Page 21 of Too Scot to Handle
“Of course, because I am your friend and your welfare concerns me utterly. The Scots are notorious among all races for a lack of cheer because they have become afflicted with too much religion and not enough sport.”
The conversation, however manly, struck Colin as ungentlemanly. “What would my responsibilities be, if I became a director on the House of Urchins board?”
Montague took out a flask, uncapped it, and tipped it to his mouth. “One attends the meetings, unless a handy excuse materializes. Old Derwent, as chairman, does the parliamentary bits, and Hitchings sees that the minutes are kept. You really ought to give it a go, MacHugh. If you take a seat on the board, then I can step back, having done my part to find a successor. Then too, should you ever stand for a seat in the Commons, charitable work along the way won’t hurt, dull though it is.”
Colin couldn’t see how any of the foregoing qualified as work. “So you’re asking me to replace you on the board?” The idea appealed, because it went beyond tagging along at Montague’s exquisitely tailored elbow.
“One isn’t expected to chain oneself to these projects in perpetuity. I’d hand you the reins eventually. I’ll be off to the house parties in July, the shooting in August. The little season requires a gentleman’s attention, hunt season comes along, the holidays, and then it’s back to Town.”
Montague’s attention was drawn to a gig driven by none other than Mrs. Bellingham. A house cat didn’t watch a caged nightingale any more closely than Winthrop Montague attended the stately brunette.
“You asked earlier why we had to make this outing,” Montague said. “There’s my reason, right there.”
Not a hint of banter infused his tone, and his gaze was solemn rather than adoring. The lady passed with the barest tip of her chin in Montague’s direction. His flask was back in his hand before the sound of her carriage wheels had faded.
“A very pretty reason,” Colin said.
“I haven’t the blunt to make that reason mine,” Montague said. “Such are the tribulations of a younger son, but I can worship from afar. Word in the clubs is she doesn’t tolerate advances from anything less than a duke.”
His gaze followed the retreating vehicle, and Mr. Jonathan Tresham—a duke’s heir—turned his horse to accompany her.
“I’m for home,” Colin said. “I’ve some correspondence to tend to before my sisters demand my company for the evening. Will I see you at the Pendleton musicale?”
Nobody approached Mrs. Bellingham’s vehicle as long as Tresham rode beside her. He was known to be infernally wealthy and of a surly disposition. A mastiff trotted at his horse’s heels, every bit of sixteen stone and much of that teeth.
“Win?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Pendleton’s, this evening. Violins, punch, sandwiches, a soprano or two?”
“Of course. Rosalyn will expect it of me. Until then.” He turned his horse to follow in the wake of Mrs. Bellingham and her escort.
Rather than watch Winthrop Montague worship from a distance of about ten yards, Colin steered Prince Charlie in the opposite direction.
Montague was in love with an ineligible parti, and all he could think to do in the face of that problem was drink, pine, and pretend not to care.
Maybe the lot of a society gentleman wasn’t so easy after all.
* * *
Anwen hadn’t dragged herself out of bed to ride in the park at dawn for at least two years. The last time she’d attempted to start her day with a hearty gallop, two sisters, three grooms, dear cousin Valentine, and the duchess herself had all mysteriously taken a notion to greet the morning in the same fashion.
What was the point of seeking the splendor of a solitary sunrise when half the family came along to prevent the ride from progressing any faster than a trot?
This morning Anwen had prevailed upon Lord Rosecroft for his escort. Cousin Devlin was so thoroughly enamored of horses that if Anwen asked him to go riding with her, he took that to mean athletic activity on the back of a horse, not an exchange of gossip at an idle walk.
The two grooms were several yards back from Anwen’s mare, while Cousin Devlin had a gallop beside the Serpentine and Anwen dawdled along, wondering if Lord Colin would oversleep.
“Halloo, Miss Anwen!”
“Lord Colin, where is your hat?”
He’d cantered in from the direction of St. James, his hair windblown, his cheeks ruddy. The picture he presented was altogether attractive, but the leap in Anwen’s heart was simply because he’d kept their appointment.
“My hat is sitting safely on the sideboard at home. I can’t tell you how many have gone sailing into the undergrowth when Prince Charlie gets to stretching his legs. Some urchin is always the richer for my folly because I can never find the deuced things when I come back to hunt for them. You look fetching in that shade of blue, Miss Anwen, especially when you start a fellow’s day with such a gorgeous smile.”
He was smiling too, his dimple shamelessly in evidence.
