Page 40 of The Scot's Perfect Match
She turned back toward the circle, refusing to acknowledge the heat that had crept up her neck. Ferguson leaned in to whisper something, but she didn’t catch it, too aware of the weight of Gavan’s stare across the room.
“Lady Ava,” Poppy sang out, breaking the spell. “Ye’re next!”
“Oh no,” Ava said, shaking her head with mock dread. “I canna possibly follow your performance, Poppy.”
“Nonsense. Ye’ll be brilliant.” Poppy gave her a shove toward the center of the room.
Ava took her place in the open space, smoothing her skirts and tilting her chin like a performer preparing for the stage. The crowd called out suggestions, laughing, shouting, teasing, until finally one was chosen: a Shakespearean tragedy. Delightful.
She mimed with exaggerated flourish, sweeping her arm to her brow in despair, then collapsing dramatically into an imaginary grave. Laughter erupted and Ava allowed herself to bask in the humor. Playing games came easily to her, always giving her a sense of control.
“Romeo and Juliet!” Lachlan called out with a wide and confident grin.
“Macbeth!” Dougal shouted over him.
A low, steady voice cut through the din from the back of the drawing room. “Hamlet.”
Her gaze snapped to where Gavan leaned against the mantel with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. And yet his mouth quirked like he already knew he was right.
“Correct,” Ava said, forcing her voice to stay light.
The room cheered, and Poppy announced the next performer, but Ava barely heard it. Gavan hadn’t looked away. Neither had she.
Later, as the circle shifted for the next turn, she found herself standing near him, too near, really, the fire warming one side of her and his presence warming the other in a way she couldn’t name.
“Hamlet?” she asked quietly, as the others laughed and mimed in the center.
His mouth curved just slightly. “Ye give yourself away when ye’re performing despair.”
“That’s a compliment?”
“An observation,” he said, but his voice had softened.
They were so close, she could feel the brush of his sleeve when he shifted, could smell the faint mix of cedar and the smoky hearth clinging to his coat. She told herself to step away, to rejoin the others, but her feet didn’t move.
For a heartbeat, it felt like it used to, when they were younger, before the years of distance and barbed words. The air between them was taut and full of something unspoken and impossible to name.
“Lady Ava,” Ferguson called from across the room, snapping the thread. “Ye must be on my team for the next round.”
Ava blinked, stepping back just enough to breathe. “Of course,” she said, forcing a bright smile.
But as she moved to Ferguson’s side, she felt Gavan’s heavy, unrelenting gaze follow her. And she hated how much she wanted to look back.
Ferguson’s voice, smooth as poured wine, drew her back into the circle and said, “Our defeat shall be glorious.”
She arched a brow as she joined him. “Ye’re awfully confident for a man who has no’ seen me mime anything but death.”
“I have faith,” he said with that easy, devastating grin. “Besides, I can carry us to victory.”
She almost laughed at that, but the memory of Gavan’s knowing gaze still clung to her, making it harder to give Ferguson her full attention.
“Acting pair number two!” Poppy called. “Your word is—” She whispered it into Ava’s ear with a wicked smile, and Ava bit back a laugh. A nursery rhyme. Lovely.
She and Ferguson launched into it, Ava crouching and miming exaggeratedly fetching a pail. At the same time, Ferguson hammed it up with sweeping gestures, tossing invisible water over his shoulder like some hopelessly dashing farmer. The room howled.
“Jack and Jill!” Gavan guessed instantly, and the room erupted into applause.
Dougal crowed in triumph as he clapped Gavan on the back.
