Page 67 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava looked down at the floor, heat prickling her cheeks. “I would like that verra much.”
The modiste gave her a long, assessing look that saw far more than Ava intended to share. “A gown fit for a love story,” she said simply, and bent back to her work.
As measurements were taken and fabrics discussed, airy layers of organza over silk, crystals along the bodice that would catch the light like stars, Ava allowed herself to imagine walking into the ballroom not as the woman everyone whispered about, not as the hostess keeping up appearances, but as someone wholly herself. Someone worthy of being gazed at by the man whose kiss haunted her.
The modiste smiled without looking up. “Wear diamond stars in your hair, and with the gown covered in crystals, ye’ll shine a star, and stars are for wishes, my lady.”
Hope… Ava swallowed, wanting it so badly, and afraid at the same time to let herself believe. She nodded, trying to remain still so as not to get pricked as the modiste wrapped fabric around her hips.
“When you walk into that ballroom, my lady, your admirer will be unable to look anywhere else.”
Ava drew in a shaky breath and finally let herself hope.
22
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
It is with no small degree of shock that society has discovered the sudden disappearance of Mr. Lachlan Ferguson of Glenbrae. Known for his silver tongue and his restless eye, Mr. Ferguson was last seen at a gathering where his attentions were divided rather too freely between two blushing debutantes. By dawn, both the gentleman and his promises had vanished. Rumors abound that he has fled north to escape the consequences of too many entanglements; others suggest an angry male relation may have hastened his departure; and a few, more romantic souls, insist he has been carried off by a brokenhearted admirer. Whatever the truth, one thing is certain, Lachlan Ferguson’s absence is proving far more entertaining than his presence.
Gavan tugged at his cravat for at least the third time. The damned thing felt like a noose around his neck. Bloody hell.
“Ye’re fidgeting,” Moira said beside him, her tone a mix of amusement and exasperation as they stood at the entrance to the grand hall, greeting guests.
“I am no’,” he muttered, though he tugged again at the starched knot.
“Ye are. Ye have no’ been this twitchy since your first dance at Almack’s.”
He shot her a look. “I was no’ twitchy.”
“Ye nearly stepped on the niece of a duchess and then forgot her name.” Moira grinned, positively glowing in her engagement finery. “’Twas adorable.”
He sighed through his nose, resisting the urge to loosen his cravat again. “Ye were barely a bairn then, how would ye know? And I dinna recall being mocked by the bride-to-be as being part of my guardian duties.”
“Consider it a bonus,” she said sweetly, then turned to greet another wave of guests with a practiced curtsy and that delighted laugh she’d perfected since her betrothal. “Besides, my father will be in attendance, and all guardian duties can be returned to him.”
Gavan forced himself to focus on the tasks at hand. Smiling stiffly, shaking hands, enduring well-meaning congratulations for Moira’s match to Asher. And Asher, damn him, looked every bit the ecstatic groom, beaming as though he’d won a prize, which he had. The lad had gone from Highland farmer and scholar to fiancé of a Douglas in what felt like the blink of an eye, and yet Gavan couldn’t bring himself to be anything but genuinely pleased for both of them.
It should have helped his nerves. It didn’t.
Because this wasn’t just Moira’s night.
He scanned the glittering ballroom, the golden chandeliers blazing above a sea of silk and taffeta. Music swelled from the quartet at the far end, the lilting and vibrant notes of a Scottish reel wrapping through the air as couples turned and twirled and leapt across the polished floor. The scent of roses, hundreds of them, mingled with champagne and melting candle wax. A picture-perfect betrothal ball, one that he knew Ava had a hand in designing.
Which made it feel almost like a battlefield.
Because she wasn’t here yet. Would she arrive fashionably late or not at all?
It’d been several days since he’d gone to Heatherfield Castle, since he’d coaxed her into practicing archery together, and announced he wanted to court her. Every night since he’d been haunted by their kiss. The kiss that had stripped him of every careful defense he’d built. He hadn’t dared call on her in the days since, giving her space, though every hour had stretched like an eternity. He’d sent gifts of flowers, books, and a journal. Things he knew she’d like…
But tonight, that ended. He wasn’t going to avoid her anymore. It was time to stop the games. Gavan was going to propose.
The thought steadied him. He’d already secured her father’s permission. “About damn time,” Lord Heatherfield had said with a knowing smirk, and Moira had made her opinion clear, too. “If ye dinna do it soon, Gavan, I’ll propose for ye,” she’d declared, hands on her hips.
He’d spent his life being deliberate. Careful. Especially since the death of his father, when he’d had to take on not only the duties of the estate, but also to rebuild it. And yet for the first time in years, his path forward with Ava felt simple.
Then the doors opened.
And there she was.
