Page 69 of Too Scot to Handle
They had agreed to marry, and had become close, physically and otherwise. Anwen had assumed she’d end her social season with a wedding and a journey north to her new home. In his caresses and kisses and even his silence, Colin was asking a question:
Could Anwen travel hundreds of miles north on her wedding journey, making a new home with Colin in Scotland, when she knew the boys at the House of Urchins might soon have no home at all?
Chapter Thirteen
Before Colin started undoing his falls in the very garden, he broke off the kiss.
“I should be leaving, my dear. If I don’t see you tomorrow, you may be assured I’ll be at the card party. I’m prepared to lose a goodly sum, and I’ve secured a promise from no less person than Jonathan Tresham that he’ll do likewise.”
Tresham was a duke’s heir, and a cold, quiet fellow. Colin liked him for keeping his own counsel, though he suspected Tresham’s generosity toward orphans might be an effort to impress Mrs. Bellingham rather than a display of honest charity.
“I don’t want to talk about the card party,” Anwen said, taking Colin by the hand. “In fact, I refuse to air that topic further until after the occasion itself, and do you realize we’ve given no thought to our own wedding?”
Edana and Rhona had sworn that wedding preparations would distract Anwen from her anxiety over the orphanage.
Edana and Rhona had been wrong—thus far.
“I’ve been to a few weddings,” Colin said. “They’ve mostly been modest affairs. The couple speaks their vows, signs the documents, enjoys a fortifying meal with friends, and goes on their wedding journey. What did you have in mind?”
Anwen’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I’ve been more focused on the wedding night. Are you concerned that if the orphanage isn’t sorted out, I won’t want to join you in Scotland?”
Well, hell. “Should I be?”
Colin visually inspected the garden rather than see the hesitation in his intended’s eyes. His gaze fell on the curved back of a wrought-iron bench, which bowed like the top of a symmetric, stylized heart—or like a lady’s cleavage in a snug bodice.
Lately Colin had been seeing cleavage everywhere—in clouds, puddles, bowls of oranges, and most assuredly in his dreams. The center of a flower prompted even more erotic fancies, and he’d forbidden himself to even glance at Anwen’s lips.
“Colin, look at me.”
Not at her lips. He couldn’t risk that, but he could look into her eyes.
“No matter what happens with the orphanage,” she said, “I will marry you, and we will repair to Scotland. I care very much about the boys, but I have promised to marry you, and I keep my promises.”
Colin didn’t want his fiancée speaking her vows out of duty alone, and yet, that Anwen cared for the boys was important to him too.
“Anwen Windham, I promise you that whatever happens, I’ll find a decent situation for each of the twelve boys we have now. MacHugh the publisher can use a few more newsboys. MacHugh the saddle maker will take on an extra apprentice. We won’t turn your boys back out onto the street.”
Not even if MacHugh the distiller had to take the four oldest into his own household.
Anwen studied him for so long, Colin did take notice of the perfect, pink bow of her lips. He’d caught a glimpse of her nipples once by candlelight eleven days ago. They were nearly the same pink as her mouth, one shade more pale perhaps, and the areolae one shade paler than that.
“Colin MacHugh, you are having naughty thoughts.”
“Worshipful thoughts,” he said, stepping closer. “Wedding night thoughts.” He was having wedding night sensations too, directly behind his falls, at every damned hour of the day and night, especially if Anwen was in sight.
She tucked in closely enough that she had to be aware of his arousal. For him, desire had become a constant low hum, like honeybees in a flower garden, droning on and on, never satisfied.
This was different from the occasional flare of interest that in past years had had more to do with boredom and availability than any finer sentiments.
“I love you,” Anwen said. “I’m not sure when this happened. Maybe when you were lecturing the boys about the pleasures of swearing in French, or maybe the first time you kissed me. Maybe it keeps happening. When you stare down Win Montague in a meeting, I love you. When you make grooming a filthy pony an exercise in gentlemanly deportment, I love you. When you hold me, I love you. When you listen to me and take me into your confidence, I am so violently in love with you, I cannot find words to express my sentiments.”
Doves took wing in Colin’s heart, or something equally undignified. This was not the tolerant love of a sibling or the casual affection of extended family. This was passion, and a reassurance that he wasn’t the only member of this couple nearly mad with tender emotion.
“Anwen, you…I love you too.” Inadequate, considering the declarations she’d give him, so Colin tried again. “I will never betray the love you give me, or the trust you place in me. I’d sooner die than disappoint you.”
She sighed in his arms, and he was coming to know what each of her sighs meant. That one had been pleased but weary.
Colin scooped her up and carried her down a short laburnum alley, dipping at his knees so Anwen could open the door to the conservatory.
