Page 65 of Too Scot to Handle
And by Anwen’s kisses. Respect was all well and good—the boys were right about that—but Colin also treasured Anwen’s affection.
“You fellows should be ever so proud of this accomplishment,” she said, after she’d admired each plant and flowerbed. “You’ve reduced Cook’s market expenses, enhanced the appearance of your home, and created potential for income if we have flowers and herbs to spare. Job well done, gentlemen.”
Four notably clean faces beamed. Tom shoved Dickie, who kicked Tom’s foot, and all was right with Colin’s world.
Almost.
“I agree with Miss Anwen,” Colin said, snapping off a white climbing rose from a trellis the boys had woven of sticks. “Job very well done, and I must think of a way to reward the fellows responsible. I’m open to suggestions, so consider what would be appropriate.”
“A reward?” Dickie asked, scrunching up his nose. “Like for peaching on your mates?”
The boys occupied the garden’s lone bench, a simple plank affair that had probably been a tree when Duke William had paid a call from Normandy.
“A prize,” Anwen said, brushing Dickie’s mop of dark hair back from his brow. “Just like the prizes given out for writing the best essay, doing all the sums accurately in the shortest time, or having the neatest dormitory.”
Tom sat a little taller at the mention of yesterday’s sums contest. He’d earned an extra helping of pudding for his talents, which he’d given to the smallest boys, claiming to be too full to enjoy it.
Anwen was brimming with ideas for how to motivate the children with benefits and rewards rather than the birch rod. Old Hitchings had grudgingly reported an improvement in scholarship over the last month, even as funds had dwindled and board meetings had become exercises in futility.
“Lord Colin wants us to think of the prize we’d like best.” Tom frequently served as interpreter, whether for Joe’s silences or Anwen’s genteel flights.
Joe took the rose from Colin and held it out to Anwen. “H-home.”
The sight of the young boy, gaze hopeful, offering a single word to go with his blossom did queer things to Colin’s heart.
“He’s got that right,” John said. “We’d like for this place to stay open.”
“Aye,” Dickie said. “We’d manage, but the little ’uns would be up the chimneys and down the mines or worse.”
“That wee Walter’s too pretty by half,” John said.
“The orphanage has plenty of funds for the present,” Colin said, before John could expound on the risks a pretty boy faced in London’s underworld. “But I think four ponies might need their stalls set fair before luncheon.”
The day was lovely, and setting fair was a periodic excuse to get outside, away from the desks, lectures, and Latin. The boys were off the bench and down the garden path in the next instant, their farewells bellowed in Anwen’s direction as they scampered away.
Colin propped a hip on the stone wall and realized he was more or less alone with his lady love, but in the location least likely to afford them privacy.
“Two things bother me of late,” he said.
She plucked a sprig of mint and took a seat on the bench. “Your friendship with Mr. Montague has become strained.”
Colin didn’t dare sit beside her, because if he sat beside her, he’d want to take her hand, and if he took her hand, he’d have to kiss the sensitive spot on her wrist that smelled of lemon blossoms and memories.
“That is one bother. How did you know?”
“He’s testy. You make a motion, he lets the discussion go on so long that there’s no time to vote on it, and then he doesn’t bother to show up at the next meeting. You offer a quip, he can barely bring himself to smile. I’d hoped the whole business with the mischarged bills was behind you.”
“I paid the bills within the week. Moreland even complimented me on dealing promptly with my debts. I think that’s part of the problem.”
Anwen patted the bench beside her, clearly willing to hear whatever troubles Colin cared to share with her. This aspect of their courtship—the heart-to-heart friendship Anwen offered—pleased him even more than her passionate nature.
“Madam, I don’t dare sit beside you.”
She twined the mint around her white rose. “Whyever not? We’re in full view of half the neighborhood.”
“Because if I sit next to you, I’ll want to sit too close. If I sit too close, I’ll want to take your hand. If I take your hand, I’ll want to kiss your wrist, and if I kiss your wrist…”
She knew exactly where wrist-kissing could lead, because he’d shown her that destination an entire week of hot dreams and cold baths ago.
