Page 25 of A Scot's Pride
Where had she gone?
“I have to wonder, my lord, if you’re going to pretend I don’t exist at all functions or just when I’m standing in front of you.” Freya’s melodic voice stroked over his shoulders, her words wrapping around him the way he wished to wrap around her.
He started to twist about at the sound of her voice.
“No, don’t turn around. You might see me, and it appears that you don’t talk to me if you see me.” The teasing lilt of her tone had his mouth falling open.
Had she guessed his plan? Did she know about the bet he’d made with Ashbury? Had her father overheard them in the club and told her?
Bryson narrowed his eyes. He doubted that. This, she had figured out all on her own. Why was she so clever?
Still, Bryson did as he was told and didn’t turn around. Because he had made a bet, after all, that bet had been that he wouldn’t look at her all night. Not that he couldn’t keep his back to her and speak.
“Ye have a lot of high and mighty ideas,” he murmured.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” she laughed softly. “But it sounds like an insult.”
“It means ye think highly of yourself.” He grinned into his whisky cup.
“Would you have a lady think lowly of herself?”
Not in a million years. “Nay.”
“Then what’s the problem, Lord Lovat? Besides, I wasn’t approaching you to brag about myself or talk about how amazing I am. I simply want to know what I’ve done to offend you.”
He wanted desperately to face her. To see the way her blue eyes twinkled. To take her hand in his and press his lips to her knuckles. “You’ve done nothing to offend.” His voice was genuine; he wanted her to know he spoke the truth.
“Lies do not become you, my lord.” He envisioned the curl of her lip as she peered right into his soul.
Bryson let out a sigh. “Ye are verra opinionated. Outspoken.”
“Ah, so you would like me to be more demure, is that it?”
He could practically taste the sarcasm in her tone and wondered how often she’d been told to be quiet, demure and unnoticeable. “I would not like ye to be anything, lass. I have no stake in how ye behave. Your mind is entirely your own.”
Though his back was to her, he could sense her stiffening. Hear the heady breath she sucked in.
“Since ye’re new to the London society scene, my lord, a word of advice. Perhaps a little less Highland blunt and a little more society manners.”
“Highland blunt? Society manners?” What had he done this time?
“You’re very opinionated. Outspoken.” She parroted his earlier words. “You may find yourself returning to Scotland without a bride because you’ve done nothing but stand there, looking down your noses at everyone.”
Bryson frowned. Why did it feel like this conversation had derailed from his original intent?
“I’ve done no such thing.”
She laughed, but the sound was derisive. The woman he’d come to know was back. “You are without a clue. It’s rather sad.”
“Excuse me?” He couldn’t help it. He rotated then, needing to look her in the eyes, but when did, she was gone, the back of her swishing away already through the crowd and heading outside.
Bryson watched her leave, the sway of her hips, the straightness of her shoulders. He had a feeling if she were to hold a more permanent place in his life, he’d constantly be in this state of confusion. And yet, he rather liked it. Liked her.
When she reached the doors to the patio and swept through, his feet started moving on their own. Bryson was annoyed at himself for caring about where she’d gone or what she’d said, but it was clear he’d offended her. And he wasn’t as clueless as she’d stated. He had said those things on purpose. Maybe not with the intent to hurt her, but to remind himself that he didn’t care.
Only it had backfired, and now he regretted everything he’d said.
Bryson started to march toward her to tell her… What? To apologize?
