Page 24 of A Scot's Pride
Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood: 25,000 per annum. Several estates and castles in Scotland. House in Mayfair. House in Edinburgh.
Ballocks, but agreeing not to look at Miss Freya Grysham tonight was a lot damned harder than Bryson would have ever imagined.
For one thing, he’d looked at her plenty when she didn’t realize, and Ashbury’s back was turned, so his friend couldn’t ding him for it. She was stunning. The light blue of her gown accentuated the blue of her eyes and brought out a hint of red in her brown hair. Not to mention, he wasn’t interested in any other lady present. Was it because of what Ashbury had said? The challenge of it sticking more in his brain than anything else?
Perhaps.
But there was something else. Like a moth caught in a flame, he was drawn to her, wanted the sting of her quips and the burn of her gaze. Possibly it was a little melodramatic to admit he would light himself on fire for her. He swallowed a chuckle at the thought, but he was one swig of brandy away from drinking a whole bottle to forget her.
Rather than play a game of billiards with the gentlemen present, Bryson set up against the wall, his brandy in hand, slowly sipping as he watched the men around him—including Lord Grysham, who appeared about as miserable to be there as Bryson felt. Saints, but he could use a whisky. Brandy just wasn’t cutting it.
This was a bloody hard test, which was more than irritating.
Meanwhile, Ashbury had been more attentive to Miss Grysham than ever before, and the lady appeared to be breaking out of her shell as a result. The two of them might as well instantly declare themselves. Bryson caught the eye of Lord Grysham, who was sulking in the corner. The older gentleman nodded, then glanced away. He was the only one in the family giving off signs that not all was well. Though their mother wasn’t present tonight—typically, Lady Grysham stood in the center of a circle of women chattering as if she had to meet a syllable quota per minute.
Bryson couldn’t help the question he’d had in his mind for several days now: whether Riley’s intentions toward Lord Ashbury were of the heart or something more mercenary.
Perhaps his time would be better spent in the ballroom watching the Grysham girls, making certain his friend wasn’t being made a fool of. Bryson sauntered from the room, really in no hurry to be back in the loud chattering atmosphere of the ballroom.
As if his brain was already keen to place her, Bryson spotted Freya leaning against a wall, looking far too alone. Not only was she beautiful, but he knew her to be intelligent too. Far more than most of the women on the dancefloor being swung about.
He wanted to approach her, to break off the stupid bet with Ashbury, but what good would that do? He’d lose the bet, and also prove to his friend that he was more interested in Freya than he should be.
She wasn’t the woman he should marry. He’d never get a moment’s peace. Pursuing any conversation or flirtation with her was bound to hurt her and frustrate him.
“My lord.” Aunt Bertie’s voice pulled him from his sulking. “I’d like to introduce you to Lady Poppy Featherstone. She’s come all the way down from Edinburgh for the season.”
Bryson turned his attention to his aunt and the pretty young woman beside her—not mistaking her disinterest.
“My lady.” Bryson bowed as he was supposed to and kissed the air above her hand. She was indeed a striking woman and had a kind smile, but she kept flicking her gaze away as if she’d only come to meet him at his aunt’s behest and would rather be somewhere else. Then he saw where her gaze was concentrated.
Dougal MacKay.
Another of his friends from Eton—if one could call them friends. They’d been more like rivals on the rugby field, with the occasional admittance of the other having skill.
“Shall I make the introduction?” Bryan asked with a knowing smile in Lady Poppy’s direction.
Aunt Bertie gave him a look that said he was supposed to be keeping this one for himself. While he did recognize her name from the list, and she was quite pretty, she wasn’t Freya.
My god, maybe he did have it bad. Scrub that!
Besides, what use would it be to try to turn her head from Dougal? That was a competition he didn’t want to get into. Not if he was going to snag a bride and get the hell out of London.
“Oh,” Lady Poppy said, her gloved hand fluttering to her mouth as she snatched her gaze away from Dougal. “I don’t know who you’re referring to.” But her eyes betrayed her.
“Ah,” Bryson mused, realizing the coy response was because she’d been caught staring and might be embarrassed. “In that case, I have a friend, Lord MacKay, whom I’m certain would want to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.” She pretended to gasp and shake her head, even though her eyes darted right to the man.
“Allow me. It would be my pleasure.” Bryson offered his elbow and marched her over to Dougal with Aunt Bertie in tow. “MacKay,” Bryson said with a grin.
“Och, I hadna expected to see ye here, mate.” Dougal reached out, and Bryson gripped his arm with a wide grin. “And who is this lovely creature?” The expression he gave him said if she were Bryson’s to watch out because he would have no problem stealing her away.
“Lady Poppy Featherstone.”
She curtsied, and Dougal grasped her hand. Bryson stayed long enough not to seem as though he were handing the lass off to his friend and then took his leave.
When he turned back around, searching out Freya’s form against the wall with the other young ladies who didn’t have a dance partner, she was nowhere in sight.
