Page 15 of A Scot's Pride
Freya frowned as she stared at her sister in front of them. “He is going to inherit everything.”
“Ah.” Bryson frowned, too. “It’s a shame that England has yet to figure a way around their inheritance laws. In Scotland, a woman can inherit.”
Freya sighed and nodded. “That is so very progressive. I wish they would, but you know how things are. Why would any man vote for change?”
“And yet it is no’ so difficult. Women have been able to inherit for centuries. I would vote for change.”
“Alas, England is behind the times. And silly, considering we have the same monarch.” She rolled her eyes.
“Entirely silly, I do agree.”
“Well, if you should have any daughters, then they will be glad not to have to be destitute, I should think.” She sucked in a breath, again revealing too much information and obviously regretting it.
Bryson narrowed his eyes. As he’d suspected, these ladies were after one thing—a hefty marriage that would keep them and their siblings and mother out of the poorhouse.
“What else do you like to do besides ride?” Bryson said, changing the subject, considering the bright red shade of her cheeks and his disturbing realization.
“A great many things, my lord. I love to draw and dance, but mostly I love to read. Sometimes I’ll read beneath a tree or on the beach and lose myself in the prose all day.”
Bryson cleared his throat, surprised they had one more thing in common. This wasn’t supposed to be the way this ride went. He was supposed to hate every minute, not be more invested.
6
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
If a bachelor asks to escort you on an outing in the park, take your parasol. A lady does not burn or tan. And heaven forbid you freckle!
Despite the steady way she sat her horse, Freya’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. From her calm exterior, no one would be able to imagine the cyclone going on inside her.
There had been true anguish for a flash of a second on Lord Lovat’s face when he said he’d lost his sister—whom everyone knew he’d sent to Canada. Did that mean she’d perished at sea? Although, from the rumors, Freya had assumed that Bryson’s sister was younger, not older.
Then there was the easy way they spoke and how he managed to pull things from her that she shouldn’t say. She was normally the very picture of discretion, yet in Bryson’s company, she felt so at odds with herself. Words and thoughts and feelings and revelations kept popping out of her mouth as if she didn’t have any control whatsoever.
No matter how many times she tried to reel herself back in, he somehow coaxed her into opening up too much again. There had never been another man, let alone one as unfamiliar with her as Lord Lovat, who produced such confounding results.
When she looked at him, and he met her gaze with those hard, full of pride eyes, she felt like she could shrink away. Though they’d known each other for very little time, he’d made her feel judged on at least half of the occasions. The other half of the time, she felt as if he were engaging with her—more out of interest than obligation.
Underneath the exterior layers of the man that left her seething, something drew her to him. Not in a romantic way—she wasn’t a glutton for punishment, though she had on more than one occasion found her eyes straying to his lips. But no, she would not admit to any such feelings of…warmth.
Besides, thinking about kissing wasn’t exactly what she’d call romanticism. That was something else entirely. Whatever the connection was that had taken root between them, it softened the parts of herself that she was supposed to keep hard. And that wouldn’t do.
But the nostalgic way he’d looked up the stairs at her sisters made her heart ache for the loss he must certainly feel. And the guilt, too, if she were to hazard a guess. To have lost a sister and be the cause, she couldn’t imagine that.
Still, she was confused by the rumors pinning his sister as younger, yet he’d clearly said he had an older sister.
Freya glanced at him, studying the angles of his face, the prominent brow, strong nose and distinctly square jaw. What had her sister and friends called him? Adonis… They weren’t far off.
She glanced down where he held the reins at his hands, covered in gray kidskin gloves. She wished she could see what they looked like. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands—whether he worked laboriously or spent his time penning letters or none of the above. By the scars on his fingers, you could see whether he was a fighter or not. And his nails, if they were kept trim, then he cared about his hygiene.
And too, by the gloves, and the way they molded to his long fingers, his wide palm, she could see he was strong.
What was he capable of with those hands? None of her interactions with him pointed to malice, not even his attitude. Perhaps the rumors of what he’d done to his sister were simply that—rumors.
She wanted to ask if he had more than one sister, but he’d clearly changed the subject, so the moment had passed, and she wasn’t about to bring it back. They hardly knew one another, and it was none of her business.
Freya was only on this ride because of Riley. Moral support and all that. She had to remember that. To stop studying his profile and his hands. To not look at how his trousers clung to his thigh muscles as he rode. Indeed, that was incredibly inappropriate for a woman in her standing.
“Do you read, my lord?”
