Page 15 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Gavan leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to speak ill of the man, not without proof, but he’d heard things in London last year. Whispers. Debt. A broken engagement. A trail of heartbroken smiles left in his wake as his carriage rolled on.
None of it had ever been confirmed. But Gavan had a decent eye for men who knew how to play a room, and Lachlan Ferguson played it like a violin.
And Ava, with her schemes and spark, might just be the perfect tune.
His jaw tensed. He hadn’t said anything to her. Hadn’t warned her properly. He didn’t want to come off possessive, or worse, jealous. Because he wasn’t.
He wasn’t.
He just… didn’t want Moira to be hurt. Or Ava to be taken in by a smile that looked more practiced than sincere.
Moira let out a dreamy sigh beside him.
“Oh, and ye should’ve seen the way he bowed,” Moira gushed, fingers fluttering as if she could still feel the moment. “So precise, like something out of a painting, none of that sloppy dipping the other men do. And when Lady Ava introduced us, he said, oh, what was it?, ‘The evening just improved by a magnitude.’ Isn’t that clever? And he brought me a glass of lemonade without me even asking. Just noticed I was warm and dashed off. That’s the sort of attention a man ought to pay, dinna ye think?”
Gavan stared straight ahead, jaw tight. He tried not to listen. But every word sank in like a nettle pressed against skin. Clever. Charming. Dashing off for lemonade. Ava smiling. Moira glowing. And all of it too quick. Too easy. Too practiced.
“I think he likes me,” she said softly.
Gavan opened his eyes, watching the countryside pass in silver-edged blurs.
“Perhaps he does,” he said. “But ye must no’ put all your eggs in one basket. There are plenty of gentlemen to consider this season.”
Hell, he hoped the man was sincere in his interest. That the rumors were not true. Because if he wasn’t… if he turned out to be the same polished disappointment Gavan suspected…
He’d be damned if he let either of them find out too late.
Moira sighed again, this time softer, more hopeful. “He’s no’ like the other men, ye know. He listened. Really listened.”
Gavan almost smiled. That was the danger of men like Lachlan Ferguson, they knew how to listen just enough to make a woman believe she was the only voice in the room. Hell, with women other than Ava, he did the same.
He stared out the window, the dark hills rolling past like sleeping beasts.
Last winter in London, Gavan had been standing near the fireplace at his club, half-listening to the usual gossip when Lachlan’s name floated past in conversation between two baronets.
“Heard about Ferguson? Broke it off with the Ainsworth lass just before Christmas,” one had said, swirling brandy. “Family’s furious. Thought it was all but settled.”
“Furious, aye, but lucky,” the other replied with a laugh. “He’s charming but never stays long. I’d wager the man’s more in love with his own reflection than anyone else.”
Later that same night, Gavan cornered a footman and plied with brandy, let it slip that Mr. Ferguson had been found arguing in the garden with a married woman, her gloves in his coat pocket and her husband not far behind. The story shifted with each telling, but the tone never did, amused, disbelieving, faintly impressed. The way some men talked about Lachlan Ferguson, you’d think scandal was a virtue.
What had stayed with Gavan, though, wasn’t the stories. It was the look on Lachlan’s face when someone bested him at cards, a brief flash of tight-lipped irritation, quickly masked by laughter. Or the way he always seemed to glance around the room after delivering a clever remark, as if searching for applause. He didn’t just enjoy being liked, he required it. And Gavan had learned long ago that men who needed adoration rarely handled rejection well.
Gavan hadn’t paid much attention at the time; he didn’t travel in the same circles.
And Ava—Ava wasn’t one to offer adoration lightly. She challenged. She saw through polish. Which made Gavan wonder what, exactly, she saw in Lachlan Ferguson tonight.
Or worse, what Lachlan saw in her.
And now, watching his cousin twirl phrases like “charming” and “dashing” through the air, the memory returned sharp as a pebble in a shoe.
Moira reached for his arm. “Do ye think he’ll call tomorrow?”
Gavan hesitated. The words formed, heavy and bitter on his tongue.
He’s not who you think he is.
But instead, he only said, “I suppose we’ll find out.”
