Page 108 of Too Scot to Handle
His peace gradually became Anwen’s to borrow, to lean on. When her tears came, he held her, and used her handkerchief to dry them.
“I’ve had some ideas,” he said. “I’d like to discuss them with you, and if you approve, we can take them up with the boys and Hitchings. First, though, I’d like to take you home.”
Anwen’s sisters, and her aunt and uncle would expect a full accounting from her and from Colin. She understood better where their concern came from, and with Colin at her side, would endure the questions with good grace.
“We need to tell the boys what’s afoot,” she said.
Colin stepped back, shot a look at the door, and regarded her. “I misspoke. Before I take you home, before we talk with the boys, there’s something else I’d like to do. Heaven knows when we’ll have privacy again, especially if you agree with my plans.”
That sounded interesting, and the smile Colin aimed at her was more interesting still.
“We need to set a date soon, Colin MacHugh. There’s a tradition in the Windham family of firstborns coming at seven months. We could find ourselves upholding that tradition.”
He kissed her with maddening sweetness. “A lovely tradition. I’m happy to do my part.”
Anwen fisted her hand in his hair and hiked a leg around his hips. “So am I.”
Epilogue
“The idea is Anwen’s,” Colin said. “She wasn’t content to allow Lady Rosalyn and Winthrop Montague to simply holiday in Italy when they’d behaved so badly. Has a fine sense of justice, does my Anwen.”
Moreland sent a creditable glower in Colin’s direction. “She is, and always will be, our Anwen. Just because you married her, don’t think you alone have the privilege of loving her.”
Sitting behind the massive library desk, surrounded by a wealth of books and expensive art, Moreland looked every inch the duke, just as he had during last week’s uncomfortable encounter at the orphanage. At yesterday’s wedding in the Moreland House conservatory, His Grace had looked ready to shed a sentimental tear.
“Thank you, Uncle Percival,” Anwen said. “I love you too. What do you think of my idea?”
Moreland was many things—patriarch, doting husband, and devoted uncle. He was also a wily parliamentarian who could produce votes for any worthy bill.
“A parliamentary committee to research the plight of the orphaned poor in London?” Moreland replied. “Any measure hinting of reform faces resistance, but with the Earl of Monthaven to chair the body, it should easily gain approval. Would you like me to approach him about it?”
“No need for you to bother, Uncle,” Anwen said. “He was in favor of the notion. I wanted to resent him, to hold him accountable for the actions of his children, but he struck me as a decent fellow.”
Colin had been skeptical of Anwen’s plan, and surprised when the earl had received them, but—true to Anwen’s instincts—his lordship had been relieved to be given a means of putting right what his children had nearly put wrong.
“So I suppose you’ll be leaving for Scotland soon?” Moreland asked. “What of the demolition plans for the House of Urchins?”
Colin had used every ounce of his charm, stubbornness, and commonsense to gain Anwen’s support for this decision, and then he’d had to convince the other directors, one of whom was now no less person than the ducal heir, the Earl of Westhaven.
“Demolition of the unused wing will begin next week,” Colin said. “Every brick, windowpane, door latch, and hinge will be sold. The funds resulting will be used to refurbish the remaining wing, hire a new headmaster, and enhance the endowment. The boys are set to foster in pairs with various MacHugh cousins here in London until the work is complete, though the four oldest will come north with us.”
Hitchings’s mysterious errands had apparently been necessitated by his courtship of a housekeeper in service two streets over from the orphanage. He and the new Mrs. Hitchings were off to a cottage in Cornwall, where he’d tutor the sons of gentry.
“You have all in hand,” Moreland said, looking a bit peevish to have no contribution to make to the plans. “I’ll wish you safe journey, and exhort you, Anwen, to write frequently. Your sisters will miss you sorely, as will your parents and cousins. And you, sir”—he came around the desk, hand extended—“get as much rest as you can. If my duchess’s predictions have any credibility, you’ll need it. Her Grace raised ten children and knows of what she speaks.”
As it turned out, the duchess’s prognostications were accurate, and while Colin and Anwen did not have ten children, what children they did have were red-haired and, in the opinion of their great-uncle, Windhams, the lot of them, despite a Scottish patronymic to the contrary.
Joseph evidenced a talent for music, having discovered that when singing, his stammer did not afflict him. He eventually toured the Continent as a baritone soloist, and caught the eye of a widowed German princess, by which time he’d lost his stammer—and his shyness.
Dickie became proprietor of a very exclusive tailor’s establishment, John a wealthy solicitor, and Tom—who apprenticed with MacHugh the publisher—a journalist, and then a publisher himself.
The House of Urchins—no longer the House of Wayward Urchins—thrived, in large part because its successful alumni supported it generously, and also because Lord Colin and Miss Anwen—she would always be Miss Anwen to the orphans—would have it no other way.