Page 21 of A Scot's Pride
“Only one way to find out,” Bryson said. “Ask her.”
“I’m not ready yet. Perhaps a few more weeks.” Ashbury rubbed his stomach as if he were suddenly not feeling well at all.
“If ye must. But if ye notice anyone else trying to sweep in, dinna wait. From what we heard, the baron will likely push his daughters to make matches quickly. And she may be pressured into taking the first man that asks. And that man might be the estranged cousin everyone keeps going on about.”
Ashbury scowled. “I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen.”
“It’s all up to ye.”
Ashbury cocked his head, jutting his chin a wee bit. “You seem to have turned this entire conversation around on me.”
Bryson grinned. “What can I say? I’m good at deflecting.”
“Indeed. And I am eager to observe how well you fail tonight.”
Bryson laughed hard enough to have several heads turn in their direction. “I assure ye, there is one thing I’m bad at, and that’s failing.”
Ashbury smirked. “We’ll see.”
8
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
When speaking with a prospective beau, try not to make eye contact. No one likes a lady who looks them in the eyes. Demure, demure, demure.
If a woman couldn’t be the master of her mind, she would be lost forever at the whim of others.
And with that in mind, the first thing Freya did upon entering Lady Alderley’s ball was to make eye contact with everyone she came into contact with. The author of The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin would be ashamed of her. And maybe that was Freya’s goal. She despised the latest tip for young maidens. Looking people in the eyes was the best way to discern emotion, reactions, and honesty. It showed confidence and interest. Oh, Freya could go on all day about it. But instead, she decided to snub the advice and do as much staring as possible.
She glanced at Riley, who was being demure as if she were this season’s champion in modesty. Dressed in almost an identical gown as Freya in light blue to bring out the natural and vibrant tones of their youthful skin—at least, that was what their mother said. The only difference in their dresses was that Freya’s had butterflies embroidered in a subtle silver thread, and Riley had silver roses.
Even those two symbols woven into the fabric of their attire said a lot about their personalities. Riley was elegant, stoic like a rose. And Freya? Well, she fluttered from one rebellion to the next, distracting people with her “vibrant tones.”
“Do you see him anywhere, Riley?” Freya asked, searching the crowd for Lord Ashbury since her sister appeared too busy counting the striations on the marble floor.
“Not yet,” Riley said softly, her concentration on the floor growing sterner.
“Well, you won’t be able to if you keep your eyes on your slippers. Chin up, sister.” Freya’s words were strong, but her tone was soft, encouraging.
Riley flashed her a nervous smile, but at last, her face was visible, and her gaze flicked around the crowd.
Every minute of every waking hour since their ride in the park, Riley had been gushing about Lord Ashbury this and Lord Ashbury that.
Freya was glad for it because the rest of the household had been extremely somber. Father was grouchy and gruff, spending most days out of the house at his club and not speaking during dinner. Mother was sulking and suffering an attack of some sort, the symptoms of which changed hourly, and so she’d mostly taken to her bed.
There was no telling what had gotten Mother’s drawers in a twist. And Freya was too afraid to ask, as she was often the cause and asking would only mean hours, if not days, of lecturing on how she had once again disappointed her mother.
The third youngest of the Grysham family, Molly, took the moments of freedom away from their mother to bury herself in the library. This was a heavenly break from the rest of them having to listen, per Mother’s insistence, to her practicing the pianoforte with little improvement to her musical abilities. Sometimes Freya felt as though her ears were never going to cease ringing, and yet she hadn’t the heart to ask her sister to stop, knowing it would only hurt the poor dear’s feelings.
Leila, Freya was fairly certain, had stowed herself in the back of the carriage, and was right about now skulking about the ball. Freya had yet to spy her, but she never put it past her sister to do such a thing. Anyone who’d listened to her threatening to do so would be of the same opinion. Leila was dead set on attending this season’s social gatherings.
Freya hoped Leila would make an appearance so that she would have an excuse to leave early and take Leila home. Of course, if her sister were to do such a ridiculous thing, it would ruin all their reputations, and for Riley’s sake, she hoped that didn’t happen. Another conundrum.
Now the youngest of the five sisters, Grace, was in her happy place tonight, having convinced Cook to teach her how to make chocolate cake, and she would no doubt be eating the majority of it before they got home. The only reason there would be a slice waiting for Freya was that she’d threatened to tell their mother, who had forbidden Grace from eating sweets. Otherwise, the entire thing would be a memory with only the crumbs as evidence.
But when mother took “ill” to her bed with an attack of her nerves, they were all apt to do whatever they wanted. To feel the freedom of no longer being stifled.
Except for Freya. Because what she wanted was to be at home curled up with a good book, camped out with Molly, and devouring the library.
