Page 8 of A Scot's Pride
“Have you horses there?” Miss Freya asked. This had all of her companions giggling.
“Aye. Many.” He narrowed his gaze, wondering what it was she really wanted to know.
Miss Freya batted her lashes like a butterfly’s wings, which he immediately found discomfiting, and then let out an exaggerated sigh. “If only I knew how to ride.”
What was she about?
“Oh, Freya, you are being too much.” The redhead leaned in as if she were going to confess a secret to him. “She rides very well.”
Bryson’s eyebrows shot up at that. So, perhaps that was where he’d offended her—when he’d suggested she didn’t know how to ride. He suppressed a chuckle. The lass had pride, and he’d injured it.
“For an Englishwoman, perhaps.” She shrugged a dainty shoulder, but a flush of pink colored her cheeks.
“Would ye like to go riding with me in the park tomorrow?” he asked, unsure why. He didn’t want to go with her. The words had popped out of his mouth without his permission. “All of ye are welcome,” he added.
“Oh, dear, I wish we could, but Sarah, Rebecca and I have a previous engagement tomorrow,” the redhead said with a pout. “But Freya, you’re free, aren’t you?”
She turned to him with a forced smile he felt all the way to his spine. “I do believe I am free. And I very much enjoy riding in the park.”
“I shall inquire if Ashbury can join us. Bring your sister.” It wasn’t a request, and she knew it by the look in her eyes.
“We’ll see. Either we’ll be there, or we won’t.” She shrugged, and he grunted. “Mother’s permission required, you know.”
Touché.
“If I may ask, Miss Freya,” he said. “Have ye any Scot in ye?”
“Don’t we all?” she asked, lifting her brows as if it were the dumbest question he could have asked her.
“I don’t,” one of her companions piped in.
Freya laughed. “Well, I do believe my great-grandmother was from Edinburgh.”
So, this was why Aunt Bertie had seen to it that he was introduced to Freya. Though he wondered why she wasn’t on his aunt’s list. “Ah, is that so?” he said.
“I’m named for her.” She frowned after she said it as if she hadn’t wanted to release any personal information to him.
He nodded. “Are we no’ all named after someone in our family?”
“Yes,” they all agreed in unison.
Bryson glanced at Miss Freya, who was peering around as if trying to figure out how to exit. This time with her friends, who were not willing to take off as quickly as she had before. Curious.
“Will you be at the ball tomorrow night?” the redhead asked.
Bryson cocked his head. He had no idea. His aunt was entirely in charge of his schedule.
“Lady Alderley’s ball,” she added as if that would help him to remember, but it did no good.
He suppressed a shrug. “I’m afraid I dinna know.”
Four pairs of eyes narrowed on him, but only one gave voice—the only one who would question him. “You don’t know?”
“My aunt, Lady Daven, has made herself personally in charge of my schedule. And if ye know her, ye know there is no use in me trying to take over.”
That got a genuine smile out of Miss Freya. Was it possible she liked his aunt? What was their relationship? He stared at her, wanting to ask, but decided to hold off until tomorrow. It was best to ask without her friends about—he might get a straighter answer.
Then, Ashbury and Miss Grysham returned, both of them red enough in the face to be mistaken for a pair of apples.
