Page 63 of Too Scot to Handle
“You referred to Lord Colin as Colin, Anwen. You seem quite friendly with him.”
“His brother is married to my sister. I should hope we’re friendly. Do you know not a single invitation to the card party has sent regrets so far?”
Rosalyn promenaded down the corridor, her arm linked with Anwen’s. “You fancy him, don’t you?”
The last three weeks had been the happiest of Anwen’s life. Colin called almost every day, danced with her at least once at each social gathering, and had twice sent her a note that purported to deal with business at the orphanage.
And on two magnificent occasions, they’d found the privacy to renew the intimacies Colin had introduced Anwen to in the library.
“Would it create awkwardness if I said yes, I do fancy him?” Anwen congratulated herself on a diplomatic understatement, not only because her friend’s sensibilities should be spared, but also because Rosalyn could pitch a fit of pique like no other.
Her ladyship stopped at the foot of the stairs. Beyond the doorway, the boys were lined up along the steps leading to the garden, and Anwen heard Colin holding forth about…slugs?
“I had considered Lord Colin,” Rosalyn said. “He’s modestly good-looking, and his brother is a duke. His lordship owns a distillery, but I understand that’s not unusual in Scotland, rather like owning a mill in more civilized environs.”
Rosalyn was serious, or as serious as she ever was.
“Are you still considering him?”
The moment became fraught as Anwen realized that she pitied Rosalyn. Her ladyship had no idea that Colin more or less tolerated her. True pity was not a comfortable emotion, including as it did the knowledge that nothing Rosalyn could do, promise, say, or become would render her more attractive to Anwen’s intended.
Colin could not be tempted by Rosalyn, because he was Anwen’s.
As Anwen was his.
And Lady Rosalyn Montague of the beautiful perfection was in some way pathetic.
“The red hair puts me off,” Rosalyn said, “meaning no insult to you, of course. If you married him, he couldn’t blame red-haired children exclusively on you.” She shot a glance toward the side door and leaned closer. “I think you should consider him. Your sister will bide in Scotland, and she might need the moral support. You’re inclined toward charity by nature, after all.”
She patted Anwen’s arm, clearly pleased with having found a solution to the problem of Anwen’s red hair.
“No need to thank me,” she said, swanning off toward the door. “I’m good at managing delicate subjects, and at least until your sister increases, you’ll be married to a duke’s heir. Let’s get this garden tour out of the way, shall we? Win is taking me to a musicale tonight, and one does want to dress carefully when most of the evening consists of sitting about, looking beautiful and gracious, hmm?”
And hiding one’s general lack of usefulness, and the anger that likely engendered. Anwen suspected Rosalyn hid the frustration of being ornamental even from herself.
“I’ll be along in a moment,” Anwen said. “I forgot my spare knitting needles.”
Lady Rosalyn snapped open her parasol. “Don’t tarry, please. I’ve no wish to hear about noxious weeds and burrowing rodents. The company of small boys is trial enough for a lady’s delicate sensibilities.”
As Rosalyn made her way out to the garden, Anwen scampered back up to the first landing, where she tried to decide whether she ought to laugh, ignore the entire exchange with Rosalyn, or say a prayer for the poor fellow her ladyship eventually married.
Anwen did laugh quietly, and was still trying to compose herself into a semblance of ladylike decorum when Mr. Hitchings passed her on the landing five minutes later.
Chapter Twelve
“She won’t know you’re keen on her if you’re always so serious-like,” Tom said, because clearly, Lord Colin was not the brightest of fellows when it came to the ladies.
“Tom’s right,” Dickie said, sniffing at his fingers. He liked to brush them over the lavender bushes and then not wash his hands until supper. “Miss Anwen likes you. She says any question we have about manners that we don’t want to ask her, we’re to ask you because you are a very fine gentleman.”
Lord Colin propped one boot on the upper step of the garden terrace and swatted at his toes with a handkerchief. He managed to look gentlemanly doing even that, which in Tom’s opinion was damned unfair.
“You lads are giving me advice on how to woo a lady?” his lordship asked, dusting off the second boot.
“Somebody had better,” John said. “When I brought in the lemonade for your meeting upstairs, you were acting like Miss Anwen wasn’t even sitting at the same table. You’re not supposed to ignore the girl you like. Only utter gudgeons and Methodists think like that. The ladies can ignore us, but not the other way ’round.”
Lord Colin straightened and put his handkerchief away.
Joe watched him, expression thoughtful. “Wrinkles.”
