Page 3 of Too Scot to Handle
“You should probably finish tidying up the chairs and desks,” she added. “I have always admired your insistence on order in the boys’ dormitories. What better place to set that example than in your own classroom?”
She made a grand exit, ignoring the birch rod tangling with her skirts. Not three yards down the corridor, she ran smack into Lord Colin MacHugh and nearly landed on her bum.
* * *
Colin MacHugh liked variety, and not only regarding the ladies. Army life had offered a version of variety—march today, make camp tomorrow, ride into battle the day after—and just enough predictability.
The rations had been bad, the weather foul at the worst times, and the battles tragic. Other than that, camaraderie had been a daily blessing, as had a sense of purpose. Besiege that town, get these orders forward to Wellington, repair the axle on the baggage wain, report the location of that French patrol.
Stay alive.
Life as a courtesy lord, by contrast, was tedious as hell.
Except where Anwen Windham was concerned. Her sister Megan had recently married Colin’s brother Hamish, and of all Colin’s newly acquired English in-laws, Anwen was the most intriguing.
She crashed into him with the force of a small Channel storm making landfall.
“Good day,” Colin said, steadying her with a hand on each arm. “Are you fleeing bandits, or perhaps late for an appointment with the modiste?”
She stepped back, skewering him with a glower. “I am deloping, Lord Colin. Leaving the field of honor without firing a lethal shot, despite all temptation to the contrary.”
The pistol of her indignation was still loaded, and Colin did not want it aimed at him. “Is that a birch rod you’re carrying?”
“Yes. Mr. Hitchings will doubtless notice it’s missing in the next fifteen minutes, for he can’t go longer than that without striking some hapless boy.”
They proceeded down the corridor, which though spotless, had only a threadbare runner on the floor. No art on the walls, not even a child’s drawing or a stitched Bible verse. The windows lacked curtains, and the sheer dreariness of the House of Urchins conjured memories of Colin’s years at public school.
“Sometimes a beating assuages a guilty conscience.” Colin had dabbled in the English vice, and had quickly grown bored with it. He was easily bored, and the idea that the boys in this orphanage had only beatings to enliven their existence made him want to exit the premises posthaste. “I don’t suppose you’ve come across Lady Rosalyn Montague? I was to meet her here for an outing in the park.”
Miss Anwen opened a window and pitched the birch rod to the cobbles below. The building had once been a grand residence, the back overlooking a mews across the alley. A side garden had gone mostly to bracken, but the address was in a decent neighborhood.
The birch rod clattered to the ground, startling a tabby feasting on a dead mouse outside the stables. The cat bolted, then came back for its unfinished meal and scampered off again.
“Lady Rosalyn has a megrim,” Miss Anwen said, “and could not attend the meeting. Her brother was not among the directors in attendance either.”
“It’s a pretty day,” Colin said, rather than admit that being stood up without notice irked the hell out of him. “Would you care to join me for a drive ’round the park?”
Colin knew better than to tour the park by himself. Far too many debutantes and matchmakers ran tame at the fashionable hour.
Anwen remained by the open window, making a wistful picture as the spring sunshine caught highlights in her red hair.
“I wish we could take the boys to the park. They get out so seldom and they’re boys.”
Long ago, Colin had been a boy, and not a very happy one. “Instead of punishing the miscreants with beatings, you should reward the good fellows with outings. For the space of a day at least, you’d see sainthood where deviltry reigned before.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Will you drive out with me?” Winthrop Montague had all but begged Colin to take Lady Rosalyn for a turn. Alas, a gentleman obliged his friends whenever possible, even when the requested favor was infernally boring. Lady Rosalyn Montague had a genius for prosing on about bonnets, parasols, and reticules until only the promise of strong drink preserved a man’s wits. No wonder Win wanted to get her off his hands.
An hour with Anwen would be a delight by comparison.
“I shall enjoy the air with you,” Miss Anwen said, taking Colin by the arm. “If I go back to Moreland House in my present mood, one of my sisters will ask if I’m well, and another will suggest I need a posset, and dear Aunt Esther will insist that I have a lie down, and then—I’m whining. My apologies.”
Miss Anwen was very pretty when she whined. “So you will join me because you need time to maneuver your deceptions into place?”
She shook free of his arm and stalked off toward the end of the corridor. “I am not deceptive, and insulting a lady is no way to inspire her to share your company.”
Colin caught up with her easily and bowed her through the door. “I beg your pardon for my blunt words—I’m new to this business of being a lord. Perhaps you maneuver your polite fictions into place.”
