Page 6 of The Scot's Perfect Match
He’d tell her to stop. He’d make her stop. But part of him wondered if she wasn’t doing what he couldn’t, offering people a way out. A future that didn’t look like toil and sacrifice and silence.
He clenched his fists. He wasn’t just angry, he was afraid. How many more would leave?
How long until there was no one left to leave?
Sometimes he wondered if he’d already failed, before he’d even begun. He hadn’t inherited a thriving estate. He’d inherited a mess held together by habit and hope, a shell of something once prosperous. His father had meant well, had loved the land fiercely, but love alone didn’t mend fences or keep families fed.
Gavan stared at the croft, the silence pressing against him like a judgment. Seamus was gone. And more would follow if he didn’t do something. While he wanted to blame Ava, deep down, the guilt sat heavy in his gut. If Seamus had felt seen, valued, needed, would he have stayed? Had Gavan given him reason to believe in this land, this future? He wasn’t sure anymore. What he did know was that he couldn’t afford to lose another soul. Not to Canada. Not to Ava. Not to the truth that he might be failing his people.
He’d talk to Ava. He’d talk to his people. Hell, he’d talk to the sheep if it meant finding a way to hold this land together. Someone had to stand guard at the gates while everyone else was looking for a way out.
3
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady must never presume to know the heart of a gentleman better than he knows it himself, though she may flatter herself with such fancies.
Ava climbed out of the carriage, stepping down into the street of the Scottish town, Strathcael, she had lived in since she was a child. Everything was familiar to her, the cobble-lined streets, the shopfronts painted in cheerful colors, green, blue, cream, with flower boxes overflowing from their windowsills. The scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakery, mixing with sea air and peat smoke. Children played near the fountain. The butcher’s bell jingled as a cart pulled up. Everything hummed with the comfortable rhythm of home.
Even the people were familiar and dear.
She waved to the baker, asked how the milliner’s daughter was doing, since she’d been sick with a fever the previous week.
And then delighted the fabric shop owners by ordering a full bolt of fabric from Paris.
She was already planning the next ball that she was going to host at her father’s house. He agreed only because he assumed she was doing it for herself.
But she had other ideas.
She stepped out of the fabric shop, the sun warm against her cheeks, and paused at the top of the stone step, mentally rearranging the guest list for the third time that morning.
Her father believed she threw balls for her own amusement, which was only partially true. While she did enjoy a well-curated evening of gowns and gossip, Ava never hosted without a purpose. A dance floor was a battlefield. A guest list was a chessboard.
With the London season over, eligible men were flocking back to Scotland like peacocks without a parade. Thomas Mackintosh had just returned from Oxford, still awkward but now with the slight confidence of a man who could quote Virgil. Lord Baird’s second son had acquired an inheritance and a better cut of suit, which made him suddenly presentable. Even the shy MacCallum twins were of age now, their dimpled cheeks more attractive than adorable.
Three potential pairings already circled in her mind. She would, of course, observe carefully, but she didn’t believe in leaving these things to chance. Love was fine and well, but it was inefficient on its own.
She adjusted her gloves and stepped forward, eyes scanning the street automatically for familiar faces. If there was a newcomer in town, or an overlooked gem, she’d find them. There was always someone in need of a nudge toward the altar. And Ava loved nothing more than a matchmaking challenge.
She noticed a young woman, with her lady’s maid, that she had never met before walking down the street. She was wearing a soft pink gown with a matching bonnet, and her hair curled gently, framing her face and peeking beneath the brim.
“Good afternoon,” Ava said with a bright smile, stepping smoothly beside the unfamiliar young woman. “I dinna believe we’ve met, I’m Lady Ava Woodmoor, of Heatherfield.”
The woman turned toward her with an open, pleasant smile. “Miss Moira Douglas. Lovely to meet ye.”
Ava took in the soft pink gown, the carefully curled hair beneath the bonnet, the gentle, unhurried cadence of her speech. Gracious. Innocent, perhaps. Definitely new.
“I thought ye might be visiting,” Ava said lightly. “We’re quite a small community, new faces dinna often go unnoticed.”
“Aye, my cousin lives here,” Moira said, still smiling. “I’ve come to spend the Scottish season with family.”
“How lovely,” Ava replied, already filing the lass under potential project. Ava’s eyes lit with polite interest. “Then ye must come to my ball this weekend. It’ll be the first proper gathering of the season, perfect for getting to know people.”
“I’d love that,” Moira said. “Thank ye.”
“And who is your cousin, if I may ask?”
“Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood.”
