Page 8 of The Scot's Perfect Match
"Thank ye so much, Lady Ava," Moira said. "I’m delighted to make a friend so quickly after coming into town."
"Of course. Any cousin of Gavan is always a friend of mine." Ava practically choked on the words, but she had a new thing, a new project, and she was not going to let this go.
“My cousin speaks highly of ye,” Moira offered.
Ava nearly tripped over a shoe sizing stick haphazardly discarded, which in turn horrified the salesclerk. Ava, not at all offended, waved away the profusions of apologies with a smile.
“Does he?” Ava asked lightly, her voice pitched just a little too high.
“He said ye’re verra… capable.”
Capable? Ava blinked. That was what he’d said? Not charming. Not elegant. Not even tolerable. Capable. Like a governess. Or a stable hand. Or a particularly well-trained hunting dog.
She forced a smile, trying not to imagine strangling him with one of the pastel ribbons.
“How flattering,” she said, crisply. “And did he mention just what I was capable of?”
Moira only smiled and shrugged, clearly unaware of the emotional wound her cousin had just inflicted with his choice of words. “I didna have a chance to ask, but I would be happy to have him clarify.”
Capable. Ava was going to need a strong cup of tea. “Oh, goodness no. Let us just keep that between us.”
Besides, if she could focus on Moira, she could distract herself from her father’s increasing intentions for her to wed.
The longer she remained unwed, the more his gaze lingered when certain gentlemen entered the room, the more he "just happened" to mention someone’s eligible son over breakfast.
He wasn’t cruel about it, of course. He adored her. But love could still apply pressure. It came in the form of gentle suggestions, like invitations sent to bachelors with modest fortunes and acceptable lineage. It arrived with furrowed brows and offhand remarks: You know, your sisters were already engaged at your age.
Ava bristled at the memory. Her sisters had always followed the rules. Always played the part. Ava had never quite managed to be what the world wanted.
And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had offers, some respectable, some even flattering. But none of them had made her feel anything. Certainly not what she imagined one ought to feel when promising the rest of one’s life.
No, she’d rather be alone than bored.
That was why she focused on others. On finding them matches. On arranging their futures. It kept everyone from asking too many questions about hers.
And perhaps, if she managed to make enough happy endings for everyone else, she wouldn’t have to explain why she still hadn’t chosen one for herself.
As they shopped and chatted, Ava found herself, somewhat to her surprise, actually enjoying Moira’s company. The lass was warm and gracious, with a sincerity that made Ava feel almost… disarmed. That was rare. Alarming, even. But rather than retreat, Ava found herself leaning in. Someone like Moira deserved a man who was equally kind and genuine, not one of the preening peacocks who came to town thinking charm alone could secure a future.
Ava didn’t trust charm. She trusted intention. She trusted character.
She also trusted herself, especially when it came to arranging other people’s futures.
She glanced sideways at Moira, already imagining the short list of candidates. This wouldn’t be difficult. Sweet girls like her were practically begging to be matched.
And truly, if anyone was going to help Moira find a perfect match, it might as well be Ava.
4
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Whispers abound that a certain young lady has made a hobby of arranging hearts as though they were bouquets. Several couples are said to owe their unions to her schemes, though some will claim those matches were less than ideal. Others warn her meddling has already stirred discontent, and that Cupid’s apprentice may soon find herself undone by her own arrows. A lady should be content to arrange her gown and her flowers, not her neighbor’s affections.
The ride on horseback to Heatherfield Castle was a familiar one for Gavan, having visited more often than any other acquaintance of his family in Scotland.
The moors stretched out before him, rolling hills peppered with purple thistles and yellow gorse. The air was crisp and damp, laced with the scent of peat smoke. To his right, the loch reflected a pewter sky, unmoved by the afternoon sun attempting to break through the clouds and warm the earth. Sheep grazed in clusters along the ridge, indifferent as ever. A hawk cut a slow circle overhead, then drifted on, bored by the stillness.
This was Scotland as it had always been, beautiful, stubborn, and hard.
