Page 64 of Too Scot to Handle
“Because I didn’t fold my linen? Joseph, you will become a scientist, so closely do you monitor your environment.” Lord Colin withdrew the handkerchief, folded it so his initials were visible, and tucked it in his pocket. “Better?”
Joe smiled, something that had begun to happen about two weeks ago. The first time he’d smiled was when Dickie and John had got into a manure battle in the mews, horse droppings being ever so well suited to serving as missiles. Dickie had ducked behind the muck wagon, lost his footing, and nearly pitched into a day’s worth of manure.
“The ladies will join us in a few minutes,” Lord Colin said. “If any man has a suggestion for how I ought to improve my standing in Miss Anwen’s eyes, let him speak now.”
“He means, if we have advice so she’ll be sweet on him,” Tom said. “Joe, what do you think?”
Joe studied Lord Colin, who cut a murderous fine figure in his riding attire. He’d promised to teach them all how to drive the ponies, but first each boy had to learn how to hitch up and unhitch. John had figured it out on his own, but Tom never seemed to get all the straps and buckles right so John was trying to show him, step by step.
At Lord Colin’s request for advice, a smile started in Joe’s eyes, then caught at the corners of his mouth and spread over his whole face, like the smell of baking bread fills a house on a rainy day. He puckered up his lips and made a kissy sound, and got a good punch in the ribs from Dickie for his suggestion.
“Miss Anwen’s a lady,” Dickie cried. “You show some respect.”
Dickie was reminding everybody to show respect lately. He followed up his scold with a shove in John’s direction, and John, of course, shoved him back.
“I do respect Miss Anwen,” Lord Colin said, mussing Dickie’s hair, “and I would never presume on a lady’s person, but do you suppose she might be tempted to presume on mine? I would treasure her kisses.”
“She likes you,” Tom said, because this point had apparently not sunk into his lordship’s handsome skull. “And you’re an idiot if you don’t like her back.”
“Bring her flowers,” Dickie suggested. “Something that smells good, not like John.”
“Everybody brings the ladies flowers,” Tom scoffed. “Just like everybody pities orphans. Miss Anwen doesn’t just pity us and go on her way, she pays attention to us.”
“She taught us to knit,” John said. “Lady Rosalyn mostly scolded us for not knowing how.”
“Perhaps Miss Anwen would teach me to knit,” Lord Colin said.
Joe shook his head, which meant pounding some sense into his lordship was up to Tom.
“You can do the flowers and the flirting bit, just like everybody else, or you can pay attention to her. She likes you, she’s pretty, and she cares a lot more about us than Mr. Montague Moneybags does. If you want her respect, you make sure she has yours first. The kissing part can come later.”
“Tom will throw you in the honey cart if you hurt Miss Anwen’s feelings,” Dickie said. “John, Joe, and I will help him.”
Lord Colin’s smile faded. “Thank you, gentlemen, for sincere and wise advice, and a truly impressive threat. I like Miss Anwen exceedingly and esteem her greatly.”
Lord Colin might have had more to say, except the side door opened and a parasol appeared. When the hand on that parasol turned out to belong to Lady Rosayln, no Miss Anwen at her side, any fool could have figured out which lady his lordship was not sweet on.
Lady Rosalyn came down the steps, her parasol in one hand, her skirts clutched up in the other, as if good green grass was so much pony poop.
“Your lordship, I’m afraid this tour will have to be brief. Miss Anwen will be along directly, but I must soon take my leave of you.”
Her ladyship was beautiful, in a golden, perfect way, and she smelled good, and she acted as if four hardworking boys weren’t standing right there ready to show her where the kitchen spices grew, and where the Holland bulbs would go.
Those decisions had been made by committee, which meant Tom and the other boys had had jolly loud arguments over damned sunlight, sodding drainage, bloody soil quality, and other particulars.
Tom was considering wishing her ladyship a cheerful bloody damned good day, when Joe gave a slight shake of his head.
A gent never takes offense when a lady’s manners slip. Lord Colin had assured them on many occasions that gentlemanly manners were a matter of behavior not birth, so Tom considered himself a gentleman in training.
He wasn’t at all sure Miss Anwen’s pretty friend was a lady, though. He’d put that question to Lord Colin when Lady Rosalyn was no longer clinging to his lordship’s arm like manure stuck to the bottom of a fellow’s best Sunday boots.
* * *
Colin’s happiness had blossomed along with the garden at the orphanage. Between hard work, stock donated from the vast Moreland gardens, and the benign weather of an English spring, weeds and bracken had been replaced with flowers, herbs, and medicinals.
Chaos had been replaced not only with order, but also with beauty.
And in Colin’s life, warmth and hope had replaced duty and busyness. Hamish had sent along news from home, and almost admitted to missing Colin, but the pull of Perthshire was balanced by the satisfaction of progress at the orphanage.
