handkerchief. He managed to look gentlemanly doing even that, which in Tom’s opinion was damned unfair.