Page 61 of Too Scot to Handle
“Third, but it won’t be your last. May I read you this letter?”
Hamish read to her frequently. Her eyesight was poor, and he sought to spare her visual effort. Megan indulged him, mostly because she loved to hear his voice.
The note was chatty by Hamish’s standards, describing various weddings and birthings among the local gentry and tenants, and ending with a stern admonition to “mind the tailors don’t bankrupt you.”
“A very fraternal letter,” Megan said as Hamish sprinkled sand over the page. “Might I add a line or two?”
“I can write them for you, Meggie mine. Use wee words, though, for the sight of you asleep in the morning sun befuddles a mere Scottish duke. What would you like to say to our Colin?”
Very little befuddled Hamish MacHugh. “I had a letter from Anwen yesterday.”
Hamish stroked the goose quill with blunt fingers. Not a gentleman’s hands, but how Megan loved her husband’s touch.
“What did Anwen have to say?”
“She prosed on about her orphanage, which is in dire financial straits, and some card party that she hopes will rescue it. She mentioned that Colin has taken an interest in the orphanage.”
Hamish folded his arms. Without his coat, Megan could see his biceps bunching and flexing. Her next nap would be in the ducal bed and would involve her husband’s intimate company.
“Colin has about as much interest in orphans as I have in the quadrille, Meggie.”
“Anwen would have me believe Colin’s doing his gentlemanly bit for charity.”
Hamish rose and joined Megan on the sofa. He tucked a blanket over her lap and bare feet, which necessitated several near-caresses to her ankles.
“Colin does plenty for charity,” Hamish said, shrugging back into his coat, “though mostly he supports wounded veterans who reported to him. He can’t ignore a situation that needs fixing, which is why he served much of his time as an artificer. Tinkering with temperamental stills is apparently fine training for keeping an army in good repair.”
“My sister is not in want of repair.” Though Anwen was lonely, and as the youngest, she tended to be overlooked. Colin might notice that.
And Anwen had definitely noticed Colin.
“I think we should nudge Colin and Anwen in each other’s direction,” Megan said. “Encourage them.”
“Meddle, you mean? Are you trying to make a Windham duke of me, Meggie? Moreland is doubtless keeping watch. If there’s matchmaking to be done, he’s the fellow to do it.”
Hamish crossed to the desk and resumed writing without taking a seat.
“Are you warning Colin about Moreland’s tendency to matchmake?”
“I’m trying my hand at meddling. I’m a duke now, and mustn’t shirk my responsibilities.” He waved the paper gently and brought it to Megan along with one of her six pairs of spectacles.
At the bottom of the page Hamish had added a postscript. “Get your handsome arse home where you belong, and don’t forget to bring Ronnie and Eddie with you. If you’re not back by Mid-Summer’s Day, I’m tapping the ’01.”
“But I don’t want him hurrying home,” Megan said. “Anwen will never leave London if her orphans are imperiled, no matter how many times I invite her to visit.”
“Done a bit of meddling yourself, have you, Duchess?” Hamish removed her spectacles and tucked them into his pocket, for they were the spare pair he always carried for her. “I know my brother. If I order Colin home, he’ll remain in London out of sheer contrariness.”
Having been born a Windham, and having married a MacHugh, Megan had a fine appreciation for the contrary male.
“I suspect you have the right of it, Hamish.”
“Between the orphanage being in trouble, and a bit of high-handedness on my part, Colin will not budge from Mayfair until he’s good and ready to. Maybe by then, Anwen will have fixed whatever is ailing Colin.”
Hamish followed up that observation with a kiss.
As it happened, Megan’s fourth nap of the day did not take place in the ducal bedchamber, but rather in the duchess’s private parlor, after a thorough loving on the sofa.
Her second of the day, and not her last.
