Page 23 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“I’ve no experience myself,” he said.
“No, I don’t imagine that you do.” The melancholy humor sat on her strangely—utterly antithetical to her usual exuberance. She traced the grain of the wooden table with her fingertip. “Some advice, if you’ll hear it: if circumstance does not require you to wed, don’t.”
He frowned. “But your children married.”
“As the earl in need of legitimate heirs, Anthony had to. My daughter Victoria could either exist as a dependent spinster or else find a husband. John is too young to take a wife, but he’s freed from the necessity, the lucky blighter.”
She has earned every moment of frivolity and happiness. Miss Bradbury’s words echoed in his mind ashe watched the play of emotion across the countess’s face.
“Widowhood is by far the preferable state,” she continued with a rueful smile. “For women, in any regard. It is the most freedom we are permitted.”
“Hadn’t thought of it in those terms,” he said quietly.
She shrugged. “Why would you? Women are taught from infancy what men expect of them, how to please them, and know all the stages of a man’s life, from their birth to after their demise. I doubt that men are given much education in what it means to be a woman.”
He opened his mouth to argue the point, but he had no rejoinder. Because what she said was true, and that truth stunned him.
“Seems a deficiency in boys’ education,” he finally said. “Mayhap they should include a course on women’s lives at Eton.”
Her eyes flashed. “This isn’t a subject to be mocked.”
“It isn’t, and I’m not.”
“Ah.” Tension slowly unspooled from her, though the smile she gave him was ironic. “These past three years, I’ve been slowly coming to learn that noteveryman wishes to dismiss my opinion.”
“Never met the late earl,” Duncan growled, “but I suspect the bloke had been something of an ass.” When she stared at him, he added quickly, “Apologies. I spoke out of turn. God knows I could go on atirade about my father’s inability to grasp change, yet I’d smear the floor with someone if they called my da narrow-minded.”
For a long moment, she said nothing, her expression blank. And then the most incredible thing happened. Her eyes filled with gratitude, warm and genuine and directed athim.
“Hewasan ass,” Lady Farris said. A giggle bubbled up from her, and she pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Never said that out loud before. Oh, I complained to Jeanie about Edward. But I hadn’t had the satisfaction of calling him names. Names he very much deserved.”
“I could think of other ones, if you like,” Duncan offered.
“Please do,” she said with an encouraging nod.
“Fool. Jackanapes.” He glanced around to make certain that no one nearby could hear him, then whispered, “Bum-licking bastard.”
Her laugh was full and throaty. “Those are very good. Keep going. Be as filthy as you like.”
One aspect of being in the military was the abundance of foul language, and he was grateful for his comprehensive vulgar vocabulary if only to make her laugh more. “Arse-pimple. Needle-cock.”
A shocked cough sounded beside the table, and Duncan and the countess both turned to see that the server had returned, bearing several plates which he set down between them.
The man’s face was the color of beets. “Wine?”
“Aye,” Duncan said.
“Be back with that in a moment” came the choked reply before the server hurried off.
It was a mistake to glance at the countess, because the look of hilarity on her face was his undoing. A great, booming laugh leapt out of him, and it showed no signs of stopping, even after the server brought them refills on their wine and disappeared once more.
“I was wrong,” Lady Farris said once they had both managed to calm down. “Your laugh isn’t nice. It’sgorgeous.”
He didn’t know what flustered him more—the eyes of the whole taproom on them or her compliment. Disconcerted, he concentrated on his food, taking automatic bites and following them with swallows of wine.
“Mr. Frye.”
He’d just used coarse language without regard for anyone’s refined sensibilities. And worse, he’dliked it.
