Page 80 of Too Scot to Handle
Were he not the son of a wealthy, titled Englishman, Montague would be a bedlamite.
But he was the son of a wealthy, titled Englishman, and enormously well connected in polite society. Until Colin—who was enormously without connections—had done proper reconnaissance, had at least a few hours’ sleep, and had thought the matter through, he’d keep his own furious counsel.
* * *
“You are the sole defendant of the sideboard this morning?” Anwen asked.
Elizabeth sat alone at one end of the breakfast table, and a trick of sunlight had turned all the highlights in her hair to molten gold. Sipping her tea, she looked like a cross between the English spinster in training and some fantastical creature from one of Mama’s Welsh fairy tales.
“I wanted to review the new invitations before Aunt got hold of them,” Elizabeth said, eyeing a stack of correspondence near her plate. “The house parties are already trying to wedge themselves onto the calendar.”
Soldiers probably volunteered to serve with a forlorn hope in the same brave, stoic tones.
Anwen pulled out the chair at Elizabeth’s elbow, because Elizabeth had taken the place at the foot of the table—the duchess’s seat—where the light was best at this hour.
“You could visit Megan in Scotland, Bethan. Charlotte would happily come with you.”
Elizabeth poured Anwen a cup of tea and set the toast rack before her. “I could visit you in Scotland, you mean? And Megs, of course. Your card party was a smashing success, Wennie, and all that remains is for Lord Colin to speak his vows with you.”
More bravery. Anwen was abruptly reminded that all might be coming right in her world, but Elizabeth and Charlotte would be left with not one younger sister married into a ducal family, but two.
“You might ask Megan about Perthshire’s lending libraries,” Anwen said. “If they are in anything less than excellent repair, you could put them to rights in no time.”
Elizabeth was passionate about lending libraries, of all things. Anwen had overheard Cousin Devlin remark that at least dear Bethan didn’t crusade for temperance.
Cousins could be idiots.
Elizabeth tidied the stack of letters. “Was this how you felt when all and sundry prescribed plasters and nostrums for you when you weren’t ill, Wennie?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t forget to sugar your tea,” Elizabeth said, setting the sugar bowl near Anwen’s teacup. “To be unmarried is not an illness, such that desperate measures must be taken to stop its course. The tipsy bachelors haven’t chased me through anybody’s gardens for a good two years, and if I’m patient, I will eventually have my own household.”
For the first time, Anwen heard not determination when Elizabeth spoke of her eventual independence, but more of the stoic bravery of the doomed infantryman.
“At least at the house parties,” Anwen replied, “the ladies and gentlemen are present in comparable numbers. I’ve kept up with many friends that way.”
One or two being many, some years.
“It could be worse. Nobody is throwing a house party for the sole purpose of getting me engaged. The Duke of Haverford’s sister is apparently to endure that indignity.”
Anwen applied a generous portion of butter to her toast. “I’ve wondered why Lady Glenys is yet unwed. She’s a decent sort. Not prone to cattiness or gossip, and not silly. I’ve heard another theory about Haverford’s house party.”
Colin had passed this speculation along.
“Do tell, because I’ll likely be forced to attend. Any pretext to journey into the wilds of Wales will meet with Mama’s approval.”
Most of Wales was wild, from what Anwen had seen of it. Also beautiful. “The gentlemen speculate that Haverford’s sister is throwing the house party in hopes that His Grace will find a bride. Mama would be ecstatic if you caught the attention of a Welsh duke, my dear.”
Anwen would be happy for her sister too. Elizabeth needn’t marry the fellow to enjoy what ducal attentions might do for her spirits, after all.
Elizabeth took a slice of cold, plain toast from the rack. “A duke is the last sort of husband I’d accept. I’ve seen what a duchess has to put up with—no privacy, no rest, very few real friends, one political dinner after another. I’d go mad.”
The right duke would be worth a little madness, so was the right Scottish lord.
“Do you know Haverford?”
“I cannot claim that honor. He votes his seat, I’m told, but other than that, he lurks in his castle. Why is it a man can lurk in his castle, but a lady isn’t permitted the same pleasure?”
