Page 26 of A Scot's Pride
His pride stilled his tongue. He rarely apologized for anything. And yet this big part of him felt the need to do so. It was odd and felt so unreal.
“You’re not about to break our deal, are you?” Ashbury came up beside him, practically gloating.
Bryson frowned at his friend, who sipped casually on his punch.
“Nay,” he growled.
“Good, because it looked very much as though you were about to run after a certain lady.” Ashbury glanced toward the patio doors Freya had disappeared through.
“Where is your young lady?” Bryson asked, changing the subject without answering. Ashbury had found him in the nick of time. He supposed he should be grateful for that.
“I had to let her go freshen up.” Ashbury raised a brow. “This is harder than you thought, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” The admission was hard to express, but who else was he going to admit it to? Maybe saying it out loud would help him figure out what to do about it. “I just dinna know why.”
Ashbury shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong man. I have no idea what drew me first to Miss Grysham, but I know I can’t pull away. I think I love her. From the top of her blonde head to her tiny slippers. She is so sweet and kind and gentle. And when no one is around, she is funny and shows cleverness that I want to explore for years.”
Bryson tuned out Ashbury’s waxing on about his love for Riley and all of her wonderful attributes.
Love. Now that was a word Bryson knew he’d never say in terms of a woman.
Admired, desired, cherished—aye. But love?
Not in this lifetime.
“I didna come to London for love,” he announced, his spine straightening as he slugged back the rest of his whisky.
“What about like? Or respect even?”
Bryson snorted. “Those dinna matter either. I need a woman who will be a good wife. That’s it.”
“And the only woman turning your head won’t be a good wife?”
Bryson grimaced as his friend hit the nail on the head with that one. Freya, damn her, had been the only woman to make him bat an eye. No one else. “I dinna believe she will. Too stubborn. Too…opinionated. Before her, I’d never had a woman roll her eyes at me once, let alone a dozen times.”
Ashbury snickered. “She sees through your bravado.”
“Perhaps. Or she is simply giving me a hard time because I’m a Scot. She willna do.” He shook his head and passed a footman his empty cup. “No’ at all.”
“And yet we know she needs a husband, just as you need a wife.” Ashbury raised his brows as if he were presenting Bryson with a puzzle.
Bryson’s brows knitted in irritation. “And ye think I should ask her?”
“Why not?” Ashbury chuckled. All of this was great fun to him. “You just said you didn’t care if you liked your wife. You clearly don’t like her. She sounds perfect.”
“I dinna like her.” Bryson’s tongue suddenly went dry on that lie.
“Seems obvious to me.” Ashbury sipped his punch, then spying Miss Grysham returning, he stood straighter. “Well, I’m off to make certain she skips out on a dance with the next imbecile on her list. I upped my game to see if I could convince her to cut someone.” Ashbury rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“Bets are she says nay because she doesna want to hurt anyone’s feelings.” Bryson chuckled.
“You watch, my friend.” Then Ashbury smiled wistfully. “She is such a caring and kind woman. Perhaps you’re right.”
“All those characteristics went to her, leaving her sister barren of anything but coldness.” Bryson pretended to shudder, but really, his eyes kept straying toward the patio doors to see if Freya had returned.
Ashbury pointed at him, a knowing and irritating smile on his too-happy face. “I’m telling you, she’s the one for you, Lovat. Make your move.”
Bryson grunted, and as he watched his friend saunter away on his own quest, he caught the scent of jasmine. Slowly, he turned to see the object of his conversation standing right behind him, her face crestfallen. When the hell had she come back inside? He thought he’d had a good view of the doors, but apparently, she’d gone undetected by him and heard every damn word he’d said.
