Page 21 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Ladies. Lord Lovat. Lord Reay.” Gavan Douglas stood just behind her giving her the sense he was the dark to their laughter and sunlight.
Ava didn’t need to turn to feel his presence, commanding, cool, and utterly immovable.
Freya arched a brow, clearly sensing the tension. “Lord Darkwood. How delightful to see ye. How are ye finding the garden party?”
“A lovely distraction,” Gavan said flatly, though his gaze was fixed squarely on Ava. “Might I have that word ye promised me?”
Bryson, wisely, ushered the women a few steps away. “Well, on that note, I think it’s time for more lemonade.”
They left Ava standing alone, parasol in hand, facing the gentleman annoyingly demanding her attention.
Before Ava could speak, a familiar, honeyed voice slid between them.
“Lady Ava,” Lachlan Ferguson said smoothly, approaching with a glass of lemonade in hand. “Ye are the verra image of summer this afternoon. I was just telling Miss Douglas that I’m convinced ye’ve managed to coax this garden into blooming solely for the occasion.”
Ava forced a pleasant smile, though she caught the flicker of heat in Gavan’s jaw as Lachlan offered her the glass. “How gallant, Mr. Ferguson. But I assure ye, the flowers hardly need my help.”
“Perhaps no’.” Lachlan’s grin tilted, teasing, his gaze briefly catching hers with a glint of something too knowing. “But they bloom brighter for having ye near.”
It was exactly the sort of line meant to land lightly, but Ava felt the weight of Gavan’s stare, cool and cutting, settle between them like a blade.
“Mr. Ferguson,” she said sweetly, “ye’re too kind. Now, I’m certain Miss Douglas is missing your company.”
Lachlan bowed with a theatrical flourish. “Then I’ll return to her at once. But do save me a moment later, my lady. There are things I’d love to discuss with ye, if ye can spare the time.”
“Perhaps,” she said, turning the word into a weaponized smile.
Lachlan sauntered away, and Ava didn’t need to glance at Gavan to know his jaw was still set tight.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked lightly, refusing to acknowledge the storm radiating from his posture.
“No,” he said bluntly. “Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Ava bristled. “Ye sound as if ye expect me to obey like a scolded child.”
He leaned just slightly closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Ye’ve been parading my cousin in front of half the county. The least ye can do is give me five minutes to speak plainly.”
“Five minutes?” she echoed, arching a brow. “My, Lord Darkwood, ye’ve grown positively generous.”
His mouth twitched, with irritation or perhaps amusement she couldn't tell. But he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he reached out, resting a hand lightly against her elbow. “Now, Ava.”
Her pulse betrayed her with a treacherous flutter, but she didn’t let him see it. “Verra well,” she said crisply. “But only because I’m curious what ye could possibly say that warrants dragging me away from my own party.”
He guided her off the main lawn, toward a shaded path lined with climbing roses. Ava kept her parasol tilted, more for armor than for shade.
“Ye handle men like chess pieces,” Gavan said finally, once they were out of earshot.
She blinked at him, the parasol pausing mid-swing. “Pardon?”
“McRae. Kinnaird. Boyd. I saw ye,” he said, his tone flat but edged. “Redirecting them. Keeping them away from Moira. And making sure Ferguson had her to himself.”
“Ah,” she said, voice bright. “So ye were watching.”
“Dinna make this a game.”
“It is no’,” she replied lightly, though her grip on the parasol tightened. “It’s matchmaking. Surely even ye can tell the difference.”
