Nay, not seemed. The man, without a doubt, was very interested.
“My goodness,” Ashbury murmured under his breath, straightening and fidgeting with his cravat.
Bryson glanced at him sideways, utterly confused by his friend’s behavior. Preening right there in the damned garden. What in blazes?
“You see the one with the blonde hair and blue ribbon?” Ashbury said, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow. “I’ve been in love with her since she first came out a few years ago. But she won’t give me the time of day. Every time I ask her to dance, she turns around as if she hasn’t heard me. When I try to present her with punch, she runs off as if I’ve offered an octopus in a cup. But still, I can’t seem to get her out of my mind.”
Ouch. But honestly, Bryson wasn’t surprised. If she were keeping company with the other chit his aunt had introduced him to, it made sense she would give Ashbury the cut direct. He wondered if the ladies headed their way were about to do it as a group. Bryson scanned from left to right, figuring out if they had a chance to escape before they were pounced upon.
“Well, Ashbury, I had occasion to meet the one to her right, and she seemed to be… How should I put it politely? A bit of a snob. Dashed off without excusing herself properly to Aunt Bertie. Looked downright offended to have made my acquaintance at all.”
“To the right, you say?” Ashbury’s tone had taken on a bit of a humorous lilt. “That’s Miss Grysham’s sister. Perhaps their unease runs in the family.”
Unease? Is that what his friend thought it was? A bit of unease? Bryson tried not to laugh. He considered himself a fairly good judge of character, and there was no confusing disgust with unease. Poor Ashbury. It would seem he was in for a broken heart as the man appeared utterly besotted.
“Ah, that makes sense,” Bryson lied as he cleared his throat. None of it made any damn sense to him at all. The space between him and the sprites was drawing smaller and smaller. He could not allow himself to speak to Miss Freya Grysham again, at least not today. Not if he wanted to have any respect for himself. There wasn’t enough whisky to go around for that. And besides, he was afraid that her temperamental glances might cause him to say something he’d regret, and then Aunt Bertie would box his ears for certain. And he desperately needed his older relation’s help to navigate this world he felt so uncomfortable in. Best to desert his friend here and hope Ashbury forgave him for it later. Self-preservation and all that. “Well, I shall leave you to the ladies. I must get back to my aunt.”
But Ashbury only laughed at that as if Bryson saying he was leaving was some great joke. Ashbury nudged him forward and into the path of the women until there was no escape, and once more, he found himself staring into the haughty eyes of the woman he’d been glad to be rid of less than an hour ago.
“Miss Grysham,” Ashbury said, with a little bit of a crack in his voice as if he was an adolescent all over again, gaze on the sister of Miss Freya, the hellion.
The woman in question ducked her head without answering, giving a shy curtsey and reluctantly offering her hand to Ashbury. The only reason she wasn’t running, Bryson suspected, was because she was anchored on either side by her companions. And because Ashbury now held her hand, which Bryson feared the man would never let go of for he lingered so long on his grip. But then he saw it as the blonde glanced up for the briefest moments at Ashbury—a heady desire. Interesting.
Movement caught Bryson’s gaze, and he glanced at the one person he’d been trying to avoid. The chit he’d met earlier squinted up at him with a coldness to her stare, and her lips set in a grim line.
My, it seemed she was as un-enamored with him as he was her. Interesting again. At least he wasn’t surprised by her behavior. And because he wasn’t surprised and because she wasn’t even trying to hide her feelings, he decided to play along.
Most women fell head over heels for him in Scotland. Perhaps in London it was going to be harder than he’d thought to make this marriage thing happen.
Damn.
Or maybe not. A flick of his eyes toward the other women in the party told him Miss Freya’s sentiments were one-sided.
“Lord Lovat.” Her voice was a cool caress, as though someone had taken a piece of ice to his skin on a hot day. Sharp and yet pleasant at the same time. Then, pressing a delicate hand to her chest, drawing his eyes to the tapered fingers and the short, round, perfectly manicured nails. She smirked up at him, a tiny dimple appearing on her right cheek. “I’m Miss Freya Grysham, in case you forgot again.”
Damn, if she wasn’t as beautiful as she was sarcastic.
That drew in a few sharp breaths from her companions, her sister included. So, it would seem they were as shocked by her rude behavior as he might have been if he’d not met her before. But she didn’t seem to care at all what reaction others gave her.
Bryson didn’t miss a beat, his eyes locked on hers as he said, “I recall our previous encounter perfectly well, Miss Freya.” His gaze slid from her to her sister, then back again. “Might I introduce my friend, Lord Ashbury? And ye are?” Bryson turned his gaze onto the three other ladies who were quick to introduce themselves, all batting their eyelashes a thousand times. Perhaps they were not as prejudiced against him as it appeared Miss Freya was.
From the glances she gave her friends and sister, she was slightly shocked at their reaction to him. Well, good. She should know he wasn’t whatever offensive thing she thought he was. He was unsure why she had decided to dislike him so much. He’d thought it was because he was Scottish, but he had a feeling that had nothing to do with it.
“Well, we really must—” Miss Freya started, but he cut her off.
“Miss Grysham, Lord Ashbury would like to ask ye something.” Bryson glanced expectantly at his friend. If the two of them were going to be so quiet when there was an obvious attraction, at least Bryson could try to nudge his friend in the right direction.
Ashbury coughed slightly and stared wide-eyed at the young lady, who seemed intent on her slippers.
“Yes, Lord Ashbury?” she practically whispered, which earned her an elbow from Miss Freya.
Amazingly, that little jab did cause Miss Grysham to raise her eyes to meet Lord Ashbury’s, and Bryson was momentarily surprised to find that she seemed more shy than rude, perhaps as shy as his friend, but nothing like her sister.
“Would you care to take a walkabout?”
Her mouth fell open, and she didn’t appear to be able to draw in a breath.
“Or have another glass of lemonade?” Ashbury’s voice had risen a notch as his nerves kicked in.
Still, she didn’t answer.
It was Freya who let go of her sister’s arm and gave her a tiny shove in Ashbury’s direction. “She’d be delighted.”
“Yes, delighted,” the young lady finally managed to say as Ashbury offered his arm, and she took it with a trembling hand. The two of them walked away from the group, and for a split second, Bryson feared they’d separate and run in opposite directions.
“My goodness, that was painful,” Bryson mumbled under his breath, but from Miss Freya’s stinging look, she’d heard every syllable.
“Tell me, Lord Lovat,” one of her companions broke into Freya’s icy glare, “How do you find London compared to…where are you from?”