Hiding beneath demure manners and modest tailoring was a stunning young woman. Colin stood a touch too close to Anwen Windham, counting the shades of blue, gray, agate, and indigo in her eyes.
Would their children have blue eyes and red hair?
He stepped back and handed off the horses to the grooms. The mare flicked her tail at Charlie—she knew she’d won the race—but let herself be led down the path.
“We’ll stay in view of the benches,” Colin said, winging his arm. “Or perhaps you’d like to sit for a moment?”
“That bench,” Anwen nodded in the direction of the placid water sparkling in the morning sun. “Let’s take that bench, and I’ll tell you of my boys.”
She knew the entire dozen by name, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their personalities, and some of their stories.
Colin knew what it felt like to touch the nape of Anwen’s neck, which might explain why he stuffed his riding gloves into his pocket.
“I worry most about the four oldest,” Anwen said when they’d been ensconced on the bench for fifteen minutes. “They are restless, and they need direction, not a constant round of birchings because they can’t sit still.”
Colin was trying to listen to Anwen’s recitations, but the elegant curve of her cheek, the definition of her jawline, the hint of lace at her throat distracted him endlessly.
The distraction was not unusual—he adored women on general principles—but his irritation with himself was. He wanted to attend her words, but he also wanted to brush his thumb over the exact arch of her russet eyebrows.
“Your boys would be well suited to work in the mews or as footmen,” he said. “You say they need activity and those are busy jobs.”
All boys needed activity, as did girls. Edana and Rhona were an asset to any cricket team and could drive a golf ball nearly as far as any of their brothers could.
“What I say doesn’t matter,” Anwen replied softly. “I’m merely a member of the ladies’ committee, I’ve never raised a boy. I knit scarves by the hour, but that doesn’t deserve anybody’s notice.”
She’d also taken off her gloves and folded them finger-to-finger, then rolled them together.
“Many a soldier would have kissed your feet in exchange for a warm scarf, madam. We can’t take in gentlemen boarders at the House of Urchins this season, but you could set the boys to doing some of the housework instead of lessons.”
Anwen stared at the water as if expecting Triton to rise from its depths. “Hitchings won’t like that. He says they’re so far behind in their schooling, every spare moment must be spent with the books.”
“Then Hitchings is an idiot who’s trying to make his own post seem more necessary than it is.”
Colin had met such men all over the army. Self-important idlers who’d always found a way to be moving prisoners or carrying orders when battles were fought.
Anwen offered Colin a sidelong glance that carried a hint of the girl who’d refused to die. The highlights in her hair were countless. Golden white, fiery brandy, copper sun—and those freckles. Exertion had made them more apparent, and brought the color to her cheeks.
Portraitists would line up to paint her, and her smile…
Colin looked away rather than study her mouth. Anwen Windham had a capacity for mischief and mayhem, whether she admitted it to herself or not.
“I think Hitchings means well,” she said, “but all he knows how to do is teach. He lacks imagination, in the words of a wise gentleman. If we set the boys to some of the lighter jobs, we wouldn’t need to spend as much on domestics.”
“True. Start with simple tasks—bringing up the coal, setting the table, footman’s work, and each boy gets an allowance if his tasks are done right and timely. If that goes well, then work in the stables and yard will be the reward for the boys who distinguish themselves.”
Anwen unpinned her hat, or whatever the thing was. A toque, maybe. Her wild gallop had set it askew.
“Grounds work is a reward? I thought house servants ranked above the outdoor servants?”
Colin took her hat from her, examining the collection of pheasant feathers and silk roses that had probably cost a footman’s monthly wages.
“I think we do best that which we enjoy most.” He enjoyed kissing and that which often followed kissing he enjoyed exceedingly. “If a boy is to spend his entire life at a job, it had better be a job that he has some aptitude for. Let the fellow with a passion for horses work in the mews, and the young man who delights in a perfectly starched cravat become a valet. It’s all honorable work.”
He was being a Scottish commoner with that sentiment.
“That’s sensible,” Anwen said. “Sense is what the orphanage needs. Not good intentions or idle talk. Common sense. What are you doing with my— Lord Colin?”
He’d pitched the thing with feathers into the bushes five yards off, so it hung from an obliging branch of the nearest maple.
“Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “The squirrels have no need of such fetching millinery, and the grooms are busy with the horses.”
“Right,” Anwen said, rising. “Enough serious talk for now. I’m full of ideas and can’t wait to put them into action.”
“Exactly so,” Colin said, leading her into the deep shade beneath the tree. “Time to put a few well-chosen ideas into action.”
