Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  The news got worse.

  As Anwen trailed Colin and Mr. Hitchings about the House of Urchins, she made a list. The windows in the unused wing hadn’t been glazed for some time, and thus rain had worked its way in and attacked the walls and sills.

  The ceilings in some rooms were also suffering water damage, or had at one time. Numerous stains were apparent, but how recently they’d developed was not clear.

  The lower floors, being more frequently heated, showed less damage from the damp, but they were far from presentable in the unused wing. The boys’ wing was in better repair, and the cellars closest to the kitchen’s heat looked mostly sound.

  As Colin and Mr. Hitchings had tramped from one floor to another, the smaller boys had followed them with worried gazes.

  “We don’t have this difficulty as much in Scotland,” Colin said as he settled beside Anwen on the seat of his phaeton. “We build with stone, and then haven’t enough wood for the moisture to get into. Our weather is cold enough that we keep fires going year ’round, whereas here, you often let the parlor fires go out in summer despite the damp.”

  Anwen longed to lay her head on his shoulder and wail, but that wouldn’t solve the problem.

  “Will Hitchings keep his mouth shut until after the card party?”

  A tiger rode behind them, which was a gesture on Colin’s part in the direction of greater propriety. Anwen suspected Colin was also taking a precaution against any “pranks” that might involve his vehicle and team.

  “Hitchings has become something of a puzzle,” Colin said as he gave the horses leave to walk on. “It’s as if when the boys began to apply themselves to their studies, Hitchings came unmoored from his birch rod and he’s been drifting since. Do you have any idea where he goes on his periodic jaunts up the alley?”

  “Ask the boys,” Anwen said. “They miss nothing, and they might have followed him from time to time.”

  She hoped the children were making fewer unscheduled outings, but they were boys. In many ways they were more self-sufficient in their minority than a proper lady would ever be, even should she attain widowhood.

  “You are a wee bit dispirited,” Colin said.

  “I’m despairing.” Anwen and her beloved were honest with each other. No reason to depart from that policy now. “The building is huge and full of problems—expensive problems—that somebody should have spotted before the orphanage was established there.”

  When Colin might have offered reassurances—the difficulties weren’t that great, the repairs weren’t that expensive—he remained silent, and that was honest enough. When he handed Anwen down in the Moreland mews, she pitched into him and wrapped her arms about him.

  “I don’t want to go into that house and be interrogated about the meeting’s agenda, what outlandish reticule Lady Rosalyn carried today, and whether heartsease or roses would make better centerpieces for the card party buffet.”

  Colin stroked a gloved hand over her hair. “You want to cry? I do, or get drunk. Home is a feeling in the heart, but it’s also a place, and for those boys to lose the place they live will upset them, even if we can establish the orphanage in new quarters. For too long, they’ve had nowhere to call their own and moving will be hard on them.”

  Anwen had been so muddled, so angry, she hadn’t figured out even that much. “You think we can move the orphanage?”

  As the grooms led the team away, Colin turned her under his arm and walked with her across the alley to the garden.

  “In some ways,” he said, “starting over elsewhere would be best. The old building is hard to heat, drafty, and badly laid out for the function it now serves. I gather the premises was once a grand townhouse, or several fine properties built together, and thus we have no connecting corridor between the two dormitories, no stairs from the classrooms to dining hall, and so forth.”

  “I never noticed that.”

  “I’ve stuck my nose in parts of the building you haven’t, and you notice the boys. They are what matter.”

  The Moreland House garden was lovely, as only a well-tended English garden could be, and yet the flowers and sunshine did little to cheer Anwen.

  “Maybe we should cancel the card party,” she said. “Maybe we ought not to be taking people’s money for a doomed endeavor. We can find places for the dozen boys we have. They weren’t supposed to spend the rest of their lives at the House of Urchins. I know that.”

  She also knew that without Colin at her side, she’d be upstairs in her bedroom, crying as quietly as she could.

