Page 74 of Too Scot to Handle
He produced a handkerchief, rested his cheek against her thigh, and in a few strokes, spent his seed. While Anwen sprawled in a heap on the sofa, Colin’s breath warmed her leg, and green branches stirred minutely in the conservatory’s unseen breezes.
He patted her knee. “All right, then?”
Anwen stroked her fingers over his hair, the only place she could reach him without moving.
“I feel different.” Changed, exposed, enlightened, a trifle sore, but something lay beneath even those emotions.
Colin knelt up, righted his clothes, and joined her on the sofa, cuddling her against his side. “Tell me.”
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like I could conquer the world for you, after a good nap. Thank you, Anwen. Under Scottish law, we’d be married by now, and in my heart, we are.”
Oh, what a lovely man he was. “Mine too. Maybe that’s part of how I feel—married.”
“Is there more?”
This resting in each other’s arms, talking quietly, marveling together, was so precious, and yet, Anwen still had to hedge her bets.
“You won’t laugh?”
“I might laugh with you, never at you, at least not until we’re married.”
She smacked his arm. “I feel healthy.”
He kissed her temple. “How d’ye mean?”
“What we did was physical, vigorous, wonderful. I made love with you. As your wife, I’ll do that with you a lot, and bear your children, I hope. I feel ready for all of it, eager for it. I’m in excellent health and ready to enjoy being married to you.”
She was doing a poor job of explaining to him the sense of bodily joy that making love had brought her. Irrespective of rainbows and cuddling, she felt good in her bones, and glad to be alive in a way she hadn’t since early childhood.
That was her last waking thought, until Colin roused her from her nap by brushing a violet across her lips, and bidding her a reluctant and very affectionate farewell.
Chapter Fourteen
“Old Hooky’s to be at this damned card party?” Rudolph, Baron Twillinger cried—and he nearly was in tears. “Wellington himself? I could have pled a last-minute bilious stomach and sent along a few genteel shillings, but not if…Wellington, himself?”
Men who’d risk snubbing a duchess, even the Duchess of Moreland, could never treat the Duke of Wellington to the same slight.
“Can’t be helped,” Pierpont said. “If Wellington’s attending, we’re attending. I could call MacHugh out for this.”
“Why don’t you?” Twillinger countered, though he kept his voice down.
Win had tracked them to one of the more modest gentlemen’s establishments—one of the cheaper ones—and found them both swilling ale rather than port or brandy.
One always drank ale near the end of the quarter, though that was a good six weeks away.
“Dueling’s illegal,” Pierpont rejoined, nose in the air. “I am a father, and must think of my progeny when the demands of honor weigh heavily upon me. Wouldn’t do to make an orphan of the children so early in life. Not considering who they have for a mama.”
“No orphans, please,” Win said. “I cannot think of a drearier topic. Orphans are why we’ll all flirt with penury tomorrow evening.”
Though Twillinger’s new phaeton had to have cost a pretty penny.
“I’m not above passin’ a few farthings to the less fortunate,” Pierpont said, “but Colin MacHugh is a problem. Just because his flamin’ brother’s a duke all of a sudden doesn’t mean he’s good ton. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Hear, hear,” Twillinger said, rapping on the table as if they were in the corner pub. “The next time some presuming Scot is plucked from obscurity and given a lofty title, his whole family will expect vouchers from Almack’s delivered to their very doorstep. What is the world coming to?”
Pierpont licked the ale foam from his upper lip. “A bloody sad pass, I can tell you. ‘Scottish duke’ ought to be one of those what-do-you-call-’ems. Contradiction whatevers. I’m as titled as MacHugh is, and a damned sight better bred.”