Also a few foolish ones.
He made sure they were safe from view, drew the lady into his arms, and kissed her, as a snippet of her earlier words settled into his imagination. She’d claimed he’d given her hope.
She’d given him hope too.
* * *
“We can’t find Anwen,” Elizabeth announced, Charlotte nodding vigorously at her side. “She’s not in bed, she’s not in the garden, she’s not in the mews.”
“My dears, good morning,” Percival Windham, Duke of Moreland, replied. “Please do join me. Her Grace has abandoned me to break my fast in the dubious company of the newspaper, and that’s enough to turn any duke’s digestion sour.”
He smiled his doting uncle smile—Esther said it was one of his best—and rose to hold chairs for a pair of worried nieces.
“But we can’t find Anwen,” Charlotte said, refusing to be seated. “She’s gone, not in the house, not on the grounds. We checked the library, the music room, everywhere she might be, even the conservatory.”
“You neglected to check Hyde Park,” Percival replied, patting the back of the chair. “The day is beautiful, and your cousin Devlin was without company for his morning ride. Anwen took pity on him.”
God forbid these two should learn that Anwen had ridden out on her own initiative. Their feelings would be hurt, and they’d worry as only a Windham could worry about another family member.
“Rosecroft took her riding?” Charlotte muttered, subsiding into her seat. “At this hour?”
“You know how he is.” Elizabeth snapped a serviette across her lap. “When he rides, he rides. He’s not visiting, taking the air, or showing off his tailoring. Anwen wouldn’t expect him to be sociable. Pass the teapot, Charl.”
Charlotte served herself first. Breakfast at Moreland House was enjoyed without servants in attendance, though maids and footmen waited by the kitchen bells should the toast run low or the tea grow cold.
“How will Anwen keep up with Rosecroft? She’s nowhere near his caliber of equestrian.” Elizabeth poured out for herself, running short after half a cup. “Thank you once again, Charl.”
Charlotte saluted with her tea. “If I’d known Anwen was up for an outing to the park, I might have joined her. Dawn is chilly this time of year, and it’s easy to overdo.”
Easy to overdo the sibling concern too. “Charlotte, you insult your cousin,” Percival said. “His lordship would never allow Anwen to come to harm. The butter, please, before Bethan requires that I add to the dairy herd for want of same.”
All of Tony and Gladys’s girls had good appetites—including Anwen. Only Percival referred to these young ladies by their childhood names, and Elizabeth—Bethan, once upon a time—glowered at him for his consideration.
“Rosecroft is a dear,” she said, rising to give the bell pull a single tug. “But he’s Rosecroft. If his gelding starts going unevenly, Anwen could fall into the Long Water or be kidnapped by brigands, and Rosecroft wouldn’t notice. Who ate all the raspberry jam?”
“Her Grace.” Abetted by Percival himself. “Did you two know the duchess is planning a charity card party?”
“She’s what?” they asked in unison.
Percival was permitted to share the news within the family, and the longer he kept this pair at the table, the more time Anwen would enjoy at liberty. The girl needed to get out more, and to somewhere besides that dreary orphanage.
“A charity card party instead of our farewell soiree as the season nears its end,” Percival went on. “Her Grace has a kind heart, else she would never have married the undeserving soul you see before you. She’s—”
“A handsome, undeserving soul,” Elizabeth interjected.
“Who we’re told was an accomplished flirt,” Charlotte added.
Lord Colin, who might well chance upon Anwen in the park, was also an accomplished flirt. Percival kept that observation to himself, lest two nieces bolt for the mews before he’d put his serviette down.
“Windham menfolk are gallant,” Percival said, passing Elizabeth the butter, as the footman arrived with a fresh pat. “Thank you, Thomas. Have we any more raspberry jam?”
“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll bring some up straightaway, and a fresh pot of tea.”
“Compliments to Cook on the eggs,” Charlotte said. “Nobody gets them as light as she does.”
“I’ll tell her you said so, Miss Charlotte. Do you need anything else from the kitchen?” Thomas was a handsome lad, as footmen were supposed to be. Tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and cheerful without being obsequious.
“That will be all,” Percival said. “Be off with you, and don’t waste too much time flirting with the tweenie.”
Thomas bowed and withdrew in diplomatic silence.
“Her Grace has him in mind for the underbutler’s job at Morelands,” Percival said. “I think the poor tweenie will go into a permanent decline if young Thomas removes to Kent.” Better a decline than an untimely occasion of motherhood, in Esther’s opinion.