  Colin drew her behind a lilac bush that hadn’t a single blossom. “Is that what you want to do? Admit defeat, care for the wounded as best you can, then retreat?”

  He draped his arms over her shoulders and kissed her. The touch of his lips was tenderness itself, as gentle as his inquiry. That he’d ask Anwen what she wanted meant worlds, and gave her the purchase she needed to consider her answer as she leaned into his embrace.

  “The building is ill, far gone, Colin, and bringing it back to health will mean resources are diverted to architectural matters that ought to go to the boys. Fixing that place up, even if we had the means, would involve all manner of disruption to the boys, as well as extra effort for somebody to supervise the project. I know you want to return to Scotland in a few weeks and the board of directors will do nothing without you wielding the birch rod.”

  “Interesting analogies—the illness and the birch rod. We don’t need to solve the entire problem today, though. We have some time.”

  In the circle of Colin’s arms, Anwen calmed. He was right. They had time to think—or to plan a different path for the boys. They had time to consider options.

  “The card party is Friday,” Anwen said. “I won’t have an opportunity to get back to the orphanage before then. Somebody should tell Winthrop Montague what Hitchings found. Mr. Montague is still the chairman of the board.”

  Colin kissed her again, more lingeringly. “He’s still a donkey’s arse too. I’m keen to leave London if for no other reason than to get away from him and his ilk.”

  In Colin’s embrace, Anwen found comfort. In his kisses, she found a reminder that this was the man she’d soon marry, and she hadn’t had nearly enough privacy with him since making that decision.

  “We had a note from Mama and Papa yesterday,” she said, sliding a hand around Colin’s hip. “They’ve begun their homeward journey.”

  “So have I,” Colin muttered.

  His kiss intensified, from the garden variety that might be quickly stolen behind the hedge, to the voracious, plundering passion that obliterated Anwen’s awareness of anything but him. His warmth, his strength, his heathery scent, his taste.

  “Mint,” Anwen said against his lips.

  “I prefer it to parsley.”

  For all the pleasure Colin’s kiss brought, all the reassurance and desire, Anwen also sensed a question in his touch.

  They had agreed to marry, and had become close, physically and otherwise. Anwen had assumed she’d end her social season with a wedding and a journey north to her new home. In his caresses and kisses and even his silence, Colin was asking a question:

  Could Anwen travel hundreds of miles north on her wedding journey, making a new home with Colin in Scotland, when she knew the boys at the House of Urchins might soon have no home at all?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before Colin started undoing his falls in the very garden, he broke off the kiss.

  “I should be leaving, my dear. If I don’t see you tomorrow, you may be assured I’ll be at the card party. I’m prepared to lose a goodly sum, and I’ve secured a promise from no less person than Jonathan Tresham that he’ll do likewise.”

  Tresham was a duke’s heir, and a cold, quiet fellow. Colin liked him for keeping his own counsel, though he suspected Tresham’s generosity toward orphans might be an effort to impress Mrs. Bellingham rather than a display of honest charity.

  “I don’t want
to talk about the card party,” Anwen said, taking Colin by the hand. “In fact, I refuse to air that topic further until after the occasion itself, and do you realize we’ve given no thought to our own wedding?”

  Edana and Rhona had sworn that wedding preparations would distract Anwen from her anxiety over the orphanage.

  Edana and Rhona had been wrong—thus far.

  “I’ve been to a few weddings,” Colin said. “They’ve mostly been modest affairs. The couple speaks their vows, signs the documents, enjoys a fortifying meal with friends, and goes on their wedding journey. What did you have in mind?”

  Anwen’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I’ve been more focused on the wedding night. Are you concerned that if the orphanage isn’t sorted out, I won’t want to join you in Scotland?”

  Well, hell. “Should I be?”

  Colin visually inspected the garden rather than see the hesitation in his intended’s eyes. His gaze fell on the curved back of a wrought-iron bench, which bowed like the top of a symmetric, stylized heart—or like a lady’s cleavage in a snug bodice.

