Page 37 of The Scot's Perfect Match
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Watercolors are preferred for a young miss; oils are far too bold, requiring both mess and patience unfitting for a gentle hand. A lady must never sell her paintings, lest she be mistaken for a tradeswoman.
The wheels of Gavan’s carriage crunched over the gravel drive as they approached Dougal and Poppy’s estate, the soft glow of light spilling from the tall windows. They were late, Moira had reminded him of that fact three times between the last village and the long curve of the drive, and the set of her mouth now made a fourth unnecessary.
“Ye do realize,” she said, smoothing the pale blue skirts that rustled around her ankles, “that people will assume we intended to make an entrance. Which would be fine if ye didna look as though ye’d rather be anywhere else.”
“I dinna care what they assume,” Gavan replied, keeping his gaze fixed out the windows as the house loomed closer, ablaze with light and laughter.
“Well, I do,” Moira snapped, though her voice carried more exasperation than true heat. “Ye could at least pretend to enjoy yourself for one evening. It’s a party, Gavan, no’ a funeral.”
His mouth ticked into something that was almost a smile but not quite. “The two are no’ always mutually exclusive.”
She groaned, leaning back against the velvet seat. “Ye’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said mildly, “ye’re still here.”
“Because ye’re my only way of getting here,” she muttered. “If I’d known ye were going to sulk the entire evening, I’d have begged Ava for a seat in her carriage instead.”
As they slowed up the long drive, Gavan felt the evening settle around his shoulders like armor. The house ahead pulsed with life, footmen darting from carriages, the muffled hum of laughter spilling through open doors, the warm scent of spiced wine and roast pheasant filtering through the air. Moira fussed with his cravat one last time before the footman opened their door. “At least look as though ye dinna despise parties,” she chided. He endured it without complaint. These gatherings always felt like theater to him, everyone playing a part. And he’d never been good at pretending.
The carriage slowed, the coachman’s call cutting off their sparring match. A footman hurried forward as they rolled to a stop, pulling open the door and offering a hand. Moira swept out first, a vision of eager youth despite her irritation, casting Gavan one last pointed look over her shoulder.
“Do try no’ to ruin the evening,” she said sweetly.
Gavan followed her down. The laughter spilling from the open doors felt jarringly at odds with the leaden weight in his chest.
He wasn’t here for amusement. Not tonight. He was here to watch. And, if necessary, to stop things before they went too far.
Gavan adjusted the cuffs of his jacket as the MacLeod footman announced their arrival, his name echoing into the warm, glittering air of Poppy and Dougal’s ballroom.
“I’ll have ye know Poppy will tease me for arriving last,” Moira said, though her smile betrayed her anticipation. “And she’ll tease ye for looking like ye’d rather be brooding at home.”
“She’s no’ wrong,” he said dryly, earning himself a swat on the arm from Moira, and a knowing look from her lady’s maid chaperone.
The light of the ballroom enveloped them. The glow of chandeliers spilled across polished floors, the scent of roast pheasant and spices mingling with beeswax and champagne. Gavan and Moira had only just started to head toward their hosts when a footman announced dinner. The assembled guests began drifting toward the grand dining hall.
“Perfect timing,” Poppy MacLeod said as she swept toward them in a confection of pink silk, her smile as wide as the glittering chandelier above. “Lord Darkwood, Miss Douglas, ye’ve arrived just in time. I’ll no’ have anyone say I let my guests go hungry.”
She looped an arm through Moira’s and guided her into the dining room with hostessly precision, tossing Gavan a teasing glance over her shoulder. “And ye, my lord, are seated just opposite Lady Ava. I do hope ye’ll manage to smile at least once tonight. I hear it’s good for digestion.”
Gavan managed a smile and a grunt in response.
The dining table glittered like a jewel box, crystal decanters, fine china trimmed in gold, silver candlesticks casting soft light over arrangements of white roses. Gavan took his seat with practiced indifference, though his pulse betrayed him when he caught sight of Ava.
She swept into the dining room in a gown of silver silk that clung and flowed in equal measure, the candlelight catching on its folds, giving it the impression of moving water in twilight. Pearls glimmered in her hair; pearls he hadn’t seen her wear since… He forced the memory down. Her gaze swept the table, warm and happy, until it caught his and cooled. It lingered for half a beat too long, deliberate or accidental, he couldn’t say, before she flicked her gaze away with practiced grace. That single glance set his pulse hammering.
And, of course, at her side was Lachlan Ferguson, ever the charmer, leaning close, saying something that made her laugh lightly, tilting her head toward the bastard in a way that felt far too intimate.
She moved near her seat, conversing easily with Lady Drummond, until she stood opposite him at the table.
“Lord Darkwood,” Ava said with a polite incline of her head. “How good of ye to join us.”
He bowed slightly, ignoring the smugness in Ferguson’s smile. “Lady Ava.”
The seating was a careful dance of social maneuvering, Poppy at the head, Dougal at the other, Ava and Ferguson side by side halfway down the table, and Gavan placed directly opposite them, perfectly positioned to endure every word, every glance, every laugh they shared. Moira was beside Gavan, and Mr. McRae was on her other side. Poppy was clever to have realized that was a better potential match than Ferguson.
As they sat, Lachlan leaned toward Ava with reptilian charm, his voice low and intimate enough that Gavan couldn’t hear the words. But whatever he said made her laugh, not the polite, airy kind she gave strangers, but that soft, unguarded sound Gavan hadn’t heard from her in years.
