Page 24 of Too Scot to Handle
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.”
