Page 5 of A Scot's Pride
His dark hair was longer than was fashionable, and he’d secured it with a thin leather strap at the base of his neck. Gray eyes, fringed with dark lashes, had met hers, and his full mouth had been of particular note, given the thinness of most of the bachelors’ mouths this season. But of course, why should she be thinking about kissing a stranger, especially one as rude as he was?
Oh, why did he have to ruin today for her? It was truly unfair that a mere few minutes had put a damper on her otherwise good mood.
“Well?” Riley urged, and the other ladies nodded, leaning in, practically on tiptoes to hear better.
“He is Scottish.” She said it as if it were a fault. And unbidden, her mind finished her thoughts. With excellent bone structure. A strong jaw and a defined brow. Cheekbones that arched in a way that made me think exactly of Adonis, as you mentioned Riley. Too bad he spoiled it all with his open-book expressions that made me feel like a pile of horse shi—
“I do love their brogues,” Lady Sarah Wimbledon said, with a little hand flapping to her forehead as if she would faint, pulling Freya from her head.
“I suppose if you like a brogue dripping with condescension.” Freya feigned indifference, even if it still smarted.
The ladies’ mouths fell open in shock, and they glanced from each other back to Freya.
“My goodness, but how could anyone so handsome be so unkind?” Lady Victoria Strachan said, a small pout on her lips.
Freya shrugged, then looked for her mother, who was certain to be wagging a disapproving finger at such an unladylike gesture. “It was peculiar, I admit.”
“Well, I heard Lady Daven’s nephew sent his sister away to live in Canada. Can you imagine him putting her on a ship right after their parents died doing the same thing as if he wanted her to suffer a similar fate?” This came from Lady Rebecca Smithton, who looked as if she’d witnessed the supposed sinking of the ship right in the center of the ballroom only moments ago.
How incredibly horrible.
Freya shook her head slowly and frowned as she took an offered lemonade from a passing footman. “Well, I am not at all surprised. In our very short interaction, he barely uttered a word, but his facial expressions said it all. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough. I’ll be surprised if anyone can stomach him besides his aunt.” There did seem to be a warm connection between the two that Freya found utterly confounding. He’d been sweet to his aunt. The complete opposite as he’d been with her.
“I wonder what he’s doing in town?” Rebecca mused.
“Besides repelling ladies?” Freya asked with a laugh and then rolled her eyes—another thing Mama would wag her finger at. “We didn’t get that far.”
“I dare you to go back,” Lady Sarah said, a wicked grin curling her mouth.
Freya scoffed. “Not in a million years.”
Her friends pouted as if they really did want her to humiliate herself all over again. This garden party certainly was boring if that was the entertainment they sought. “He practically questioned whether or not I knew how to ride a horse. As if any lady worth her salt doesn’t.”
The ladies laughed at that, but then Victoria said, “Well, the women in Scotland do often ride a little differently than we do here.”
“Is that so?” Freya asked, taking a sip of her lemonade. “How?”
Freya and her sisters had some Scottish roots, though who didn’t nowadays? There was no longer a family seat across the border, so she’d not had occasion to visit. But how different could horseback riding possibly be? Not enough that he would question her ability, she thought.
Victoria leaned in as if she were going to say something scandalous. “They straddle the horse. And sometimes ride bareback.”
The rest of them sucked in a shocked breath, covering their mouths as if Victoria had said they rode naked. And Freya, missing only a fraction of a second, followed suit with a glance at Riley, hoping her sister wouldn’t betray that she loved to ride that way when no one was looking—not nude, but bareback and astride. Riley pretended to be stunned by Victoria and didn’t reveal Freya’s secret at all.
“How very uncivilized.” Sarah frowned and sipped at her lemonade, eyeing Lord Lovat now as if he’d come to the garden party in muddy boots.
“Well,” Freya said, trying to turn the topic of conversation to something else. She did not want to hear one more word about Lord Lovat or re-live her embarrassing moments in his company. Even thinking about it brought a mild blush to her cheeks. “Who is going to Lady Alderley’s ball tomorrow night?”
That did the trick, and the ensuing conversations were about dresses, shoes, dances, music and which eligible bachelors would be in attendance. The Ladies’ Marriage Prospect Bulletin had been posting the eligible bachelors for weeks. So, of course, they gossiped about that as well, and who wanted dances from whom, and who was more handsome or had a snaggle-tooth. If their mothers heard them talking, they’d be apoplectic. The bulletin was a secret printing, and only the ladies of the season eligible for marriage received its publication thrice weekly in the post. Always addressed to them so no one else would open it.
The first time she’d received a letter, she’d been both intrigued and curious. Of course, her naughty nature stood out with something like that. But Riley had been mortified until Freya told her she had also gotten one and that her friends had too. Then they’d felt free to discuss it, whereas before, Riley had been certain someone thought to humiliate her by personally sending her the salacious pamphlet. They’d had many discussions on who the author could be, but alas, they’d not yet figured it out.
While the conversation was gripping, Freya found her eyes scrolling over the crowd in search of the tall, dark-haired, brooding Scot.
He’d not moved from the spot where he’d planted his feet as if they’d grown roots. But now his aunt had left him, and beside him was another man, and Lovat was…smiling and laughing.
Freya’s breath caught. She didn’t realize the man would know how to have a good time. And oh, how laughing and smiling changed his face. All the sourness evaporated and was replaced by something incredibly appealing.
“Is that Lord Ashbury with the Scot?” Freya asked, though what she wanted to ask was, how could the kind Ashbury be talking to that jerk? And making him laugh? My god, they seemed to know each other quite well and were enjoying each other’s company. How strange.
