Page 27 of A Scot's Pride
“You really are a cad,” she said through gritted teeth. “And in case you’re wondering, the answer is no.”
This time when she marched away, Bryson was certain the crushing feeling in his chest was a lot more emotion than he’d been willing to admit before or even now.
10
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Ballroom etiquette—it is never appropriate to gossip at a social function. Ladies do not want to be mistaken for hoydens.
How Freya kept from bursting into tears as she stood behind Lord Lovat and Lord Ashbury, and listened to Bryson diminish her word by word was a miracle beyond miracles.
The fact that she stood before him for as long as she did to let him know without even a chin wobble was another amazing feat. As soon as she turned away from him, she started crumbling. Her spine cracked the tiniest bit; her hands trembled. It was a marvel she could walk at all by the time she made it through the double doors to gasp the nighttime air.
Outside on the patio, lights twinkled from sconces, blurring in the wetness gathering in her eyes. She fake-smiled her way to a shadowed corner and pressed her hands to the cool stone of the half wall. With her eyes closed, she drew in a steadying breath. Her entire body was trembling now with the need to let out the sobs she held at bay. Crumbling here in front of everyone would be mortifying.
And yet, the way she felt at this moment, a dam was certain to break if she didn’t find a better place to hide. My goodness, she’d never been so embarrassed, so offended by another person she barely knew, in all her life. And to hear herself being spoken about as if she were nothing more than a mud-covered doormat outside of a pigsty was brutal. He might as well have slapped her, for the sting of his hand on her cheek would have been less hurtful.
The way he’d spoken had been so cutting, so cruel. So full of unearned pride in himself. And disdain for her. Who did he think he was?
The boastful, arrogant bastard!
Her fingernails dug into the stone balustrade, scratching the surface until one of them broke, and she brought the painful torn nail to her mouth. This was his fault too.
Why did he think he could speak about her that way and get away with it?
Then again, why wouldn’t he get away with it? He was a man, a wealthy lord. What had Rachel said? “If a man has wealth and good looks, he doesn’t need a personality.” Nor would it seem he needed a good heart.
Freya would have never known what he said had she not been standing right there. And the only reason she was rooted there was that she’d been headed back towards her place in the wallflower club, and he happened to be right in the path. When she’d overheard Ashbury conversing about Riley, she’d wanted to get a better listen, to glean any information about her sister’s future.
Not to mention that perhaps a tiny part of her had wanted to toy with Lord Lovat again as she had before. Their chat back-to-back had been entertaining, the most fun she’d had that night.
But to know that he thought her so…beneath him was appalling. And truly wiped out any pleasant interactions they’d had before.
The moon above was high and full, shining down on the garden behind the grand house. At that moment, she desperately wished to be whisked away to their house in the north of England, where she could escape into her secret garden.
She hadn’t been lying when she declared she would not marry him. She’d rather engage herself to her cousin Arthur than ever say “I do” to such a loathsome man who dripped with animosity. To marry him would be to worry every day if he thought her beneath him. If he were smiling to her face and then turning around and blathering about her bad qualities to his friends. Not to mention any children they might have would be thought of as bad seeds.
Oh, the repulsive toad made her want to scream. If there weren’t more than a dozen other people sharing the outdoor space, she might have done that.
How could he think any woman would want to marry him or stand for such disdain?
Lord Lovat dripped with pride as if he’d bathed in a lake full of superiority and conceit and then climbed from its depths awash in self-importance.
Perhaps 20,000 per annum was enough to keep some women like Rachel quiet, but not Freya.
As she stared down at her gloved hands, certain beneath the fabric her knuckles would be white from how hard she pressed them into the stone, a glass of champagne appeared beside her right hand.
Without looking, she knew who it was exactly, and he wasn’t invited into her private moment. She almost swiped the champagne away, wanting to hear the crystal shatter on the patio’s pavers. But she managed to rein in her feelings. Instead, she ignored the glass and turned so that her back was to him and his offered cup. She wasn’t put together enough to go back into the grand house and most definitely not to join another conversation outside. The only other option was to run into the garden, which would prompt him to follow her, and a scandal was the last thing she needed, especially not with his name attached to hers. No thank you. Non merci. No grazie.
“Miss Freya,” he murmured, his voice full of remorse, reaching over her shoulders to squeeze her.
She stiffened, shaking off whatever hold his voice seemed to have on her. “I take back any permission I gave you to address me—at all.”
“I want to apologize.” He cleared his throat, not moving from where he stood, and his speaking to her back as she’d spoken to him was not lost on her. Nor was it lost that he ignored her request to go away. “I need to apologize.”
Well, she didn’t have to acknowledge he was there. Or that he was apologizing. So, she didn’t say anything at all. No amount of apologizing would wipe her memory of the awful things he’d said about her. No amount of apologizing would make what he said untrue, or at least make his feelings any different.
“I am a cad. I know it. Perhaps given my situation, I thought I had the right to be a cad. But I don’t.” Why did his tone have to have actual remorse in it?
