Page 45 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Later, in the quiet of his study, Gavan nursed a glass of whisky and the thoughts he hadn’t dared name. The study smelled faintly of smoke from the banked fire, and the air was heavy with the weight of every sleepless night he’d spent here. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, rattling them. He set down his drink, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet, and for a moment, he simply stood there, feeling the room close in.
The house had gone still, the only sound the faint hiss of the fire and the occasional groan of old wood settling. He’d loosened his cravat, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest.
He’d meant to think about Moira, about Asher, about Lachlan Ferguson, about all the careful maneuvering this season demanded of him. But every time he tried, his mind wandered back to Ava.
The silver silk of her gown caught the firelight. The way her unguarded and warm laughter slipped out before she could tame it. The faint scent of lavender that filled the air when she brushed past him.
And the look she’d given him in the drawing room. A challenge, a question, a memory of everything they’d been and everything they hadn’t dared to be.
He swiped a hand over his face, hating himself for lingering on thoughts of something he couldn’t have.
He’d spent years convincing himself those feelings were dead, buried under the weight of duty, of family, of all the walls they’d built between themselves. But tonight had undone him in ways he couldn’t explain.
She wasn’t just Lady Ava, the matchmaker who infuriated him with her games. She was Ava, the lass who used to ride beside him over the moors, who teased him for being too serious, who once looked at him like she saw someone worth knowing.
And damn him, but he wanted her. Still.
He remembered a summer afternoon, long ago, when she’d raced him through the fields, her hair wild, her laughter echoing as she beat him to the ridge and teased him mercilessly for being too slow. He remembered the softness in her voice the night she told him she’d always believed he’d do something remarkable with his life. When had they stopped being that to each other? When had it all gone wrong?
The thought sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
Likely, when his father had passed and Gavan had become consumed with trying to build up his estate. No time for anything other than rebuilding.
He’d told himself he only cared about this season because of Moira, because Ava’s schemes could put his cousin’s heart, her future, at risk. Because her schemes had already put his lands at risk. But that wasn’t the entire truth, not really. Tonight, when Ferguson brushed his hand along Ava’s back, when she leaned toward him, smiling in that soft way, Gavan had wanted to drag the man away by his collar.
Not for Moira’s sake.
For his. For Ava’s.
He gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened. This couldn’t go on, not like this. He’d either have to pull away completely and let her play her games while he swallowed the ache it left behind. Or…
Or stop pretending he didn’t want her.
The whisky burned on the way down, but it didn’t steady him. Nothing could, not with her face still so sharp in his mind.
Gavan leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire until the embers blurred.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d decide whether to keep running from her, or finally stop.
But deep down, he already knew the answer.
The following morning, Gavan entered the breakfast room earlier than usual, with a surprising lightness to his step despite having slept little. The fire had been stoked, the silver coffee service gleaming beside a covered platter of eggs and toast. Moira was already seated by the window, sunlight pouring over her as she picked at a plate of scones, humming faintly.
She glanced up, immediately narrowing her eyes. “Ye’re… sprightly,” she said slowly, as if testing the word on her tongue. “That’s suspicious.”
“I’m no’ allowed to be in good spirits?” Gavan replied mildly, helping himself to coffee.
“No’ when ye usually look like someone’s asked ye to shovel manure before breakfast,” she said, grinning over the rim of her teacup.
He gave a small snort but didn’t rise to the bait. “Perhaps I’ve simply decided to stop being insufferable for one morning.”
Moira arched a brow. “Or perhaps ye’ve realized that I was right about Asher McRae being perfectly lovely company.”
“Perhaps,” Gavan said, letting the word stretch deliberately. He took his seat across from her and produced a folded calling card from his jacket pocket, placing it on the table between them. “In fact, ye must have made quite the impression. Mr. McRae sent this.”
Moira’s hand flew to her mouth before she reached for the card, cheeks warming as she unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the neat, confident handwriting, and her blush deepened.
“He wishes to call on me this morning,” Moira said, still beaming.
