“I like to read books.” Lord Lovat’s vague answer was given with a humorous tone and clearly meant to ruffle her feathers.
Freya frowned, as that was the response he wanted, and retorted smartly, “I do apologize. I seem to be confused. Is it not books we were discussing?”
He let out a short laugh. “I assumed ye meant the papers.”
“The papers? As in gossip rags?”
He shrugged. “Is that no’ what most ladies read?” Another barb! Oh, he did like baiting her, didn’t he?
Freya scoffed. “I do not presume to know what other ladies are reading, my lord. And while I have on occasion enjoyed a good gossip column, I thought we were talking about something a little more serious.”
“I do no’ think we have the same taste in books,” he said, tipping his hat once more before tossing her a look that begged her to prove him wrong.
“You do an awful lot of presuming yourself, sir,” she said pertly.
“Enlighten me.”
“You first.”
The subtle way his eyes widened showed his surprise. If she were to hazard a guess, no one had ever argued with him or challenged him. Unless it was to a duel. If this were the type of frustrating interaction he had with others, she wouldn’t be surprised if he were called out daily. If she had skill with a pistol, she too might slap him on the cheek and demand he draw.
“All right, if ye insist.” His words were drawn out in that tempting Scottish burr as if he wanted her to change her mind.
Well, if he didn’t realize already, Freya wasn’t a lady who often changed her mind, and now was no exception. “I do.”
Lord Lovat grunted, but it wasn’t a sound of disgust but rather something a little more positive, as if she’d impressed him. “I am a recent fan of Sir Walter Scott. Both Waverley and Ivanhoe were intriguing reads.”
“There, it is settled, my lord., for I have read both. Additionally, I myself am a fan of Sense and Sensibility by a Lady.”
The barest hint of a smile curved his lips. “I’ve not had the occasion to read her work yet, but I did enjoy Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.”
“Do you feel a kindred spirit to the doctor or the monster?” Now there was a barbed question, and it played perfectly into her hands.
He whipped his head toward her, and then he laughed, his eyes crinkling. “Ye read it?”
“I did indeed.”
“Then I stand corrected. It appears we do have similar reading habits.”
They neared the Serpentine, where swans swam in pairs, the river’s water rippling in their wake. The swans looked so majestic there as they floated past but if one got too close, they would attack. Freya knew firsthand what a swan bite felt like.
“I brought some bread for the swans,” Lord Lovat said. “Would ye like to feed them?”
Freya bit her lip. Her first response to that was to say, “Hell no.” But she held her tongue. One, it was unladylike. And two, it would only show Lord Lovat a weakness. So, she sucked in her fear, swallowing it deep in her belly, and said, “Oh, I would.”
Lord Lovat called to Lord Ashbury, and her sister and her beau steered their horses toward the lake, dismounting together.
“What a lovely idea,” Riley said. Her smile was a little tighter than usual as she flicked her gaze in Freya’s direction.
Freya stood frozen, a smile plastered she didn’t feel.
“I have to give credit to my adoring aunt. It was her suggestion,” Lord Lovat said as he pulled a parcel of bread from his saddlebag.
“Lady Daven is a gem,” Freya managed to say without her voice shaking. Her eyes locked on her sister, a silent message passing between them.
Neither of the gentlemen present knew how Lady Daven had saved them last season, and neither of the women were about to say so now. For it was Lady Daven who’d been able to swat her way through the horde of swans that wished to make turtle food out of them.
It was Leila’s fault, of course, as it usually was. The fourth of five girls born to their parents, she was the most mischievous of them all. It would be a miracle if she made it to her official debut in society without compromising herself.
Lord Lovat handed them each a hunk of bread, and Freya started to peel off tiny chunks, tossing it into the river a distance from the swans. The birds swam closer in the hope the people would retreat so they could collect their treats. No one noticed she was throwing far away rather than close up.
A few ducks joined in, and soon it was a feeding frenzy. The flapping of wings, the sounds, the splashes and the squawks had chills running up and down Freya’s arms. She took a leap away from the edge when some of the swans started to flap their wings as though they were coming in for a ground assault.
She stared at the waterfowl, wondering which one of those wee menaces had her amethyst earring still buried in its belly. Freya swallowed, remembering the feel of their pecks and bits and tugs.
Another step back as a duck flapped toward her had Freya stepping and tripping on a rock or stick—which one, she wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it unsettled her steps until she fell flat on her bottom with Lord Lovat lunging toward her too late.
He came to stand beside her, his hand held out, his calves at eye level. They were quite muscular. Not at all padded as some men in the ton were wont to do. She glanced up, placing her hand in his firm grip as he helped her up.
All of him looked so well put together. She sighed. One less thing she could hold against him.
7
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Dougal MacKay, Earl of Reay: 15,000 per annum. Several estates and castles in Scotland and England. House in Mayfair. House in Edinburgh.
“Ye owe me twenty quid,” Bryson said to Ashbury as he set his billiards cue back on the rack, having sunk the eight ball into the right corner pocket as he’d claimed.
Ashbury let out a groan and begrudgingly put back his own cue stick. He searched in his pocket for the prize cash. “When did you get so good at billiards?”
Bryson chuckled, holding out his hand to collect. “I’ve always been this good. I just didna let ye know until now. Had ye thinking ye’d win, letting your guard down and then wham, every ball pocketed exactly as called.”
“I distinctly remember kicking your arse last season.” Ashbury frowned, though his eyes were twinkling with mirth as he passed him the notes. “All a ruse?”
“Ah, aye. I was playing the long game, my friend. Made ye think that ye were better so I could lighten your pockets.” Bryson snickered, and slipped the money into a pocket.
Ashbury reluctantly picked up his stick again and waggled it. “One more game?”
“I’m afraid we’d no longer be friends, and your pockets would be empty.”
Ashbury chuckled. “Then I thank you for being a good mate. I’m starved. Buy me breakfast?”
Bryson gave an exaggerated shudder. “Have the eggs gotten better?”
Ashbury squinted his eyes and pinched his forefinger and thumb together. “Mildly. Very mildly.”
Bryson grimaced. The last time he’d had breakfast at the club, he’d asked for his eggs to be soft-boiled, and they’d come hard as stone, the yokes crumbling into a strange grayish-green dust.