Page 31 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Her pulse betrayed her, thudding against her ribs. “Ye think ye know everything, do ye no’?”
“No,” he said, stepping close enough that she could feel the faint heat of his presence, “but I know when ye’re scrambling. And ye are.”
The words hit their mark.
Ava opened her mouth to retort, to toss back some cutting remark that would put him back in his place, but his proximity scattered her thoughts like leaves in a storm.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
His eyes searched hers, dark and intent, as though he could see the frantic push-and-pull behind her carefully arranged expression. He was close enough that if she tilted her head, just slightly, she could brush her lips against his.
Her breath caught, and she hated that he noticed.
“This is no’ about winning,” she said finally, though her voice lacked its usual edge.
“No?” His gaze didn’t waver. “Then why do ye look like ye’ve just lost?”
The words cut deeper than she’d care to admit.
Before she could reply, laughter spilled from the hall, jolting them both back into the moment. Ava stepped back, opening her fan with a snap like it could shield her from the charge between them.
“Ye overestimate your insight, Lord Darkwood,” she said crisply. “And underestimate mine.”
His mouth curved, half amusement, half challenge. “We’ll see.”
And with that, he left her standing in the doorway, heart pounding, watching as Moira and Asher reentered the hall, still smiling at one another like they hadn’t just unraveled Ava’s carefully laid plans.
Ava lingered a moment longer at the doorway, fan half-open, the cool night air doing nothing to settle the heat that had climbed into her cheeks. She was glad that at least her friend hadn’t noticed her spying or at least was polite enough not to look her way.
Gavan was gone, back into the crowd, no doubt resuming his watchful post like a sentinel, but his presence clung to her like the ghost of a touch.
She’d thought she’d put all this away years ago. That silly, sharp ache that came from caring what Gavan Douglas thought of her. That unbearable thrill of being the sole focus of his too-serious gaze. It was supposed to be buried under layers of wit, poise, and purpose.
And yet here it was again, unwelcome, unbidden, rising like a half-forgotten melody.
She snapped her fan shut with a sharp crack and forced herself back inside, back into the safety of light and laughter and her carefully orchestrated plans.
But even as she slipped inside, smiling and pretending as though nothing had shifted, she couldn’t banish the feeling that something had.
That look in Gavan’s eyes, the one that had hovered somewhere between a challenge and something far more dangerous, would not leave her, unsettling her more than she cared to admit.
Because it felt like the beginning of something she’d thought she’d stopped wanting a long time ago.
11
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Mr. John Kinnaird: 500 per annum, small bird farm in Scotland, author of A Gentleman’s Guide to Bird Watching.
The letter from Malcolm arrived just after breakfast.
Gavan hadn’t expected it so soon, but Malcolm’s efficiency had rarely disappointed him.
He slit the seal with the edge of his thumb, scanning the neat, precise handwriting.
Dear Gavan,
You were correct to be suspicious. Ferguson’s debts are extensive—several markers taken out in London and Edinburgh, were covered by his uncle in quiet installments. The broken engagement last winter was indeed with the Ainsworth lass. It ended under “mutual understanding,” though my sources suggest she discovered him keeping company with an actress at the same time. His name appears in several gaming clubs, always in the company of men whose pockets are as deep as their reputations are shallow. Nothing criminal yet, but his pattern is clear. He charms, he spends, he disappears.
