Page 54 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Moira reached out, hesitant, then took Ava’s hand where it clutched the quilt. Her fingers were warm, steady. “I do no’ know what happened at the festival,” she said softly. “But I saw your face before ye ran. And I know ye, Ava. Ye dinna hide from gossip. Ye dinna let anyone see ye undone. And yet here ye are.”
Ava bit down hard on her lip, the memory of that kiss, and everything after, flooding back so sharply she thought she might be sick. The warmth of his mouth on hers, the shock of his hand at her waist, the way the world had gone silent except for the sound of her own heart pounding. And then, he'd declared his regrets, and the words the crowds had whispered. The spectacle. His public defense felt more like being paraded through the square than being protected.
Her voice came out strangled. “I was such a fool.”
Moira frowned. “We all have moments when we feel like a fool. I certainly did when I heard what Ferguson said. But ye… what do ye have to feel foolish about?”
That only made Ava feel worse. Asking for pity from the friend who’d been openly humiliated.
“Fair point. Perhaps I have no’ always been honest with ye. I’m a fool for wanting something I should’ve stopped wanting years ago.” She dragged a hand through her messy hair, frustrated tears springing fresh to her eyes. “Do ye know why I meddle in everyone else’s love lives, Moira? Because it’s easier than facing my own.”
Moira squeezed her hand. “Ye think I dinna know what it’s like to be afraid of wanting too much. To want and be left to wonder if it makes me foolish?”
Ava let out a broken laugh. “I want Gavan. Once upon a time, I wanted him more than my next breath. And then, after everything, after years of silence, I thought…” She shook her head. “It does no’ matter what I thought. Because what I got was humiliation. Again.”
Moira’s brow furrowed. “Is that truly what ye think he intended? To humiliate ye?”
“Intentions dinna matter,” Ava said bitterly. “What matters is that now the entire county will think I’m some lovesick fool throwing herself at the brooding guardian of Darkwood Hall. And I canna bear it. I will no’.”
The admission hung heavy between them, raw and ugly.
Moira stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “Ava, I canna pretend to understand all of what has happened between ye and my cousin. But I know this, ye dinna deserve to hide in the dark for wanting something real. Even if it frightened ye. Even if it hurts. And I know Gavan has been brooding. Perhaps the two of ye should speak.”
Ava stared at her, the words clawing at the carefully constructed shell she’d built around herself.
Moira rose, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. “The festival was cruel to both of us. But I will no’ let one man’s mockery or one moment’s chaos define me. And ye should no’ let it define ye either.”
Ava swallowed hard. “That’s easier said than done.”
“Then I’ll help ye.” Moira smoothed her sleeve. “If ye’ll let me.”
Ava stared at her friend. Her sweet, earnest friend who’d once looked to her for guidance, and felt, for the first time in days, the faintest flicker of resolve.
She wasn’t sure yet how she’d face the county again, or Gavan, or even herself. But Moira was right. She couldn’t stay in the dark forever.
Moira stayed a bit longer, fussing with the curtains until Ava reluctantly let the light spill into the room. By the time she left, the tray of tea had gone cold, and Ava sat propped against the headboard, staring out at Heatherfield Castle gardens as if they might hold an answer.
They didn’t, of course. Answers rarely came so easily.
But action she could manage.
Ava did not sit in bed and let the county write her story for her. If they wanted a tale of the tragic spinster, humiliated and hiding, they would be disappointed.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the chill of the floorboards shocking her awake as she stood. Her body still felt heavy, unsteady, but her mind was sharpening.
If the rumors were undoubtedly still stirring, then she needed to know exactly what they were saying. Every scrap of it.
And there were only two people in the Highlands who could be counted on to bring her the full measure of local gossip, wrapped in wit and sharpened like a blade: Freya and Poppy.
By the time Eleanor returned to clear the breakfast tray, Ava was already seated at her writing desk in her dressing gown, quill in hand.
“Fetch fresh stationery,” Ava asked, ignoring the maid’s startled glance. “I need to send a note to Lady Reay and Lady Lovat that I require their company for tea this afternoon. Oh, and Miss Douglas as well,” she added, because Moira had earned a seat at this particular council. She would add that it was urgent, not caring at all if that seemed dramatic. Let it seem dramatic.
“Of course, my lady,” Eleanor said, bobbing a quick curtsy and scurrying off.
By noon, the east drawing room had been transformed into a salon of strategic hospitality. Fresh flowers in tall vases, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, and a table laid with delicate china and an array of cakes that could soothe even the most vicious gossip. Ava had donned a gown of soft pink trimmed in ivory, subtle, elegant, entirely unscandalized. She’d swept her hair up with the practiced ease of a woman who would not be cowed.
Poppy arrived first with all the unsubtle flourish Ava expected, eyeing her hostess with exaggerated suspicion. “Well, well. The elusive Lady Ava emerges. I was beginning to think ye’d expired in that big bed of yours.”
