Page 42 of A Scot's Pride
She could sigh at the memory, but that would only make her feel more rotten. She needed to build a brick wall around herself until she was enclosed. Invisible.
And now, to make matters worse, she was sitting at the dining room table, staring over the pot roast, boiled potatoes and carrots at Arthur. But at least Bryson wasn’t here. There’d been a very real moment of fear earlier when she’d overheard Riley asking Ashbury to stay for dinner, which meant Bryson would, too, but fortunately, Bryson had business to attend to.
Cousin Arthur had been droning on since before they even sat down at the dining table about the merits of the stitching in his rather dower brown ensemble. As if anyone cared about the stitching.
“One can never be too certain at the tailor which form of stitching they’re using.” His voice was nasally and monotone at the same time. “And, of course, you want to be able to repair seams if one comes undone and there’s no one about to assist.”
Freya wanted to slap her hands on the table to silence him. To stand up and lean over the too-tough meat their cook had prepared and look Arthur right in the eyes as she told him no one gave a flying fig about his damned stitches. And also, to ask where in the world he’d be that his seams would suddenly just unravel and need repair, and he would be the only one with a needle. It was madness and stupid!
But instead of shouting all that, she gritted her teeth and bore the entire dull conversation while her mother encouraged the questioning between cross stitch and whatever other stitch had him so enamored.
Beneath the table, Freya attempted to kick Riley to get her attention. If she was going to be made to endure this dinner, she needed to at least make eye contact with her sister so they could share this moment with facial expressions.
“Oh, ouch,” Arthur said, glancing sharply at her.
Oh, blast. Freya nearly choked on her tongue. That was a big mistake to make.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Freya said, her voice sounding as though she’d gargled rocks. She racked her brain for an explanation as to why she would have kicked her cousin in the shin. “My leg has been having a terrible reflex issue lately.”
It was the best excuse she could come up with, and utterly moronic, she knew. Though she attempted mightily not to look at anyone around the table, knowing they would understand her poppycock for what it was, it was impossible not to see their reactions in her periphery.
Her mother gaped at her, and her sisters all looked as though they were trying as hard as they could to swallow their laughs while her father glanced lazily over, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Oh, how interesting,” Arthur said. “I recently heard about someone with a reflex issue just north of here. She is one of my benefactors. The Dowager Countess of Heaton.”
My god, this couldn’t get any worse. His benefactress was the one woman that Freya despised. She could still picture the sour older lady; her lips pursed as if she’d sucked a lemon as she stared at each of them down her nose at tea. And who knew a reflex issue was even a real thing? Freya let out a bark of a laugh that she quickly recovered into a cough, covering her mouth with both hands and keeping her gaze on her lap in case her sisters’ reactions made her laugh all the more.
“Oh,” Arthur covered his mouth and nose with one of their cloth napkins that had seen better days. “Perhaps you’d best go and rest. That doesn’t sound good at all.”
Freya was too quick to stand at his suggestion she leave, but Molly beside her had the reflexes of a cat and righted her chair before it fell backward.
“You are quite right, cousin,” Freya emphasized their familiarity to remind him that she wouldn’t be good wife material, not that she supposed it mattered. Cousins had been marrying for centuries, and this bloke seemed as though he’d be stubborn and muleheaded. “I think a rest would do me good.”
Freya hurried from the dining room before her mother could protest, or anyone could beg her to stay. She made her way toward the stairs, pretending to climb since there was a bird’s-eye view from the dining room to the staircase. But as soon as everyone had turned away from her, she hurried quietly back down the stairs facing the entryway. She swiped her shawl from its place on the hook and snuck out the front door, pleased that she’d perfected the silent escape over the years.
As she did each time, she took a moment to breathe in the fresh air of freedom before picking up her pace.
Arthur was boring and idiotic. She wasn’t even sure what he did exactly that made people his benefactors. Perhaps it had something to do with his stitching. She giggled, imagining that he’d taken up needlework and whoever he married would sit with him in their drawing room at the end of the day to sew together. Not that there was anything wrong with that—she just preferred to see herself with a man who read books with her before the fire or played endless games of cards.
A life with Arthur would stifle her. And by God, if she could dissuade him, she would. Everything about him screamed for her to turn the other way. Whether it was Arthur’s closeness to Lady Heaton, Bryson’s terrible aunt, or his priggish annoying personality, she wasn’t sure.
Freya tightened her shawl against the breeze and headed across the slope of their estate toward the shore. It’d been forever since she’d gone down to the beach, not wanting to hear from her mother about the sand she would inevitably get in her boots. But she didn’t care now. She needed the solace of the waves breaking against the shore. Because even though she wanted to rebel mightily, there was also a heavy weight on her shoulders to keep her father’s estate and title in the family. To marry her cousin and have her father’s legacy passed on to her children. That was a heavy burden for any lass and not one she wanted to endure.
The sun was beginning to set as she stepped onto the sand. It would be dark in another hour, the stars twinkling like diamonds on the ocean’s surface.
She walked along the beach, just out of reach of the lapping waves, her mind rolling like the water back and forth over the last several weeks of her life. How much had changed. How much had stayed the same.
Maybe she’d made a mistake in pushing Bryson away. When he’d asked to kiss her, she’d seen stars brighter than the sun circling before her eyes. Tossing herself into his arms and touching her lips to his had been the most exhilarating and foolish moment of her life. He’d felt so wonderful, and in the few seconds that their mouths had been tightly pressed together, she’d envisioned what felt like a whole novel’s worth of romance.
Their unfortunate first meeting, the way they were continuously drawn back together and then pushed apart. A delicious, if at first clumsy, kiss in a garden, and then her running away.
That day, every step she’d taken to put distance between them had been difficult, and by the time she reached the house, she felt a gaping hole in her chest. She’d excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room and then been aloof until it was time to leave. Bryson had once more tried to offer his horse, but she refused and consigned herself to the miserable prison of the carriage.
If this were a novel, when she returned to the house this evening—where her cousin and a decidedly dull future awaited her—Bryson would be in the drawing room, hat in hand, declaring himself to her before her family. Rescuing her from a terrible future.
Freya sat down heavily on the sand, watching the waves come closer and closer as the tide came in and allowing her mind to play out all the wonderful scenarios in which she became Lady Lovat. It was foolish to dream, but she thought perhaps at this moment in her life, dreaming was all she had left.
As the sun continued to dim, she contemplated lying there on the beach, letting the water rush over her, washing away her worries for now. But one, it would be too cold, and two, her mother would throw an absolute fit to rival all fits if Freya showed up soaking wet and sandy.
