Page 68 of The Scot's Perfect Match
A hush rippled through the room.
Ava stepped into the ballroom like she’d been plucked from the pages of a fairytale. Her gown was made of a pale blue silk that cascaded like moonlight over her frame, the skirt whispering with each measured step. Tiny crystals gleamed along the bodice, sleeves and hem, catching the light like stars. Her hair, dark and gleaming, was swept up and pinned with matching diamond stars.
For a moment, Gavan forgot how to breathe.
She didn’t smile at first. She didn’t need to. The room bent around her, every head turning, every voice lowering as if instinctively bowing to her quiet, commanding presence.
And then her eyes found his.
The noise, the crowd, the weight of dozens of stares, all of it fell away. And he only had eyes for her.
Gavan’s pulse steadied. Moira nudged his arm discreetly, as if to say, “Go on, ye idiot,” before slipping off toward Asher, who had been waiting like a man aching for his bride.
He started to move toward her, and at the same time, she stepped in his direction. Her chin was held high, every inch the poised, confident lady. But he saw past the performance, saw the faint tremor of nerves in her hands, the way her gaze darted briefly to the floor before finding his again.
By the end of this night, Lady Ava Woodmoor would no longer be untouchable, she would be his.
As they drew closer, the swell of chatter resumed around them, but Gavan barely heard it.
“Lord Darkwood.” Ava's voice was poised but softer than he expected, almost as if she'd saved that intimate tone just for him.
“Lady Ava.” Gavan bowed low, his own voice deep and gravelly. When he straightened, the words he’d rehearsed jumbled in his mind, blocked by one line, the one that came out, “Ye are stunning.”
“Thank ye,” she said, tilting her head, a shy smile playing on her lips.
He offered his arm. “Would ye dance with me?”
She inclined her head and took his offered arm, her gloved fingers warm against his sleeve. “I’m shocked. Dancing at balls now, my lord, I thought ye’d sworn it off,” she murmured.
“I needed the right dance partner,” he said, leading her toward the floor.
The quartet slid seamlessly into a waltz, slow and melodic, the notes filling every shadowed corner of the ballroom with quiet promise.
When he placed his hand on her waist, Ava stiffened for just a breath, then relaxed into his touch. He led her through the familiar steps, her skirts brushing against his shins as they began to turn.
When they were adolescents and Gavan’s mother had wanted him to learn how to dance, Ava had been invited to the lessons. Back then, he hadn’t known what to call the feeling of holding her this close. Now he did.
Desire.
And something more profound, he could no longer pretend away. Love.
“Ava,” he began, his voice lower now, meant for her alone.
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and curious. He could drown in their depths.
“I’m glad ye came tonight,” he said carefully.
“As am I,” she said.
“I need ye to know,” he continued, the words clawing their way out before doubt could drag them back under, “that I’m sorry for what I did to ye, all those years ago. I was a coward. With my father’s poor health, and then his passing, I didna want to leave anyone behind… That meant ye. But, now I know, I dinna want to be the man who only hovers at the edge of your life. I want to be part of it. To love ye. To give ye the best years of my life.”
He drew her closer, their steps slowing until they were no longer waltzing so much as standing still in the center of the floor.
Ava’s breath hitched. The words she’d been longing to hear for so very long stilled her heart in her chest and then sent it pounding thunderously. “Gavan?—”
But whatever words she’d been about to utter faltered on her tongue when his thumb brushed across her hand, his gaze burning into hers like a vow.
“I want ye, Ava,” he murmured. “I want ye to be mine.”
