Page 3 of A Scot's Pride
“Be lavish with your gifts, and they will have no choice but to bat their eyes.” She nodded at him as if it would all be that easy.
Bryson grunted. “Have ye gifts in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s on another list.”
“I willna trouble ye for it, now, Auntie. But when the time comes, I could use the help.”
“My pleasure.” She pointed at his nearly full teacup. “Now, finish your tea and freshen up. Your first gathering is a garden party in just over an hour.”
Bryson managed not to groan, though he did grimace. He reached for a few of the jam biscuits to make himself feel better. “These jammies are delicious.” He ate about six of them, washed down with what had turned into liquid sugar, then did as his aunt had ordered and went to his room to freshen up.
A valet was waiting, even though in Scotland, he rarely used one. His usual attire was more suited to a ride on the moors than a walk through someone’s grand garden.
“The gray or the blue, my lord?” the valet asked, holding up two different jackets he didn’t remember bringing.
“I see Her Ladyship did me the honor of having a wardrobe commissioned,” he mumbled.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Too kind.” And too hilarious. Bryson shook his head once, then said, “Blue.”
“And her ladyship has advised for the time being that you refrain from wearing your kilt, sir.”
Bryson pressed his lips together, not wanting to scare the poor valet with what he wanted to say, and instead, he nodded with a regretful glance down at his kilt.
He had to remember that, besides his reputation, he also had to suppress his Scottishness, which would be distasteful to some.
Two hours later, his predictions came true on all fronts.
Bryson stood at the edge of the garden, his breeches a wee bit too snug in the wrong place, wishing his aunt had also added to her list events that included at least a few of his friends in town. He had plenty, seeing as how he had been schooled at Eton and Oxford. But from what he gathered, none of them were here.
Alone, he sipped a too-sweet punch, wishing it had been cut with some whisky.
He’d tried speaking to a few of the women. His aunt had made the introductions with a wink if they were on the list, but now she’d gone off to chatter with friends, and he’d tired of the questions.
“How far is your seat from London?”
“How many times a year do you come to London?”
“Is a Scottish winter cold?”
“What is Scottish society like?”
“Do you host many balls?”
“Is your castle drafty?”
And the one that annoyed him the most, as they giggled behind their hands and asked why he wasn’t wearing a kilt. He was tempted to tell them it was because his aunt had told him not to, but instead tried for humor, saying he didn’t want to terrorize them with his bare legs.
If his aunt didn’t end his misery soon, he’d have to abandon her, which wasn’t very nephew-like or gentlemanly, and she’d gone to all this trouble just for him.
Then, to his relief, she appeared, sauntering across a pebbled path with another young lady on her arm. He tried to smile but felt he was baring his teeth.
“There you are,” Aunt Bertie said, a little tilt in the corner of her mouth as she suppressed a knowing smile. “I’d like to introduce you to Miss Freya Grysham. My dear, this is my nephew, Bryson Mackenzie Fraser, Lord Lovat.”
The lady was dressed in a simple white dress with a pink ribbon at the waist, her dark curls done carefully, falling perfectly in the right spots to frame her face, and another pink ribbon threaded at her throat. There was no doubt she was gorgeous. But her name had not been on the list, and from how she narrowed her intelligent eyes at him, he had a feeling that she found him as distasteful as the rest did.
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