Page 27 of Too Scot to Handle
He’d listened to her maundering on about Tom, Joe, John, and Dickie. Listened and discussed the situation rather than pontificating about her pretty head, and he’d offered solutions.
He’d taken care that this kiss be private, and thus unhurried.
Anwen liked the unhurried part exceedingly. Lord Colin held her not as if she were frail and fragile, but as if she were too precious to let go. His arms were secure about her, and he’d tucked in close enough that she could revel in his contours—broad chest, flat belly, and hard, hard thighs, such as an accomplished equestrian would have.
Soft lips, though. Gentle, entreating, teasing…
Anwen teased him back, getting a taste of peppermint for her boldness, and then a taste of him.
“Great day in the morning,” he whispered, right at her ear. “I won’t be able to sit my horse if you do that again with your tongue.”
She did it again, and again, until the kiss involved his leg insinuated among the folds and froths of her riding habit, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, and her heart, beating faster than it had at the conclusion of their race.
“Ye must cease, wee Anwen,” Lord Colin said, resting his cheek against her temple. “We must cease, or I’ll have to cast myself into yonder water for the sake of my sanity.”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Anwen said, peering up at him. “I’d fish you out.” She contemplated dragging a sopping Lord Colin from the Serpentine, his clothes plastered to his body.…
He kissed her check. “Such a look you’re giving me. If ye’d slap me, I’d take it as a mercy.”
“I’d rather kiss you again.” And again and again and again. Anwen’s enthusiasm for that undertaking roared through her like a wild fire, bringing light, heat, and energy to every corner of her being.
“You are a bonfire in disguise,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “An ambush of a woman, and you have all of polite society thinking you’re the quiet one.” He studied her, his hair sticking up on one side. “Am I the only man who knows better, Anwen?”
She smoothed his hair down, delighting in its texture. Red hair had a mind of its own, and by the dawn’s light, his hair was very red.
“No, you are not the only one who knows better,” she replied, which had him looking off across the water, his gaze determined.
“I’m no’ the dallyin’ kind,” he said, taking Anwen’s hand and kissing it. “I was a soldier, and I’m fond of the ladies, but this is…you mustn’t toy with me.”
Everlasting celestial trumpets. “You think I could toy with you?”
“When you smile like that, you could break hearts, Miss Anwen Windham. A man wouldn’t see it coming, but then you’d swan off in a cloud of grace and dignity, and too late, he’d realize what he’d missed. He wouldn’t want to admit how foolish he’d been, but in his heart, he’d know: I should ne’er have let her get away. I should have done anything to stay by her side.”
I am a bonfire in disguise. “You are not the only one who knows my secret. I know better now too, Colin.” She went up on her toes and kissed him. “It’s our secret.”
A great sigh went out of him, and for a moment they remained in each other’s arms.
This embrace was lovely too, but different. Desire simmered through Anwen, along with glee, wonder, and not a little surprise—she was a bonfire—but also gratitude. Her disguise had fooled her entire family, and even begun to fool her, but Lord Colin had seen through all the manners and decorum to the flame burning at her center.
“I’ll guard your secret,” Colin said, “but if we don’t get back on our horses in the next five minutes, I’ll be guarding your secret as the late, lamented Lord Colin. Your cousins have a reputation for protectiveness.”
Anwen stepped back and plucked her millinery from the branch above. “We were looking for my hat, which was blown into the hedge as I galloped past.” Along with her wits, her heart, and her worries.
Most of her worries.
“Just so.” Lord Colin took her hat and led her past the bench and back to the bridle path. “Hat hunting, a venerable tradition among the smitten of an early morning in Hyde Park. That excuse will surely spare my life.”
By the time Rosecroft trotted up on a handsome bay, Anwen was back in the saddle, her skirts decorously arranged over her boots, her fascinator once again pinned to her hair. The grooms trundled along at the acceptable distance, and the first carriage had rolled by, the Duchess of Quimbey at the reins.
“Anwen,” Rosecroft said. “My apologies for losing track of the time. Denmark here was going a bit stiff to the right, so a few gymnastics were in order. Lord Colin, good morning.”
“My lord,” Colin said, bowing slightly from the saddle. “That’s a beautiful beast you have, and it’s a glorious day for enjoying nature’s splendors, isn’t it?”
Rosecroft’s mother had been Irish, and when he wasn’t being an overbearing big brother and meddlesome cousin, he claimed a portion of Gaelic charm. His smile was crooked, his pat on the horse’s shoulders genuinely affectionate.
“I’d rather be admiring nature’s splendor back up in the West Riding,” he said, “but I can report to my superior officers that today’s outing was in every way a success.”
He turned his smile on Lord Colin, who smiled right back.
