Page 13 of The Scot's Perfect Match
This was the plan, the very picture of it. If she could align this pairing, perhaps Gavan would stop looking at her like she’d burned down his village.
Then she felt it, that pull.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Gavan was watching. The McCrays had moved on. His posture was still, his jaw tense. She wasn’t close enough to see the exact expression in his eyes, but she didn’t need to. She knew the look. Disapproval wrapped in barely concealed interest.
She lifted her chin just slightly and smiled.
Let him stew.
Let him see her doing something capable.
She turned back to Moira and Lachlan. “Well,” she said, her tone light, “I’ll leave ye two to chat. I must see to the musicians before the next set.”
And with that, Ava glided away, the satisfaction of her orchestration warming her step.
She turned back toward the floor just as the musicians struck up a new reel, guests already pairing off. Before she could step away, a familiar voice brushed her shoulder like a shadow.
“I believe the next dance is mine,” Gavan said smoothly, offering his hand.
Ava blinked, forcing her mouth into a polite smile even as her heart took a traitorous leap. “Is it? I dinna recall penciling ye in.”
He gave a faint shrug. “Then consider it a spontaneous request.”
“I’m no’ sure we’d dance well together,” she sniffed. “Ye’re more likely to step on my feet.”
“I’m quite light-footed, actually,” Gavan said, his tone dry. “Shall we test the theory?”
She didn’t want to take his hand. She also very much wanted to take his hand. And people were starting to stare. Which, naturally, meant she did.
They moved onto the floor, the music swelling as his hand settled against her waist, the other taking hers with infuriating confidence. They began to turn, the room falling away in a blur of candlelight and murmurs.
“Ye’ve outdone yourself,” he murmured. “A glittering affair. Champagne, crystal, eligible bachelors in droves. Moira is dazzled.”
“Good,” Ava replied, voice breezy. “She deserves to be.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “But you need to stop.”
Her head tilted just slightly, their rhythm never faltering. “Stop what, exactly?”
“Ye know what. My cousin. The crofters. Whatever matchmaking empire ye’ve begun building out of this bloody ballroom.”
“Empire?” She let out a laugh, light and cold. “Ye make it sound like I’m plotting a coup.”
“I think ye are. One wedding at a time.”
She looked up at him fully now, eyes narrowed just enough to be provocative. “If I recall, the last time ye came to my house to scold me, ye left thoroughly chastened.”
“And yet here I am again. Slow learner, apparently.”
“Ye must be, if ye think I’ll apologize for helping Moira meet someone delightful.”
“I dinna want her caught up in your projects.”
“She’s no’ a project. She’s a guest. And a verra kind one.”
“And my responsibility,” he said, voice tightening. “I promised my uncle I’d see her through the season. And I’m no’ sure I trust Lachlan Ferguson.”
