Page 3 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Smirks like that were dangerous.
“Good day, my lord,” she said, deciding that it would in fact be prudent if she were the one to leave.
“I’ll escort ye,” he volunteered.
“My legs and faculties are just fine.”
The absurd man had the nerve to stare down at her legs, again.
“Aye, they do appear to be quite fine.”
Ava let out a groan. “Must ye be so crass?”
He raised a brow. “Must ye be so irritable?”
Ava’s mouth dropped open and a squeak came out. The start of something rude no doubt before she managed to stop herself.
“I said good day!” she said a little too loudly.
Gavan’s smile deepened and he gave a mock salute which only rendered her speechless, and her vision to go red.
“Why ye?—”
“There ye are.”
Saved by her father, Ava rushed toward him. “Papa, I was looking for ye.”
He patted her hand where she threaded it through his elbow, warm and familiar, and she waited for him to escort her to their waiting carriage.
But he didn’t move.
Instead, he stood there smiling, first at Gavan, then back at her, and Ava’s stomach plummeted. Oh no. That look. That hopeful gleam in his eyes. Her father, dear man, was reading entirely too much into the moment, as if Gavan had said something meaningful or glanced at her a second too long. As if they hadn’t just exchanged barbs like they always did.
He wanted her settled, she knew that. He was so desperate for her to find a match, and here Gavan stood, the perfect candidate in his eyes. Not in hers.
But she couldn’t blame him, not really. He’d been devoted to her mother—God rest her soul—and he simply wanted Ava to know that kind of joy. Like her sisters had. But he didn’t seem to understand, she just wasn’t ready and may never be.
“Lord Darkwood, I trust ye’re well.” Her father’s eyebrows lifted in that maddeningly hopeful way, as if he were expecting Gavan to drop to one knee and declare undying love that very moment.
Ava wanted to yank on her father’s arm and disappear into their carriage. She didn’t want to hear anything else from Gavan, especially not in that insufferably smooth voice. And she certainly didn’t want her father mistaking politeness for courtship. She wanted to be very far from both of them.
This instant.
“Lord Heatherfield, always a pleasure to see ye,” Gavan replied with practiced charm.
“We’ve missed your company of late.” Her papa patted her hand again, a knowing little squeeze that made Ava bristle. As if she shared his opinion. As if she hadn’t just envisioned pushing Gavan into the ornamental fountain.
Their fathers had been dear friends, which meant their families had spent years in close company, long afternoons of cards and cordial disagreements, hunts across sun-dappled fields, winter dances where the children were allowed to stay up too late. Ava could still remember Gavan as a lad. Bold, brash, always trailing mud behind him and daring her to race him to the stables.
But that was before.
After his father’s death, Gavan had been all but swallowed by the estate. He’d inherited not just the land, but the quiet ruin left behind by illness and neglect. Fields untended. Tenants behind on rent. Livestock sold off too early.
She supposed she ought to feel some measure of sympathy.
And perhaps she did, somewhere far beneath the layers of irritation he stirred up every time he opened that smug, maddening mouth.
“I do hope to call on ye soon, my lord,” Gavan said. “But I’ve been busier than usual with the estate, given the loss of several crofters.” He gave Ava a pointed stare.
