Page 49 of Too Scot to Handle
“Fine notion,” Charlotte said, “and I’ll just take the rest of this one up to my room for safekeeping.”
Her tone was so like Her Grace’s that Anwen was provoked to giggling, Elizabeth followed suit, and Charlotte soon joined in.
Five minutes later, though, they were assembled at the front door, prepared to go calling.
* * *
The ride back to London did nothing to improve Colin’s mood. He’d been robbed, plain and simple, by a lot of indolent, arrogant English lordlings, and—damn them all to the bottom of Loch Ness—he hadn’t seen this betrayal coming.
He’d believed he was developing the right associations, more fool him.
Worse yet, in a few hours he’d be expected to don his dress kilt and go out socializing in company with his sisters. Probably not a fancy ball—those were preceded by bickering between Edana and Rhona, last-minute trips to the modiste, and the occasional slammed door—but a soiree, a musicale, or that worst torment ever devised by woman, the dinner party.
In every case, he’d be confronted with men who’d spent his coin without his permission. The urge to flee to Scotland, where a thief was a thief and a laird was a laird, nearly overwhelmed him.
And yet, the whole business with the misappropriated funds was Colin’s problem—not his family’s, not his commanding officer’s, his. A result of his bad judgment and no other’s.
If Colin spent the evening at home, his sisters would be without an escort, which meant he could not remain home if he valued his continued existence.
Every path before him was unappealing, and yet, he must go forward.
He handed Prince Charlie off to the grooms, charged across the garden, and prepared to storm the family parlor. Tonight he’d be home by midnight, come fire, flood, or French foot patrols.
Feminine voices sounded from the other side of the parlor door. Ronnie and Eddie were likely stirring a cauldron of gossip or deciding with which of their fourteen thousand friends he must stand up and in what order later in the week.
Colin swung open the door. “I don’t care which infernal waste of time ye think yer dragging me to this evening, I’m leaving at midnight with or without ye.”
Five female pairs of eyes turned to him. Five pairs was too many, and two of those eyes—a lovely blue pair—belonged to Anwen Windham.
Shite. Colin managed to not say that aloud, but only just. He was delighted to see her. The joy of beholding her coursed through him the way the fragrance of heather could grace even the dreariest of rainy afternoons.
He was not delighted to have made an arse of himself in the space of a single sentence.
“I beg everybody’s pardon. I am tired and out of sorts.” He bowed—even a complete dunderhead bowed before retreating—and headed for the door.
“Lord Colin, please don’t feel you must change your attire to accommodate company,” Anwen said. “We called late in the day and time has got away from us.”
The ladies had been conspiring. Their smiles and three open bottles of some potation confirmed it, as did Colin’s sense that he’d interrupted a strategy meeting of senior officers. And yet, he was loath to turn on his heel and give up a chance to spend time with Anwen.
They’d had a fair fight at the orphanage—his first with a woman other than Edana or Rhona—and he wanted to do a fair bit of making up with her.
“You should stay,” Rhona said. “We’re considering the guest list for Anwen’s card party. Who among your circle of acquaintances can stand to lose a substantial sum of money for a good cause?”
“A substantial sum?” Colin asked, because the fellows Win had introduced him to were for the most part younger sons on allowances or half-pay officers dangling after banker’s daughters.
“The substantial-er the better,” Miss Charlotte said. “The money is all for Anwen’s orphanage, you know.”
Her smile was a trifle lopsided.
“A very good cause,” Edana said, then hiccupped.
Rhona winked at Colin, or maybe she had something in her eye.
Anwen rose. “Lord Colin, let’s adjourn to the library, so I might make a list of the names you suggest. I’ll pass them along to Her Grace.”
“Fine idea,” Miss Elizabeth Windham said. “I am a firm believer in making lisht. Lists, rather.”
Rhona emitted a delicate burp.
