Page 39 of The Scot's Perfect Match
It was calculated, of course. Gavan knew Ferguson’s type. He’d seen it in London and Edinburgh, in the card rooms and gentlemen’s clubs where men like him thrived.
When his turn for charades came, Gavan declined with a curt shake of his head, earning good-natured jeers from Poppy. He didn’t care. His focus was fixed elsewhere.
Eventually, Ferguson excused himself from the group and sauntered toward the sideboard, pouring a glass of port with the unhurried confidence of a man who’d never been denied anything. Gavan seized the moment.
“Ferguson.” His voice cut through the hum of conversation like a blade.
Ferguson turned, all easy charm. “Lord Darkwood. Enjoying yourself?”
“I was no’ aware I was meant to,” Gavan replied flatly.
Ferguson chuckled, swirling the port in his glass. “Ah, well. Some of us manage to find enjoyment where we can.”
“Some of us also know when enjoyment becomes recklessness.”
That earned a brief pause, telling. Ferguson’s grin didn’t falter, though his eyes sharpened. “If ye’re referring to your cousin, I assure ye my intentions are?—”
“I was no’ referring to my cousin.” Gavan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But since ye mentioned her, I’ll remind ye that Moira’s future is no’ a game.”
Ferguson’s grin widened, testing. “And Lady Ava? Is she part of this little lecture as well? Ye two go back some years, do ye no’? One can always tell.”
Gavan’s jaw flexed. “Lady Ava’s reputation is no’ for ye to play with.”
Ferguson raised his glass in mock salute. “Ah. So this is about her. I wondered.”
Before Gavan could answer, Ferguson leaned in just slightly, enough for his words to hit like a challenge. “Careful, Darkwood. People might start to think your protectiveness of Lady Ava runs deeper than mere neighborly concern.”
Gavan’s blood burned, but he didn’t give Ferguson the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he stepped back, voice low and even. “Enjoy your port. But I’ll be watching.”
He left Ferguson standing there, still smiling, but with that subtle stiffness in his shoulders that told Gavan he’d struck a nerve.
When he glanced back toward the charades circle, Ava’s gaze had already found his. She’d seen the exchange, he could tell by the way her chin lifted, her brows knitting just slightly. Jealous, she was probably thinking. Of course. She would mistake his warning for something else entirely. Across the room, Freya leaned toward Ava, whispering something that made her smirk. Wonderful. Now they’d all have something to gossip about.
Gavan turned away first, his pulse hammering, his thoughts snarled.
He’d come here to protect Moira. But every step he took toward that goal seemed to drag Ava into the center of it, and her reputation, her safety, felt as precarious as his cousin’s.
And if he was wrong, if Ferguson’s intentions were genuine, what then?
Protecting them both could blowback spectacularly. But he had the proof still in his pocket that Ferguson had a past that was less than gentlemanly.
Her laugh with Ferguson clung to him like a burr. Was he protecting her, or punishing himself?
For the first time in years, Gavan wasn’t sure whether his instincts would save them, or ruin everything.
14
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Mr. Alistair Boyd: 145 per annum. A tutor of sound mind.
Ava had been laughing, actually laughing, not the polite kind she saved for tedious dinners, when the hush fell. She hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in Poppy’s ridiculous impression of a swooning damsel, until a shift in the air prickled along her skin.
Gavan was watching her.
It wasn’t unusual, not really. He’d been watching her all night, at dinner, across the drawing room, when Ferguson leaned in just a little too close. But this was different. His gaze wasn’t the cold, disapproving sort she’d grown accustomed to weathering. It was sharp, searching. It was… intense.
Her pulse skipped.