  Lately Colin had been seeing cleavage everywhere—in clouds, puddles, bowls of oranges, and most assuredly in his dreams. The center of a flower prompted even more erotic fancies, and he’d forbidden himself to even glance at Anwen’s lips.

  “Colin, look at me.”

  Not at her lips. He couldn’t risk that, but he could look into her eyes.

  “No matter what happens with the orphanage,” she said, “I will marry you, and we will repair to Scotland. I care very much about the boys, but I have promised to marry you, and I keep my promises.”

  Colin didn’t want his fiancée speaking her vows out of duty alone, and yet, that Anwen cared for the boys was important to him too.

  “Anwen Windham, I promise you that whatever happens, I’ll find a decent situation for each of the twelve boys we have now. MacHugh the publisher can use a few more newsboys. MacHugh the saddle maker will take on an extra apprentice. We won’t turn your boys back out onto the street.”

  Not even if MacHugh the distiller had to take the four oldest into his own household.

  Anwen studied him for so long, Colin did take notice of the perfect, pink bow of her lips. He’d caught a glimpse of her nipples once by candlelight eleven days ago. They were nearly the same pink as her mouth, one shade more pale perhaps, and the areolae one shade paler than that.

  “Colin MacHugh, you are having naughty thoughts.”

  “Worshipful thoughts,” he said, stepping closer. “Wedding night thoughts.” He was having wedding night sensations too, directly behind his falls, at every damned hour of the day and night, especially if Anwen was in sight.

  She tucked in closely enough that she had to be aware of his arousal. For him, desire had become a constant low hum, like honeybees in a flower garden, droning on and on, never satisfied.

  This was different from the occasional flare of interest that in past years had had more to do with boredom and availability than any finer sentiments.

  “I love you,” Anwen said. “I’m not sure when this happened. Maybe when you were lecturing the boys about the pleasures of swearing in French, or maybe the first time you kissed me. Maybe it keeps happening. When you stare down Win Montague in a meeting, I love you. When you make grooming a filthy pony an exercise in gentlemanly deportment, I love you. When you hold me, I love you. When you listen to me and take me into your confidence, I am so violently in love with you, I cannot find words to express my sentiments.”

  Doves took wing in Colin’s heart, or something equally undignified. This was not the tolerant love of a sibling or the casual affection of extended family. This was passion, and a reassurance that he wasn’t the only member of this couple nearly mad with tender emotion.

  “Anwen, you…I love you too.” Inadequate, considering the declarations she’d give him, so Colin tried again. “I will never betray the love you give me, or the trust you place in me. I’d sooner die than disappoint you.”

  She sighed in his arms, and he was coming to know what each of her sighs meant. That one had been pleased but weary.

  Colin scooped her up and carried her down a short laburnum alley, dipping at his knees so Anwen could open the door to the conservatory.

  “I adore the scent of this place,” she said. “To me this is the fragrance of peace and privacy. Nobody has ever found me when I’ve sought sanctuary in here. I can read by the hour, or knit, or kiss you, and it’s as if this is my kingdom, safe from any outside disturbance.”

  “Ye should no’ be telling me that, my heart, not after what you said in the garden.”

  They hadn’t even set a date, much less dealt with settlements, announcements, or wedding plans, but Colin had purchased a special license, because surely, surely, they’d be married in the next six months.

  He settled Anwen onto a sofa tucked under the lemon tree and flanked by a pair of potted orange trees.

  “If you run off now, Colin MacHugh, I will hunt you down and kiss you within an inch of your wits.” She toed off her slippers and tucked her feet up beside her.

  Colin permitted himself one peek at her ankles, though it was a lengthy peek, as peeks went. Perhaps more of a longing glance.

  “You stole my wits three weeks ago, madam, and I haven’t seen them since.”

  She twitched at her skirts so a hint of pale ankle showed below her hem.

