Page 32 of A Scot's Pride
But she’d waved yet another list in the air and told him not to worry. She’d already compiled names of lassies in the north who’d not made it to the London season and may suit his purposes better. Though, she’d not let him see the note.
Their pretense for going to the country, besides accompanying Ashbury, was that Bryson and Aunt Bertie were visiting Aunt Simone and, of course, his darling sister, whom he’d not seen in an age. Now that part he was excited about. Lucy was the one bright spot he had in his life, and it was too rare that her light shone on him. In that respect, he had no regrets about leaving the city behind. But one of the reasons he wanted to wed was so he could protect her. An additional title, lands, funds—all that came with his inheritance—would secure her a future beyond his years.
Now, several days after Ashbury had stormed into his drawing room in Mayfair, Bryson stood in the drawing room of the Grysham household and was barely thirty seconds from bolting.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He glanced to the doorway, expecting to see Miss Grysham walk through to greet Ashbury, but instead, it was Freya. And Bryson was stunned by his reaction to seeing her. He stopped breathing and was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating too.
Freya’s cheeks were slightly pink, her blue eyes sparkled as she entered, and a pleased smile was on her lips. A smile she seemed to reserve only for those in her good graces, however, because when she looked his way, the smile fell, and a curt and dismissive nod replaced it. She wore a simple day dress of creamy muslin that left a hint of her curves and only made her look more beautiful as its simplicity let her own beauty shine. Her hands and arms were bare of gloves. Bryson found himself studying the long, tapered fingers, the short nails.
“My lords,” Freya said, her voice soft and holding a trace of a tease as if she might start laughing at some private joke at any second—or was it sarcasm? As if the undertones of her greeting were, “Oh, you’re here.”
Saints, but he wished he knew what that meant. Did she find it funny he was here? Was she going to say that Riley was absent and what a waste of time for poor Ashbury to have traveled all this way? Was she going to say that Ashbury could stay, and Bryson had to leave?
What she did say was, “What a surprise.”
“Miss Freya.” Ashbury was the first to react, walking toward her to take her hand and press a kiss to the air above her knuckles. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
“And you as well, Ashbury. I trust your journey to Sunderland was pleasant.”
“Indeed, it was.” Ashbury glanced at Bryson, giving him a look that said he was supposed to do something.
Bryson cleared his throat, finding himself at a loss for words. Even his body, which was normally adept at movement, felt stiff and awkward. It was unnerving how much power one tiny sprite could hold over him. That unfamiliar swirling in his belly was irritating and only something he’d experienced in her presence. Bryson avoided the urge to loosen his cravat.
“Lord Lovat,” Freya drew out his name as if she were trying to dissect him with a paring knife. There was no pleasantry to it, and when her eyes met him, there was a pain in their depths, reminding him of the last time they’d met and why he had wanted to accompany Ashbury on this trip—besides to be a support for his friend—because he needed to apologize again.
“Miss Freya.” He approached her cautiously, as one might approach a cat whose personality had yet to be determined. Would she hiss and scratch, or would she purr and lean into him?
Freya, whose gaze was icy, did not offer him her hand; he was certain she meant to keep it that way. Time seemed to stand still with the two of them eyeing each other. Bryson wanted to reach for her fingers, to pull her against him. To kiss her.
My god, to kiss her until she was breathless, and all the ire had dissipated from her taut body, her stiff spine softening. Alas, he would never get the chance, for he’d not allow himself the pleasure. Or rather, she wouldn’t allow it. If he tried to kiss her right now, she’d come at him swinging, he was certain. Besides, Freya wasn’t a lass meant for kissing by just anyone. That was a pleasure reserved for a husband, which he was certainly not.
At last, manners seemed to force her as she offered her hand, stretching it out toward him. Her blue eyes locked on his, daring him to take her hand as if it might burst into flames if he did. Bryson grasped her fingers in his. They were cold, and he suppressed the urge to rub heat into them.
“It is good to see ye again,” he said, surprised at the low level of his tone.
“Is it?” She cocked her head to the side as if to say, “Oh, really, you big, dumb oaf?”
Bryson suppressed a smile. At least she was willing to speak to him, for him to hold her hand. This was a step in the right direction. “I fear we did no’ part on terms that—” But he was cut off by Riley entering the room with her sisters behind her and her mother chirping at the rear.
The drawing room grew smaller as it filled with the Grysham ladies, and all took their seats, the baroness ordering tea.
After tea and pleasantries, if one could call the baroness taking over the entire conversation and one of the younger misses playing a choppy rendition on the pianoforte pleasant, Bryon determined he either needed to make his escape or figure out a way to get Freya alone so he could try to apologize once again. Throughout the last hour, he’d spied her staring at him no less than half a dozen times. Each time he caught her eye, she sniffed and glanced away. It felt almost like a game now, as if she invited him to look so she could give him the cut. Bryson had taken it upon himself to wink at her one of the times, which sent a pretty flush over her neck and face.
Before he could figure out how to get her alone, Leila, one of the younger Gryshams, broke his thoughts.
“Are you going to host a ball, Lord Ashbury? Oh, do say you’ll host a ball.” The young lady was giddy, wiggling back and forth in her chair as if her skin barely contained her energy.
Ashbury looked taken aback, his gaze sliding to Riley’s, who was smiling as if she thought it was a good idea. That was all it took for his friend to agree to host a ball and invite the entire Grysham family. Bryson wanted to groan but kept a stiff smile on his face. If Ashbury wanted to have a party with these ladies, it was his funeral. Bryson could remain at his aunt’s abode and have dinner with his sister.
“And, of course, Lord Lovat and his aunts would attend as well.” Ashbury nodded in his direction, and Bryson contemplated inviting him to a duel.
“I was hoping I might have a word alone with Miss Grysham,” Ashbury implored the baroness, who nodded so hard Bryson feared her neck would snap. “Would you care to take a walk?”
Miss Grysham’s eyes widened, and she glanced at her mother, who nodded her permission. “Perhaps Freya could join you as well,” the older woman said.
This was all the encouragement Bryson needed as he’d been looking for a way to get her out of this drawing room. “I, too, could use a moment to stretch my legs.”
Freya looked ready to protest, but her mother cut her off by saying what a wonderful idea it was and casting her a glance that could have frozen the tea.
