Page 46 of Too Scot to Handle

She’d amazed him again. Ladies didn’t kiss Captain Colin MacHugh and send him on his way. He kissed them and left them, usually smiling but not always.

Anwen had been in absolute earnest when she’d told him, in so many ladylike words, to either drop his accusations against the boys or take himself back to Scotland. She’d meant to send him packing, and he’d have had no choice but to go.

She’d been right too.

“Stand back,” Colin said, taking Win’s pistol from him. “I’ll pay the damned debts this time, but let your friends know that if this happens again, I’ll get up to a few pranks of my own, and they will not like the results.”

“Come now, MacHugh. There’s no need for drama. What could you possibly be planning, when none of the fellows have the—”

Colin took aim and fired all four barrels. The entire branch dropped amid a crash of clay and glass.

“I’ll think of an amusement that will give the lot of them nightmares, Win. I’m grateful you’ve been on hand to talk sense to me, and Pierpont and his cronies should be grateful too—very grateful.”

Colin passed the smoking pistols to the servants handle-first.

“These fellows are your friends too,” Win said. “Or they will be after this.”

“No, Win. They will not be my friends. Not ever.”

He left Win standing before his coach, sipping wine, while Colin climbed aboard Prince Charlie and headed back to Town at a smart canter.

Chapter Nine

All day, Anwen had waited for Lord Colin to call. She’d knitted, she’d embroidered, she’d tatted lace, and woven fancies by the hour, until Charlotte had asked if she was sickening for something.

“As it happens, I am sickening for something,” Anwen said, stuffing her embroidery hoop back in her workbasket.

Charlotte’s hand was already on the bell pull before Anwen could continue.

“I am dealing with a case of self-reproach,” she went on, getting up to pace. “The affliction is novel, at least in terms of severity.”

Charlotte’s hand drifted back to her side. “You addressed just as many invitations to the card party as we did. Why reproach yourself?”

“We thought you might have overdone, riding in the park earlier this week,” Elizabeth added. “Fatigue always puts me out of sorts, and the whole blasted season is an exercise in staying up too late, imbibing bad punch, and enduring the wandering hands of—”

Charlotte gave the bell pull a tug. “I did fancy the hock Uncle sent to the library. I’m in the mood for raspberry cordial, as it happens.”

Two years ago, for the ladies to order their own bottle of cordial during daylight hours would have caused somebody to notify the duchess. Two months ago, eyebrows would have been raised belowstairs at least.

“Tell us about this self-reproach,” Elizabeth said, patting the cushion beside her.

Anwen ignored the invitation to perch beside her sister. If anything, she wanted another headlong gallop down a bridle path.

“I’ve considered Lord Colin just another handsome face,” she said. “I thought he was charming, a good dancer.”

“He’s all of that,” Elizabeth said, going to the door when a soft tap sounded. She instructed the footman regarding the cordial and closed the door. “He’s quite dashing in his kilt, a man of means, and from a titled family. I like him, to the extent I know him.”

“Do you see what I mean?” Anwen asked, stopping before a bust of Plato sitting on a windowsill. “We do it too.”

“Do what?” Charlotte asked. “Wennie, did you skip luncheon?”

“She didn’t,” Elizabeth said. “She ate her soup, the fish, not much of the potatoes but then she never does, a serving of fruit tart—”

“Stop.”

“—and she had two servings of tea, but also some lemonade. Aunt prefers a very tart lemonade. Perhaps that didn’t agree—”

“You will both cease fretting over me this instant!” Anwen shouted.