Page 25 of Too Scot to Handle
“Right,” Anwen said, rising. “Enough serious talk for now. I’m full of ideas and can’t wait to put them into action.”
“Exactly so,” Colin said, leading her into the deep shade beneath the tree. “Time to put a few well-chosen ideas into action.”
Also a few foolish ones.
He made sure they were safe from view, drew the lady into his arms, and kissed her, as a snippet of her earlier words settled into his imagination. She’d claimed he’d given her hope.
She’d given him hope too.
* * *
“We can’t find Anwen,” Elizabeth announced, Charlotte nodding vigorously at her side. “She’s not in bed, she’s not in the garden, she’s not in the mews.”
“My dears, good morning,” Percival Windham, Duke of Moreland, replied. “Please do join me. Her Grace has abandoned me to break my fast in the dubious company of the newspaper, and that’s enough to turn any duke’s digestion sour.”
He smiled his doting uncle smile—Esther said it was one of his best—and rose to hold chairs for a pair of worried nieces.
“But we can’t find Anwen,” Charlotte said, refusing to be seated. “She’s gone, not in the house, not on the grounds. We checked the library, the music room, everywhere she might be, even the conservatory.”
“You neglected to check Hyde Park,” Percival replied, patting the back of the chair. “The day is beautiful, and your cousin Devlin was without company for his morning ride. Anwen took pity on him.”
God forbid these two should learn that Anwen had ridden out on her own initiative. Their feelings would be hurt, and they’d worry as only a Windham could worry about another family member.
“Rosecroft took her riding?” Charlotte muttered, subsiding into her seat. “At this hour?”
“You know how he is.” Elizabeth snapped a serviette across her lap. “When he rides, he rides. He’s not visiting, taking the air, or showing off his tailoring. Anwen wouldn’t expect him to be sociable. Pass the teapot, Charl.”
Charlotte served herself first. Breakfast at Moreland House was enjoyed without servants in attendance, though maids and footmen waited by the kitchen bells should the toast run low or the tea grow cold.
“How will Anwen keep up with Rosecroft? She’s nowhere near his caliber of equestrian.” Elizabeth poured out for herself, running short after half a cup. “Thank you once again, Charl.”
Charlotte saluted with her tea. “If I’d known Anwen was up for an outing to the park, I might have joined her. Dawn is chilly this time of year, and it’s easy to overdo.”
Easy to overdo the sibling concern too. “Charlotte, you insult your cousin,” Percival said. “His lordship would never allow Anwen to come to harm. The butter, please, before Bethan requires that I add to the dairy herd for want of same.”
All of Tony and Gladys’s girls had good appetites—including Anwen. Only Percival referred to these young ladies by their childhood names, and Elizabeth—Bethan, once upon a time—glowered at him for his consideration.
“Rosecroft is a dear,” she said, rising to give the bell pull a single tug. “But he’s Rosecroft. If his gelding starts going unevenly, Anwen could fall into the Long Water or be kidnapped by brigands, and Rosecroft wouldn’t notice. Who ate all the raspberry jam?”
“Her Grace.” Abetted by Percival himself. “Did you two know the duchess is planning a charity card party?”
“She’s what?” they asked in unison.
Percival was permitted to share the news within the family, and the longer he kept this pair at the table, the more time Anwen would enjoy at liberty. The girl needed to get out more, and to somewhere besides that dreary orphanage.
“A charity card party instead of our farewell soiree as the season nears its end,” Percival went on. “Her Grace has a kind heart, else she would never have married the undeserving soul you see before you. She’s—”
“A handsome, undeserving soul,” Elizabeth interjected.
“Who we’re told was an accomplished flirt,” Charlotte added.
Lord Colin, who might well chance upon Anwen in the park, was also an accomplished flirt. Percival kept that observation to himself, lest two nieces bolt for the mews before he’d put his serviette down.
“Windham menfolk are gallant,” Percival said, passing Elizabeth the butter, as the footman arrived with a fresh pat. “Thank you, Thomas. Have we any more raspberry jam?”
“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll bring some up straightaway, and a fresh pot of tea.”
“Compliments to Cook on the eggs,” Charlotte said. “Nobody gets them as light as she does.”
