Page 30 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava felt an unfamiliar pang—panic? Frustration? Something sharper?—at the edges of her chest. She had curated this evening to perfection. Orchestrated every moment like a maestro at the height of her career. And now Moira was straying toward a quiet, bookish man who hadn’t been part of the equation at all.
And worse, she looked happy about it.
“A problem?”
Ava didn’t need to turn to know who had joined her.
“No’ at all,” she said, snapping her fan closed and forcing a smile as Gavan stepped up beside her. “Except your charge has just gone into the gardens alone.”
His gaze followed hers toward the open doors. “She likes him. Besides, her maid has just gone out to follow.”
Ava spied the maid slipping out. “She is being careless,” Ava countered, too sharply.
“No’ as careless as some,” Gavan said quietly.
Ava’s throat went dry.
She wanted to argue. To remind him that Lachlan Ferguson was still the better match, wealth, status, connections. To point out that Asher McRae’s appeal would wither the moment the excitement of a crowded assembly wore off.
But she didn’t. Because even from across the room, she’d seen the way Moira looked at him. Not in a performative way, or in the strategic way Ava tried to maneuver people around.
Moira’s interest in McRae was honest and genuine.
And for the first time in a very long while, Ava wasn’t sure she liked what real looked like.
Unable to stop herself, she drifted toward the open doors, skirts whispering across the wooden floor. Holding her fan tight, she flipped it open to hide her face. She told herself she was simply being a conscientious friend. Ensuring Moira wasn’t overwhelmed, and that she hadn’t wandered off into the night with a man she barely knew.
But the truth was sharper, more unsettling... Ava wanted to see.
The evening air was cool against her heated skin, scented with night-blooming jasmine. She stepped just beyond the threshold, tucking herself into the shadow of a column.
There they were. And her maid, acting as a sentry just a few feet away.
Moira and Asher stood near the edge of the garden, the moonlight casting a silver glow over them, yet still in full view of anyone who cared to observe. Moira’s hand rested lightly on his forearm as he spoke, his voice low, earnest, and Ava realized with a pang, intensely captivating. She couldn’t catch every word, but phrases carried to her on the breeze.
“…never met someone who loves the sea air as much as I do…”
“…it makes me feel alive, like the horizon is endless…”
Moira laughed softly, the sound unguarded and lovely. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
Their conversation was intimate, simple even. Not the polished flattery of Lachlan Ferguson that sometimes felt... put on.
A strange ache bloomed in Ava’s chest that she couldn't quite identify. She should be pleased for Moira, shouldn't she? After all, happiness was the point of matchmaking. But Mr. McRae wasn’t who she’d planned for her friend to fall for.
“Spying now, are we?”
Ava whirled around, catching her fan before it dropped to the stone patio.
Gavan stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame as if he hadn’t just crept up like a phantom. The lamplight behind him threw his face into a half-shadow, making him look every bit a wolf.
“Observing,” she corrected, lifting her chin. “There’s a difference.”
His gaze flicked past her to Moira and Asher, still lost in quiet conversation. “Seems ye’ve lost control of your little game.”
Her spine stiffened. “It is no’ a game.”
He moved closer, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly low register that always managed to unsettle her. “Call it what ye like, Ava. But she is no’ playing by your rules anymore.”
