Page 34 of The Scot's Perfect Match
He told himself he was riding away to clear his head. To think. To protect her, even if she hated him for it, didn't understand him.
But as the manor disappeared behind him, he knew the truth. He was carrying more than a letter. He was carrying the unbearable knowledge that when the time came to show her, nothing between them would ever be the same.
12
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady’s accomplishments should include music, drawing, and embroidery—pursuits which please without ever exhausting the mind. It is advisable for a lady to read poetry, but not philosophy, for one inspires romance and the other rebellion.
The wind still clung to her hair when Ava returned to Heatherfield Castle, her cheeks flushed from the brisk ride.
Her mare’s hooves struck the hard-packed ground in a steady rhythm that matched the pulse still drumming in her ears. The heather along the roadside bent in the wind, bowing low in chaotic unison, while the hills rolled out ahead of her like some great, green quilt.
A familiar mix of relief and suffocation engulfed Ava as she stared up at the grey stone walls of Heatherfield Castle bathed in pale sunlight. Her home. Her cage. She slowed the mare, savoring the last moments of wild freedom before she’d have to slip back into her role as dutiful daughter and matchmaker.
And still, under the wind and the creak of saddle leather, she swore she could hear her own voice chasing her: Running away, like always.
The words tasted different now that she’d spoken them aloud. No longer a taunt, but something nearer to an accusation or maybe even a confession. She handed her mare off to the waiting groom, but lingered for a moment in the courtyard, breathing in the earthy scent of horses and heather. The familiar scents steadied her, or at least, she told herself they did.
She hadn’t meant to shout at Gavan. Well. Perhaps she had.
The words had leapt out of her as Gavan’s back disappeared over the rise, carried on the same wild wind that had been whipping through her parasol at the garden party. Running away, like always. How many times had she wanted to throw that at him over the years?
But saying it hadn’t made her feel triumphant. It had only left her feeling exposed, like she’d ripped out a page from their shared youth that should’ve stayed tucked away.
No matter. She had no time to brood over Gavan Douglas.
Ava spent the rest of the morning bustling through Heatherfield like a woman possessed. She oversaw every detail, directing footmen to shift heavy furniture out of the east gallery, fussing over the angle of the easels, even insisting Cook rearrange the cakes into what she declared was a far more appetizing display.
It wasn’t just for Moira, though she told herself it was. This little soiree was for herself, too. To prove she could still create something beautiful, orderly, and ideally within her control, even when her thoughts felt anything but.
At one point, she paused by the gallery window, resting her fingertips against the cold glass. The wind still clung to her skin, but that wasn’t what set her pulse racing. It was the memory of Gavan’s nearness on the rose path, his shadow falling across hers, his gaze pinning her like a tapestry on the wall.
Running away, like always.
She straightened her shoulders and told herself the ride had only left her flushed. That was all.
By midmorning, the castle’s east gallery was transformed into something more playful than stately, a painting studio for the day. The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, and a long row of easels stood in the center of the room, draped with crisp sheets of paper. A row of tables held cakes of prepared watercolor paints, brushes, and water and soft cloths for rinsing, as well as smocks to protect their clothing. Even Cook had been conscripted, providing an array of cakes and champagne that lent the whole affair a celebratory air.
It wasn’t just for Moira, though matchmaking still hummed at the back of Ava’s mind. It was for her, too. A day to indulge in laughter, gossip, and creation with the women she trusted most.
By the time the clock struck noon, the gallery hummed with conversation. Poppy swept in first, bright as a summer bouquet in a daffodil-yellow gown. Freya followed, elegant and wry, with a footman dutifully trailing behind her to carry in a wrapped easel of her own. Moira, of course, arrived blushing and beaming, still glowing from all that had happened in the previous days, no doubt.
“Oh, Ava, this is perfect!” Poppy declared, spinning slowly in the space. “I feel like an artist already. Or at least a muse.”
“Ye are far too excitable to be a muse,” Freya teased, selecting a brush with a critical eye. “But perhaps a verra colorful subject.”
Ava smiled, adjusting the folds of her pale yellow morning dress. “We’ll all be subjects and artists by the end of it. The goal is to enjoy ourselves, no’ to produce masterpieces.”
“Speak for yourself,” Poppy said, pouring champagne into the tallest glass she could find. “I fully intend for the Royal Academy to beg me for this painting when it’s done.”
“Please,” Freya said, twirling her brush like a duelist’s blade. “If the Royal Academy sees mine, they’ll beg me to stop painting altogether.”
“Then ye’ll simply have to become a muse instead.” Poppy dabbed a scandalous splash of vermilion onto her paper. “Though I suspect ye’d terrify any poor artist who tried to capture ye.”
“Oh, I’d make them work for it.” Freya gave a wicked grin.
Ava laughed, letting the warmth of their friendly chatter fill her. This was why she loved these afternoons. No men, no obligations, just the bright, chaotic freedom of women who weren’t afraid to speak plainly.
