Sometimes, friends needed a mate to push them and get them going. Ashbury had always been that way. Even when they were lads at Eton. He’d wanted to play rugby but hadn’t the nerve to voice it aloud until Bryson pushed him onto the field.
And he supposed courting a woman he loved was a little like rugby, wasn’t it? He hoped Ashbury didn’t get pummeled by the lass in the end.
Fortunately for Ashbury, he’d fallen for the sister who appeared to suffer from his same affliction of shyness and not at all from the sense of pride the younger sister possessed.
He did feel marginally good about helping Ashbury, as seen in how much his friend was smiling, that was a plus. For goodness’ sake, but Ashbury’s lips were split ear to ear, and even if someone came up and dumped their foul chamber pot in his path, he would smile right on through it. He was positively besotted. Feelings Bryson was certain never to have. Especially not now that his fate was tied to one of the eligible British maidens in London.
“We’re nearly there,” Ashbury said eagerly, nodding toward the line of London townhouses but not specifying which one until they were standing in front of it. Not overlarge, but not too small. The house was whitewashed, though it hadn’t seen white in years—he guessed that the green coating on the stone was made from mold or pollen, but he wasn’t sure which. At least all the shutters were in place, and the windows did not appear to hold any cracks.
The gates to the Grysham household were open, and the men rode in, a groomsman waiting to take their horses. The household was adequately staffed, it would seem, at least on the outside.
After a single knock on the front door, the butler opened it, staring at them for a brief second. He didn’t appear to have been notified of their coming, and Bryson wondered if Miss Freya had done that on purpose. Another little jab to get under his skin. Well, he wasn’t going to allow her pettiness to get in the way of Ashbury’s good time.
“Lord Lovat and Lord Ashbury to see Miss Grysham and Miss Freya,” Bryson said, knowing Ashbury wasn’t going to utter a single syllable.
“Right this way, my lords.” The butler opened the door wider, allowing them entry into the foyer.
The two of them removed their hats upon entry. A grandfather clock that had seen better days ticked in the corner, and a dog barked from somewhere, but other than that, there was no other sound in the house. Not what he would have expected from a house full of five women, their parents and servants. My god, had they already stepped out?
Bryson glanced at Ashbury to see if he had any similar worries, but the man stood there like a simpleton, clutching his hat and smiling.
The household was modest, much plainer than Bryson would have expected, though he wasn’t certain why. In his encounter with them the day before, the ladies hadn’t appeared overly lavish, so he supposed it wasn’t fair to assume they lived that way. Even if he harbored suspicions that they wanted to.
They were escorted into the drawing room, where the ladies were sipping tea demurely with their mother. Quiet as church mice. Bryson narrowed his eyes, feeling as though yesterday he’d met the real Miss Freya, and today he was being introduced to her shadow.
Both of the men bowed to the ladies as they stood to greet them.
“Miss Grysham,” Ashbury stuttered, pressing his hat to his belly as he stepped closer to the eldest sister. “I trust you are well this morning?”
Bryson stared at him, a little shocked that his friend had taken the reins. He’d fully expected to be the first one to speak.
“I am, my lord,” Miss Grysham replied in a pleasant tone, a small smile on her lips, equally surprising both Bryson and her sister, Freya.
“Baroness,” Bryson said, bowing to their mother. “I dinna believe we had occasion to meet yesterday.”
“Oh.” She fluttered her hand toward him, blushing. “We did not. A pleasure.”
He kissed the air above her hand and then caught a flurry of activity from Miss Freya, who abruptly came to stand beside her mother as if she wanted to say something or maybe shove him out of her house until she thought better of it and stood perfectly still and straight.
“Shall we, then?” she asked briskly as if she couldn’t wait to get this chore over with.
The feeling was mutual. “Indeed, we shall.” He offered her his arm, fully anticipating her to breeze past him but then annoyed by how delicate her hand felt against his elbow as she took it.
If her skin had been rough, he’d have been prepared, but her touch was pleasant, as much as he didn’t want it to be. His dealings thus far with the woman had been a story of contradictions. His mind didn’t seem in accordance with the rest of him.
Lady Grysham fussed after them, mouthing one order after another to both girls.
“Do make sure you have your gloves. Do take your parasol. Don’t let it drop. A true lady holds a parasol in one hand and the reins in the other. Nobody likes a woman with spots on her face, and do make sure you…” The ridiculous, and unrealistic, list went on and on with murmured agreements from her daughters.
As Bryson turned to bow one last time to the baroness, three pretty heads appeared from the top of the stairs. The other little misses of the house.
Bryson couldn’t help but smile, reminded of his sister Lucy. He waved, and they gasped and jumped back out of view.
“My sisters,” Miss Freya said as if he’d asked aloud. She glanced up the stairs fondly, showing Bryson a softer side of her he hadn’t expected to see. “Mother forbade them from being in the drawing room, but perhaps upon our return, you won’t be so lucky as not to make their acquaintance.”
Bryson chuckled. “Spoken like a true older sister.”
“Have you an older sister?”
He hadn’t meant to let it slip. No one ever talked about Virginia anymore, though they had plenty to say about Lucy, his younger sister.
“I did,” he said as they descended the steps and headed toward the men’s horses, where two additional mounts had been saddled for the ladies.
As he saw Ashbury assisting Miss Grysham, Bryson prepared to help Miss Freya onto her mount, but the lass took hold of the pummel and hoisted herself up effortlessly. She glanced down at him with a raise of her brow and a little smile curling her lip.
He couldn’t help but smile back. She’d proven him wrong. And she deserved to gloat about it. For the briefest second, he thought he would like to get to know her better. Because the expression she’d flashed him spoke of layers and secrets begging to be discovered.
Freya arranged her skirts, and when her mother rushed out with the parasol she’d deliberately left behind, she looped the reins around her wrist, and then popped open the parasol, giving him a look that was telling. He also noticed—she had quite a lot of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks. The odds of her tossing the parasol when her mother was out of eyesight were high.
“What did you mean by you did have an older sister?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts and sending him in a direction he didn’t want to go.
Och, but he’d hoped that topic had been dropped where he’d left it, but alas, she was staring at him in a way that said she wouldn’t let it go even if he wanted her to. Besides, if he didn’t answer, she’d go looking and find about it anyway. Better to tell her himself.