Page 38 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Flattery. That was Ferguson’s weapon, and he wielded it with surgical precision. “It’s rare,” Lachlan said lightly, voice pitched just enough to carry, “to meet someone who can hold a room so completely without even trying, Lady Ava. Ye must teach me your secret.”
Ava’s smile was polite, but her eyes softened, just barely.
Gavan’s jaw clenched. Was she enjoying this, or was she merely placating the man? Either way, the sound of her laugh twisted like a blade in Gavan’s chest. Once, long ago, she’d laughed like that with him, on a stolen summer evening, barefoot in the heather, when the world still felt like theirs.
The meal began with a rich soup, followed by roasted pheasant glazed with a spiced and sweet sauce, each course punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses. The talk at their end of the table was light, society gossip, the season’s latest scandals, and Ava held court as if she’d been born to it. Ferguson’s hand brushed her sleeve once as he gestured, casual but deliberate.
Gavan wanted to reach across the table and rip off the maggot’s arm.
Ferguson’s voice floated over the candlesticks; silken compliments wrapped in feigned humility. “Lady Ava,” he said, loud enough for half the table to hear, “I must confess, I’ve rarely seen anyone manage to outshine both the menu and the décor, but here ye are.”
Ava’s lips curved in a polite smile, but Gavan caught the coolness in her eyes. She was annoyed. “Careful, Mr. Ferguson. If ye keep flattering me so openly, our hostess will have cause to regret inviting ye.”
Poppy, seated at the far end, caught the line and laughed. “Nonsense, Ava. I invite him precisely for the entertainment value.”
The table erupted in laughter. Gavan, for his part, kept his eyes on Ava, who he could have sworn gave him the slightest smile.
“Lord Darkwood,” Poppy called from the head of the table, interrupting his silent watch. “Ye’ve hardly said a word tonight. Is my dinner uninspiring, or are ye simply hoarding your conversation for later?”
“I was on’ aware I had any inspiring conversation worth hoarding,” Gavan replied, with a genuine teasing smile in Poppy’s direction.
The table laughed, and Poppy only grinned wider. “Oh, ye do. Ye simply enjoy torturing us by keeping it to yourself.”
Ava didn’t look at him, but he saw the faintest, knowing curve of her lips, like she’d heard the remark and filed it away.
By the time the last of the dessert was cleared and the port passed around, Gavan felt as tightly wound as the coiled spring of a clock. Ferguson had spent the entire dinner performing, charming as ever, perfectly timed quips, compliments that drew out Ava’s rare, unguarded smiles, only to be followed by what he could have sworn was an eye roll.
And Ava—damn her—had let him, even if she was clearly not impressed.
When the footman announced that the drawing room was ready for post-dinner entertainment, Poppy rose and clapped her hands together. “Charades!” she announced, her eyes sparkling. “Ye know the rules. Pair off if ye wish, or go it alone, but no sulking in corners. That means ye too, Lord Darkwood.”
He didn’t bother hiding his scowl, which only made her laugh. Gavan loathed charades. But Poppy adored it, and apparently, so did Ferguson, who looked as though the evening had been designed for him.
Moira brightened, tugging at Gavan’s sleeve. “Oh, this will be fun. Ye must join.”
“Nay.”
“Aye,” she said, unbothered by his tone. “Ye’ve been sulking all evening. Consider this penance.”
As they rose from the table, Ava brushed past Gavan, her skirts fluttering against his knee, deliberate or not, it left his nerves buzzing. “Do try to look less like ye’re attending your own execution, Lord Darkwood,” she murmured without looking at him.
His reply, “Perhaps I am,” was lower than he intended, more confession than jest.
Before he could answer, Ava crossed the room, joining Ferguson near the hearth. She glanced his way, just a glance, but it landed like a weight, and offered the barest flicker of acknowledgment, a silent challenge in her eyes. What game was she playing at?
Gavan took his usual place at the periphery, watchful and unobtrusive, but his gaze kept straying to Ava. She glided through the room as though she owned the space, laughter bubbling easily as she allowed Ferguson to lead her toward the forming circle.
Gavan’s grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles went white. He’d told himself he was here for Moira. But watching Ava now, radiant and entirely too close to Ferguson, he couldn’t pretend his focus hadn’t shifted.
“Lord Darkwood,” came Poppy’s voice, light and teasing, as she swept by with a glass of champagne. “Do try no’ to look like ye’ve been sentenced to hard labor. It’s only charades.”
“I was no’ aware charades had become mandatory,” Gavan muttered.
“Oh, it is in my house.” Poppy grinned, then glanced toward Ava and Ferguson with a knowing tilt of her head. “Though I suspect some of our guests will be more… entertaining than others.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t trust himself to.
The game began, laughter erupting as Poppy mimed some absurd scene that left Dougal guessing wildly and the rest of the room in stitches. Gavan barely saw it. His gaze kept returning to Ava, how gracefully she moved, how effortlessly Ferguson drew her in, how completely she seemed to forget herself when she smiled at the charlatan.
