Page 28 of A Scot's Pride
She whirled then, eyes narrowed, teeth grinding as she seethed. “Your ‘situation?’” she hissed. “What? Being richer than rich gives you leave to be so unrepentantly rude?”
“I am repentant.” He pressed his hand over his heart as a sign of true apology, but she was still skeptical. And his gray eyes, lit up by the moon, held hers in genuine regret. “It is true that I am wealthy. But I am being forced into a situation not of my choosing.”
Freya couldn’t help herself. She laughed so hard that it turned several heads outside. “You?” She shook her head, feeling a few of the ringlets come loose from their pins. She curled her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms to keep from shoving him in the chest. “You have no idea what it means to be forced into a situation not of your choosing. None.”
Bryson frowned, though he nodded, too, as if he understood her own situation, which was impossible. Well, not entirely impossible. There was a chance, though slim, that Riley had confessed to Ashbury about Papa’s financial difficulties. And that, in turn, Ashbury had told Bryson. She could think of no other way he might be privy to such private information. Her father had kept it secret as far as she knew.
Finding out about them was probably why Lord Lovat disdained her even more than he had on the first day they’d met. Her chin ratcheted up another notch. She wasn’t going to let him see how much he was hurting her with his beliefs and disdain.
“Ah, so that’s it,” she said. “You think I am poor and a beggar because of the situation I find myself in. Well, I’ll have you know, I am not begging anyone to marry me, least of all you.”
“I would never presume that ye were, and I dinna blame ye for the situation.”
“I can’t believe she told him,” Freya muttered, glancing back toward the panel of glass doors where lights from the candelabras inside illuminated through to the patio. The tears she’d been holding at bay stung the backs of her eyes.
“Who?” Lord Lovat shook his head, his brow wrinkling with confusion.
“You needn’t play coy with me, my lord. I know that Ashbury told you. My sister must have informed him of our situation, which was none of his, and especially none of your, business.”
Lord Lovat shook his head again. “Ye have it wrong, lass. I heard your father at my club. He was having a no’ so quiet conversation with his solicitor about it.”
Freya’s mouth fell open in both shock and insult. As if what had happened this hour wasn’t enough to send her into a nervous breakdown, now she found out her father had practically told all the ton of their situation. By tomorrow she’d probably get the cut direct from every woman in her acquaintance. Invitations rescinded. Luncheons canceled. No friends. No beau. No one but her family and Cousin Arthur.
“Is everything you say insulting?” But even as she pointed out his unfortunate, albeit true choice of words, she knew it wasn’t his fault that he’d heard her father speaking. And it wasn’t his fault that they all found themselves in dire straits, either.
The one thing she’d thought she and Riley might still have on their side was the ability to salvage this season and possibly gain betrothals before the rest of the ton figured out that her father was broke. That there were no dowries. They’d be taking on not only the financial burden of a wife but also her sisters and mother.
“I admit I am no’ the best conversationalist with women. I’ve no’ much practice at all in this sort of situation.” Again, his voice was soft, drawing her in with the calming burr and his relaxed features. He offered her the champagne again, and this time she took it. “I probably get it wrong a lot more than I get it correct. But I am trying to make it right. I really am sorry, lass.”
Lass. Such an endearing word, and the way he said it, combined with the way he looked at her, made her feel as though she were special. “And yet your aunt adores you. Why?” Her words sounded more scathing than they would have been with anyone else. But she felt as if he deserved a bit back.
His mouth clamped closed as if she’d hit a chord he didn’t often play and was not attuned to let her touch. Instantly, she felt regret.
“I could ask ye the same about my aunt,” he said. “But I willna. I came out here to apologize to ye for what ye overheard. No’ to plead my case to ye for my humanity. I did no’ intend to hurt ye. And it is my sincere regret that I did. Some things are no’ meant to be heard. And some things are said without thought.”
Lord Lovat bowed low her then before taking his leave. Freya stood there. Her lips parted, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
He wasn’t wrong. How many things had she said about him behind his back that would have had a lot more significance if he’d heard them rather than how flippantly she’d issued them? Was he saying he didn’t mean what he said?
Oh, why should she care? Words, whether they were intended to be uttered or not, still held power to tear someone down.
And the truth was, she did care. Even if she didn’t want to admit it. Because deep down, she’d started to like Lord Lovat.
He was different than the other gentlemen. Well, she’d thought so until she heard him talking about her behind her back, and then she thought him a rather pompous arse.
But before that moment, she’d thought him someone she could be at ease with, even a little charming.
11
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
If one must partake of the country air, be sure only to do so for two weeks at most, or else you’ll lose any momentum you have gained in your marriage prospects. Bachelors do not like to chase their potential brides around anything other than a ballroom.
Freya balled up the latest edition of The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin and regretted that there was no fire lit in the hearth of her bedroom in Sunderland to toss it into. Finding a matchstick, she struck it and held the flame to the corner of the parchment, watching the orange lick at the surface until it caught and singed. She held it over the hearth as the entire thing turned to ash and then dropped it, staring until the last bit fizzled out.
This one felt personal. As if the anonymous writer were pointing fingers and telling her that she and Riley might as well kiss any marriage proposals goodbye, let alone imagine that they would ever find a love match now that they’d left London—not of their choosing.
Well, there were men in the country; Freya was sure of it. Not everyone in England went to London to find a husband. Or did they? She’d never really given it much thought, but it seemed improbable. Perhaps she and her sisters could all be satisfied with a country gentleman. Or a farmer. Or a man in uniform.
