Page 20 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Why, Lord Darkwood,” she said sweetly, tilting her parasol to block the sun, and perhaps to put something between them. “How lovely of ye to join us. I hope ye’re enjoying yourself?”
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”
Her smile sharpened. “How gracious of ye. But I’m afraid I’m rather busy ensuring my guests are happy. Including your cousin, who looks positively radiant at the moment.”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes flicked toward Moira and Lachlan before returning to her. “We’ll talk now, my lady.”
He spoke low enough that only she could hear, but still she bristled, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her parasol. “Ye’ll have to wait your turn,” she said lightly, as if he hadn’t just issued a demand.
Turning her back, Ava glided across the lawn with deliberate steps.
Mr. McRae spotted her first, breaking away from his conversation with Hannah and bowing low before meeting her gaze with light grey eyes. “Lady Ava. A fine gathering, as always.”
“Mr. McRae.” She smiled, light but noncommittal. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Verra much so. Though I had hoped to speak further with Miss Douglas.” He hesitated, tugging at his cuffs, as he turned toward the young lady in question in the distance.
Ava tilted her head, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Ah, but she seems already to be in conversation with Mr. Ferguson. I’d hate to pull her away when they seem so… well-matched.”
The flicker of disappointment on Ferguson's visage was more than noticeable, but he nodded. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” she echoed, already moving on.
Next was John Kinnaird, lounging like a cat beneath the shade of an elm with Mrs. Worton still chattering at his side. He caught Ava’s eye, his smile quick and calculating. “Lady Ava,” he drawled. “How verra fine ye look this afternoon. A woman of your taste might advise a man on how best to capture a lady’s attention.”
Ava knew precisely which lady he meant.
“Advice?” She arched a brow, parasol tapping against her shoulder, then leaned in, to whisper. “Perhaps begin by staying upright for an entire evening without seeking refuge in the nearest punch bowl.”
Mrs. Worton laughed loud enough to startle the birds from the tree, perhaps afraid her peacock hat would take flight. Ava hadn’t been as quiet as she’d hoped. She wasn’t one to be mean, and she’d only meant to tease, but Kinnaird’s grin faltered.
“Ah. Witty and merciless, as ever.”
“I tease, Mr. Kinnaird.” Ava gave him a sweet smile that said she’d try very hard to keep him from Moira, too, then swept past before he could recover and ask her again.
Alistair Boyd was the last. He approached her near the lemonade table, his soft blue eyes too sincere for his own good. “Lady Ava,” he said, bowing with a kind of careful grace. “I… I hope ye might convey my regards to Miss Douglas. I’ve been unable to find a moment to speak with her.”
She softened, just slightly. Boyd was different. Too kind to toy with, too earnest for the sharper games she often played. “I will certainly convey them,” she said gently. “But ye must allow her some time. A garden party is overwhelming for anyone new to the season.”
His smile wavered but held. “Of course. Thank ye.”
Ava left him with a polite nod and turned toward the lemonade table where Freya, Bryson, Poppy, and Dougal had gathered, laughing about something Ava suspected was at the expense of half the men in attendance.
“Darling,” Freya said, sweeping Ava into an air-kiss. “Ye’ve outdone yourself. This is divine. Husband, do you no’ think this garden is just begging for another party? Preferably one where no one’s trying to marry off half the county?”
Bryson chuckled. “I think our hostess would be most disappointed if that were the case.”
“On the contrary,” Poppy said with a sly smile. “I think Ava would be relieved if she could marry off half the county and be done with it.”
Ava raised her parasol like a sword. “Dinna tempt me. I may put the entire guest list in pairs before the week is out.”
They laughed, but Freya leaned in, lowering her voice. “So tell me. Is Lachlan Ferguson truly interested in Lord Darkwood’s cousin? Or is he only here for the spectacle?”
Ava’s gaze slid toward the rose arbor where Moira and Lachlan were still deep in conversation. “He’s interested.” Her voice was firm, a mix of conviction and hope.
“Mm,” Freya hummed, exchanging a glance with Poppy. “Well, keep an eye on that one. Men that charming rarely belong to just one woman.”
Before Ava could respond, a shadow fell over their little circle.