“The tweenie is Evans,” Elizabeth said. “If I were allowed to set up my own establishment, I could provide employment for them both.”
This again. Under protest, Percival had allowed his oldest daughter, Maggie, to have her own household when she’d turned thirty. Now the precedent had been set, and Elizabeth was determined on the same path.
“Elizabeth, you’d leave us desolate should you defect to your own household,” Percival replied, “and don’t bother haranguing me on the topic because your parents must be involved in any discussion of such an arrangement. As your devoted uncle, I seek only to keep you safe and happy.”
“Were you safe and happy wintering in Canada as a cavalry officer?” Charlotte asked.
“Oddly enough, I was, for the most part, but if you continue along these contentious lines, my dears, I won’t tell of your aunt’s card party. I believe she’s making up the guest list while you bring acrimony to my breakfast table.”
The sisters exchanged a look: Fall back and retreat. Perhaps they were hatching a plot to establish a spinster household together, which would break dear Tony’s heart.
“You say the card party is to be in place of the farewell soiree?” Elizabeth asked. “Let me guess. This charity will benefit Anwen’s urchins, and next year Mayfair will see a half-dozen charity card parties every Friday evening.”
Not a bad idea.
“Charity card parties will have caught on by the little season,” Charlotte rejoined. “If we inspired the gentlemen’s clubs to set aside one table each for charity play, even one night a week, London would soon run out of urchins.”
“You must suggest these ideas to your aunt,” Percival said. “You have the Windham genius for turning a situation to its best advantage. The Second Coming will arrive before the Church of England or my friends in Parliament address the issue of London’s poor children.”
He’d got their attention, which was the point of the digression.
“I thought you were firmly in the Tory camp on this issue,” Elizabeth said. “Let the poor humbly accept the will of the Almighty or work to better themselves, that sort of thing.”
Percival humbly accepted the will of his duchess, on most matters. Let the Almighty bear the challenge of arguing Her Grace around, for only He was equal to the task when that good woman was convinced of her position.
“Those are reasonable, even kindly sentiments,” Percival said. “To inflict expectations on the lower orders that they have no way of realizing only damns them to greater disappointment.” Or so his cronies in the Lords would argue. “However, your aunt points out that your cousins Devlin and Maggie were born very much among the poor.” To Percival’s mistresses, before he’d met his dear duchess. “When transplanted to a household where abundant love, nourishment, and education were available, they thrived magnificently.”
The duchess, born to wealthy if common stock, had made those arguments in the privacy of the ducal apartment. In all honesty Percival couldn’t offer a suitable response from the Tory side of the aisle. His children—illegitimate and born into relative poverty—were now of the peerage, despite their maternal antecedents.
And Percival could not be more grateful.
While Charlotte and Elizabeth debated the divine right of kings like a pair of ambitious back benchers, Percival sipped his tea and pretended to read the paper.
He hoped Anwen had galloped over every acre of Hyde Park with some handsome gallant at her side. Rosecroft would of course be absorbed with schooling whatever mount he’d taken for the outing, but he was also a former intelligence officer.
Nothing would transpire in the park without Rosecroft to bear witness and report the goings on back to his papa. Nothing.
* * *
Nothing penetrated Anwen’s awareness except pleasure.
Pleasure, to be kissed by a man who wasn’t in a hurry, half-drunk, or pleased with himself for appropriating liberties from a woman taken unawares by his boldness.
Pleasure, to kiss Lord Colin back. To do more than stand still, enduring the fumblings of a misguided fortune hunter who hoped a display of his bumbling charms would result in a lifetime of security.
Pleasure, to feel lovely bodily stirrings as the sun rose, the birds sang, and the quiet of the park reverberated with the potential of a new, wonderful day.
And beneath those delightful, if predictable pleasures, yet more joy, unique to Anwen.
Lord Colin had bluntly pronounced her slight stature an advantage in the saddle—how marvelous!—and what a novel perspective.
He’d listened to her maundering on about Tom, Joe, John, and Dickie. Listened and discussed the situation rather than pontificating about her pretty head, and he’d offered solutions.
He’d taken care that this kiss be private, and thus unhurried.
Anwen liked the unhurried part exceedingly. Lord Colin held her not as if she were frail and fragile, but as if she were too precious to let go. His arms were secure about her, and he’d tucked in close enough that she could revel in his contours—broad chest, flat belly, and hard, hard thighs, such as an accomplished equestrian would have.
Soft lips, though. Gentle, entreating, teasing…
Anwen teased him back, getting a taste of peppermint for her boldness, and then a taste of him.
