Page 7 of A Scot's Pride
Or maybe not. A flick of his eyes toward the other women in the party told him Miss Freya’s sentiments were one-sided.
“Lord Lovat.” Her voice was a cool caress, as though someone had taken a piece of ice to his skin on a hot day. Sharp and yet pleasant at the same time. Then, pressing a delicate hand to her chest, drawing his eyes to the tapered fingers and the short, round, perfectly manicured nails. She smirked up at him, a tiny dimple appearing on her right cheek. “I’m Miss Freya Grysham, in case you forgot again.”
Damn, if she wasn’t as beautiful as she was sarcastic.
That drew in a few sharp breaths from her companions, her sister included. So, it would seem they were as shocked by her rude behavior as he might have been if he’d not met her before. But she didn’t seem to care at all what reaction others gave her.
Bryson didn’t miss a beat, his eyes locked on hers as he said, “I recall our previous encounter perfectly well, Miss Freya.” His gaze slid from her to her sister, then back again. “Might I introduce my friend, Lord Ashbury? And ye are?” Bryson turned his gaze onto the three other ladies who were quick to introduce themselves, all batting their eyelashes a thousand times. Perhaps they were not as prejudiced against him as it appeared Miss Freya was.
From the glances she gave her friends and sister, she was slightly shocked at their reaction to him. Well, good. She should know he wasn’t whatever offensive thing she thought he was. He was unsure why she had decided to dislike him so much. He’d thought it was because he was Scottish, but he had a feeling that had nothing to do with it.
“Well, we really must—” Miss Freya started, but he cut her off.
“Miss Grysham, Lord Ashbury would like to ask ye something.” Bryson glanced expectantly at his friend. If the two of them were going to be so quiet when there was an obvious attraction, at least Bryson could try to nudge his friend in the right direction.
Ashbury coughed slightly and stared wide-eyed at the young lady, who seemed intent on her slippers.
“Yes, Lord Ashbury?” she practically whispered, which earned her an elbow from Miss Freya.
Amazingly, that little jab did cause Miss Grysham to raise her eyes to meet Lord Ashbury’s, and Bryson was momentarily surprised to find that she seemed more shy than rude, perhaps as shy as his friend, but nothing like her sister.
“Would you care to take a walkabout?”
Her mouth fell open, and she didn’t appear to be able to draw in a breath.
“Or have another glass of lemonade?” Ashbury’s voice had risen a notch as his nerves kicked in.
Still, she didn’t answer.
It was Freya who let go of her sister’s arm and gave her a tiny shove in Ashbury’s direction. “She’d be delighted.”
“Yes, delighted,” the young lady finally managed to say as Ashbury offered his arm, and she took it with a trembling hand. The two of them walked away from the group, and for a split second, Bryson feared they’d separate and run in opposite directions.
“My goodness, that was painful,” Bryson mumbled under his breath, but from Miss Freya’s stinging look, she’d heard every syllable.
“Tell me, Lord Lovat,” one of her companions broke into Freya’s icy glare, “How do you find London compared to…where are you from?”
He grinned, a not-so-subtle inquiry to his property. They thought themselves so clever.
“I am from Scotland.” No need for him to divulge too much yet.
One of them laughed.
“Where in Scotland precisely?” Miss Freya asked.
“The Highlands.”
“Oh, you are teasing us,” said the redhead, tittering behind her hand.
“Perhaps I am. I reside in Aberdeenshire, Castle Fraser.”
“Oh, a castle.” The redhead was practically swooning now. What was her name? Was she on his list? He wouldn’t mind a wife who found him swoon-worthy.
“Aye, but not as grand as Buckingham or Kensington,” he chuckled. “’Tis more medieval than anything else.”
“Sounds romantic,” the redhead said, giving him a very interested look.
Bryson grinned at her, about to ask her if she’d like him to get her some punch when the bane of his garden party existence interrupted.
