Page 31 of Too Scot to Handle
“If you’re in love with Mrs. Bellingham, then doesn’t seeking your consolations under her very nose present something of a contradiction?”
“I’m flaunting my wares, making her jealous,” Win said, running a hand through blond hair and examining his teeth in the vanity mirror. “I’m not sure it’s working, but my mood benefits nonetheless, despite the cost to my exchequer.”
Win’s wares were soon entirely on display. Part of a gentleman’s morning might well be spent watching another fellow dress. To lounge about half-naked, swilling chocolate and coffee, being shaved and washed by a valet, could all become a social encounter for a young man and his closest friends.
The very same friends he’d probably spent the evening with, ridden in the park with, and met at entertainments—genteel and otherwise—available during the season.
Win’s valet had come along to shave him, brush his hair, and tie his neckcloth before Colin asked the question that had been plaguing him for three straight hours.
“Have you ever kissed a woman and meant it, Win?”
Win was experimenting with various angles to his top hat, admiring himself in a cheval mirror.
“Kissing is quite personal,” he said, tipping his hat up an inch. “I tend to avoid it, though on occasion, I make exceptions. I’ve kissed Mrs. Bellingham’s hand, for example. Truly kissed her hand, like the daring rogue I wish she’d take me for. What do you think, left or right?”
For pity’s sake. “Right,” Colin said. “Bit more dashing. Everybody’s hat slouches off to the left, because most fellows are right-handed.”
“Good point. I tend not to do much kissing unless I’m drunk. Have you been kissing somebody I should know about?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Colin had known that before he’d turned twelve years old.
“No matter, Rosalyn tells me everything, even when I wish she wouldn’t. You’re brother to a duke, so I’m sure your liberties will be well tolerated, just don’t— Why are we expected to wear both rings and gloves? That has never made any sense to me.” Win tossed a ring from his smallest finger onto a tray on his vanity.
“I haven’t been kissing your sister.” Hadn’t even speculated about kissing Lady Rosalyn.
“Of course you haven’t, and that you’re willing to involve yourself in the same pointless charity she supports is purely a coincidence. Is the boutonniere too much?”
Win’s ensemble was a blue tailcoat, cream breeches, blindingly white linen, and a sapphire cravat pin. The proffered boutonniere was white rosebuds.
“It’s not enough,” Colin said. “Pink would be more interesting, or violet, or even red.”
Red was a very fine color. Memories of Anwen Windham’s rosy lips and her brilliant hair sent Colin into Win’s dressing closet, where he could examine the soles of his boots for dirt and grass.
The air in the dressing closet was heavy with lavender and bootblack. The only furniture was a cot upon which Win’s valet presumably dozed while waiting for Win to return from his evening revels. The cot had been made up, so rather than take a seat, Colin inspected his soles as best he could standing.
He used a handkerchief to wipe a smudge from the right boot. “How many suits do you own, Winthrop?”
“Haven’t a clue. You really think pink would add the right dash to this outfit? Cranston might be offended, though I suspect you’re right.”
Cranston being the valet.
“The ladies notice us when we take a little extra effort over our appearance,” Colin said, wondering if his hair needed a trim. Anwen had seemed to like mussing his hair.
“Have you given any more thought to taking my place at the House of Urchins?” Win called from the bedroom. “Or at least sitting in on a few meetings?”
Colin tucked his dirty handkerchief away and left the dressing closet, which had been as cramped and utilitarian as the bedroom was spacious and opulent.
“At some point, I must return to Scotland,” Colin said. “But until then, I will take a hand in the goings-on at the orphanage. Where are you off to?”
“The tailor’s,” Win said, shooting his cuffs. “You’ll come with me, I trust? I’m being fitted for a new pair of riding breeches. We’ll send out for some viands and port, round up Pointy and a few others, make a day of it?”
All of this sartorial splendor was to impress the tailor? Or perhaps to impress Mrs. Bellingham, should she chance to drive down Bond Street.
“I can’t join you today,” Colin said. “I’m behind on my correspondence, and the rest of the week will be busy.”
Win pitched his pretty white boutonniere into the ash bin. “You’re bored, aren’t you? You mentioned something about that. Sorry to impose the House of Urchins on you when you’re already dying of ennui. I don’t think the place will last much longer.”
Not if one of the boys was convicted as a cutpurse. “Why do you say that?”