“Great day in the morning,” he whispered, right at her ear. “I won’t be able to sit my horse if you do that again with your tongue.”
She did it again, and again, until the kiss involved his leg insinuated among the folds and froths of her riding habit, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, and her heart, beating faster than it had at the conclusion of their race.
“Ye must cease, wee Anwen,” Lord Colin said, resting his cheek against her temple. “We must cease, or I’ll have to cast myself into yonder water for the sake of my sanity.”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Anwen said, peering up at him. “I’d fish you out.” She contemplated dragging a sopping Lord Colin from the Serpentine, his clothes plastered to his body.…
He kissed her check. “Such a look you’re giving me. If ye’d slap me, I’d take it as a mercy.”
“I’d rather kiss you again.” And again and again and again. Anwen’s enthusiasm for that undertaking roared through her like a wild fire, bringing light, heat, and energy to every corner of her being.
“You are a bonfire in disguise,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “An ambush of a woman, and you have all of polite society thinking you’re the quiet one.” He studied her, his hair sticking up on one side. “Am I the only man who knows better, Anwen?”
She smoothed his hair down, delighting in its texture. Red hair had a mind of its own, and by the dawn’s light, his hair was very red.
“No, you are not the only one who knows better,” she replied, which had him looking off across the water, his gaze determined.
“I’m no’ the dallyin’ kind,” he said, taking Anwen’s hand and kissing it. “I was a soldier, and I’m fond of the ladies, but this is…you mustn’t toy with me.”
Everlasting celestial trumpets. “You think I could toy with you?”
“When you smile like that, you could break hearts, Miss Anwen Windham. A man wouldn’t see it coming, but then you’d swan off in a cloud of grace and dignity, and too late, he’d realize what he’d missed. He wouldn’t want to admit how foolish he’d been, but in his heart, he’d know: I should ne’er have let her get away. I should have done anything to stay by her side.”
I am a bonfire in disguise. “You are not the only one who knows my secret. I know better now too, Colin.” She went up on her toes and kissed him. “It’s our secret.”
A great sigh went out of him, and for a moment they remained in each other’s arms.
This embrace was lovely too, but different. Desire simmered through Anwen, along with glee, wonder, and not a little surprise—she was a bonfire—but also gratitude. Her disguise had fooled her entire family, and even begun to fool her, but Lord Colin had seen through all the manners and decorum to the flame burning at her center.
“I’ll guard your secret,” Colin said, “but if we don’t get back on our horses in the next five minutes, I’ll be guarding your secret as the late, lamented Lord Colin. Your cousins have a reputation for protectiveness.”
Anwen stepped back and plucked her millinery from the branch above. “We were looking for my hat, which was blown into the hedge as I galloped past.” Along with her wits, her heart, and her worries.
Most of her worries.
“Just so.” Lord Colin took her hat and led her past the bench and back to the bridle path. “Hat hunting, a venerable tradition among the smitten of an early morning in Hyde Park. That excuse will surely spare my life.”
By the time Rosecroft trotted up on a handsome bay, Anwen was back in the saddle, her skirts decorously arranged over her boots, her fascinator once again pinned to her hair. The grooms trundled along at the acceptable distance, and the first carriage had rolled by, the Duchess of Quimbey at the reins.
“Anwen,” Rosecroft said. “My apologies for losing track of the time. Denmark here was going a bit stiff to the right, so a few gymnastics were in order. Lord Colin, good morning.”
“My lord,” Colin said, bowing slightly from the saddle. “That’s a beautiful beast you have, and it’s a glorious day for enjoying nature’s splendors, isn’t it?”
Rosecroft’s mother had been Irish, and when he wasn’t being an overbearing big brother and meddlesome cousin, he claimed a portion of Gaelic charm. His smile was crooked, his pat on the horse’s shoulders genuinely affectionate.
“I’d rather be admiring nature’s splendor back up in the West Riding,” he said, “but I can report to my superior officers that today’s outing was in every way a success.”
He turned his smile on Lord Colin, who smiled right back.
Anwen had been raised with four male cousins in addition to Rosecroft, and grasped that some sort of masculine communication was in progress, though a commotion closer to Park Lane caught her eye.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” Rosecroft said as a boy shot across the green at a dead run.
“Somebody’s mighty fleet of foot,” Lord Colin observed as a corpulent man pursued the boy, shouting words snatched away on the morning breeze.
“Somebody’s chasing my Johnnie,” Anwen retorted, driving her heel into her mare’s side and taking off at a gallop.