  Most women, especially in temperate weather, wore nothing beneath their skirts. That fact ricocheted around in Colin’s mind as he studied a bunch of violets overgrowing their pottery three feet away. Violets symbolized modesty, but the soft, tangled greenery put Colin in mind of other soft, tangled textures in shadowy locations he ached to revisit.

  “I kissed you within an inch of your wits three weeks ago?” Anwen asked. “Then what about last week, in the saddle room, and the week before, in the music room?”

  Those memories had sprung up aching eons ago, and were as close as Colin’s next daydream. He turned his back on Anwen, lest she notice that his breeches had developed an awkward fit.

  “Those were lovely occasions. I have a special license, you know, in case you’d like to be married right here, in your conservatory.”

  In the next five minutes would have suited Colin wonderfully.

  “That is a lovely, lovely thought. I’ve had a lovely thought too.”

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. The picture Anwen made on the sofa—another article of furniture designed to replicate female charms—was lovely, though with her feet bare, and one red curl brushing her shoulder, also erotic.

  A man who found clouds, puddles, and sofa backs a trial was a pathetic creature.

  “If your idea is about the card party,” Colin replied, plucking a lone violet, “you said we weren’t to speak of that for two days.” A fine idea. He wished he’d thought of it himself.

  “My lovely thought is this: We have not announced our engagement, though we certainly have an understanding in the eyes of my family. I’d like to consummate that engagement, Colin.”

  He had been dreaming of consummation for three straight weeks. He knelt before the sofa and tucked the violet into Anwen’s décolletage.

  “Couples do,” he said, brushing the errant curl behind her ear. “Couples who are in love. It’s not a step to be taken lightly.” Oh, that sounded quite rational, quite awfully stupid. “Shall we plan an outing to Richmond next week, a wander in the woods? You’ll notice I’m not capable of arguing with your suggestion.”

  She brushed a hand over his hair and Colin felt her caress in impossible places.

  “I notice we have privacy right here, right now, your lordship.”

  He settled his arms around her and laid his cheek against her hair. “Right here, right now.”

  Colin searched his motivations for selfishness and found some. He desired Anwen in every way a man desires a woman, physically, madly, passionately. Another emotion crowded close behind the pawing of the male
beast, though.

  He wanted to please her, to cherish her, to give himself to her, in the most intimate way a man could surrender himself to his beloved. On that thought he rose, locked all available doors, pulled down three shades, and tugged off his boots.

  He slipped the violet from Anwen’s bodice, set the flower aside, tossed a cushion onto the rug, and resumed his place on his knees before her.

  * * *

  “Inviting all the lads to that infernal charity card game when MacHugh knows the lot of us are pockets to let was the outside of too much,” Win declared.

  Rosalyn should not have insisted that Win take her to the modiste’s in his present mood, or perhaps—she liked this notion better—Win should not have been sulking when she had a new bonnet to pick up.

  The thought of that bonnet had cheered her through the interminable purgatory of today’s meeting at the orphanage.

  Lately, nothing appeared to cheer poor Winthrop.

  Rosalyn did so enjoy tooling about beside him in his phaeton, though. “You’re the chairman of the House of Urchins board of directors. You have to be at this party even if you aren’t my escort, which you most assuredly will be, Winthrop. What do you care if Twilly and Pointy lose a few more groats? They’ll come around when they get their quarterly allowances.”

  Rosalyn never got a quarterly allowance. She received pin money, which dear Papa hadn’t increased since her come out. Thank heavens she could sell last year’s wardrobe and otherwise contrive on her own.

  “You don’t understand, Rosalyn. MacHugh paid every last bill immediately, and that’s insult enough. He hasn’t complained, he hasn’t muttered, he hasn’t so much as grumbled. Now he’s rubbing all of our faces in his filthy lucre by insisting we turn out for this damned charity do. Even MacHugh grasps that one doesn’t refuse an invitation from the Duchess of Moreland.”

  Lord Colin hadn’t paid a call on Win or stood up with Rosalyn for the past month. She’d seen him turning down the room with Anwen Windham and her sisters, but that was to be expected, given the family connection.