Page 20 of Too Scot to Handle
“Oh.” She left off petting the horse. “My cousins, Lords Westhaven, Valentine, and Rosecroft, would surely be willing to—”
“I talk horses with Rosecroft, business with Westhaven, and music with Valentine, but Miss Anwen, they are married.” Moreover, they had become extended family, by virtue of Hamish’s marriage to Megan, and Colin didn’t want family at his elbow when he called on Mrs. Bellingham’s establishment.
Not that he had.
“About the House of Urchins,” Colin said. “If you’d rather I find another charity to polish my gentlemanly credentials with, I’ll ask Win where else I might—”
“Don’t ask Win. He’s the vice-chairman of our board of directors. His motives for involving you are not entirely disinterested.”
Winthrop Montague knew everybody, and more to the point, got along with everybody. Colin had relied on Montague to provide advice on everything from which clubs to join to how often to stop by Tatts, to which tailors were in fashion. So far that advice had been mostly sound.
Colin leaned nearer the coach. “I owe Win Montague, Anwen. If he invites me to take up a charitable cause, I’m inclined to do it.”
She wasn’t wearing a bonnet per se, more of a decoration in her hair. Silk flowers, pearls, feathers…Her nape was exposed, and Colin itched to take off his gloves and touch that soft skin.
With his tongue, God help him.
“Don’t take up a charitable cause simply to polish your gentlemanly halo,” Anwen shot back. “They are children, Lord Colin. I know you have a passing acquaintance with the species because at some point, you must have been one.”
Laughter came from the group on the other side of the coach, and Win gave Colin a slight wag of the head. Get back over here and join the party.
“You’re angry,” Colin said, fascinated with his own conclusion.
“I am frustrated, though now is not the time to air this topic.”
Had she also seen Win’s signal? “Do you ever hack out in the morning?”
“Lord Colin, you must give us your opinion!” Lady Rosalyn called. “We are debating the benefits of shade cast by the maple versus the oak, and Mr. Pettyfinger claims to favor the oak.”
“The maple lacks acorns,” Colin replied, tipping his hat to Pettyfinger, “and thus does not attract squirrels as readily as the oak. For quiet, the maple will do. If one wants the diversion of squirrels overhead, the oak will oblige.”
Montague clapped, joined by several other fellows who’d flocked to Lady Rosalyn’s side of the coach.
“I can ride out tomorrow,” Anwen murmured. “At dawn, I’ll meet you at the foot of the Serpentine, weather permitting.”
Colin extended a hand toward the lady, which earned him a smirk from Pettyfinger. A gentleman did not presume to take a lady’s hand, but Miss Anwen offered him her gloved fingers, nonetheless.
“Until tomorrow,” Colin said, softly enough that only Anwen would hear.
He resumed his place at Montague’s side and let the laughter and inanities swirl about him. When Lady Rosalyn directed her coachman homeward, claiming a need to prepare for the evening’s entertainments, the other gentlemen melted away to flirt elsewhere.
“Shall we be off to Mrs. Bellingham’s?” Montague asked. “Her doors open at mid-afternoon, so a fellow can fortify himself for an evening of waltzing and looking harmless.”
Colin could see the nape of Anwen’s neck as Lady Rosalyn’s carriage wheeled toward a bend in the path. Maybe that’s why young ladies wore bonnets, to prevent presuming young men from—
“If you’re gazing adoringly after my sister like that in public,” Montague said, “then I think a visit to Mrs. Bellingham’s becomes mandatory. Speaking of which, you are joining the House of Urchins board of directors, aren’t you?”
“I’m considering it. I’ll not be accompanying you to Mrs. Bellingham’s.”
“What if we went later in the evening? Not good for the manly humors to get out of balance.”
Colin turned Prince Charlie back toward Park Lane. “A touch of the French disease is far worse for the manly humors than a bit of abstinence.”
Win tipped his hat to another wagonload of muslin, not a one of the ladies looking above seventeen years old, save the chaperone.
“Do you know how the Scots got a reputation for a dour disposition, MacHugh?”
By putting up with the English for neighbors. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
