Page 11 of The Scot's Perfect Match
That wiped the smile from her face. Color rose to her cheeks, and she turned toward the door with a sweep of her skirts. “I think we’re finished here. I’ll see ye at the ball, though if we dinna speak, I canna say I’ll be devastated.”
He followed her movement with narrowed eyes. “Dinna meddle, Ava. No’ in this. It willna end well.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “If anyone will be ending unwell in this situation, it willna be me.”
He paused at the threshold. Behind him, her skirts whispered as she turned away. She hadn’t promised to stop. In fact, she had promised war. Which was almost worse.
As the butler opened the door behind him, Gavan paused on the threshold, catching one last glimpse of Ava disappearing down the corridor in a sweep of lavender and determination. He admired her energy, damn it, he always had, even as he dreaded the chaos it left in its wake. He’d come here to make a point, to put an end to it. And yet somehow, he left with nothing resolved. If anything, he felt slightly relieved she was setting her sights on his cousin instead of another crofter. But the guilt settled fast. His uncle had entrusted him with Moira for the Scottish season, since her mother had passed away. She’d arrived with her lady’s maid as chaperone only recently. How had she already gotten into Ava’s sights?
Though he supposed it could be worse, at least if this was a matchmaking scheme he would be there to intervene.
5
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Mr. Asher McRae: 1500 per annum. A scholar and minor landowner in Scotland.
The chandeliers glittered like captured stars above the ballroom, casting their glow over velvet gowns, polished boots, and faces flushed with anticipation. Music swirled through the air like a perfumed breeze, light and flirtatious. Ava stood near the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below with a practiced eye and a knotted stomach.
It was, by all accounts, a perfect night.
And yet.
She tugged her gloves higher, her fingers fidgeting against the silk. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. Just... focused. This ball was more than just a social event, it was a carefully laid strategy, and her most promising opportunity yet to repair what she may have fractured. If Moira Douglas left this castle with a respectable gentleman on her arm, preferably one of the dozen of eligible bachelors expected to attend, Ava could finally stop feeling like she owed Gavan something.
Her eyes scanned the crowd until they found Gavan.
He’d arrived not ten minutes before, Moira at his side, looking radiant and eager. He looked, as always, composed and unreadable, except to her. She knew the storm in his brow too well. And aye, he was handsome. Infuriatingly so. Especially when annoyed. He hadn’t acknowledged her yet, but she could feel his gaze on her like a spray of cold rain, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
Tonight, she would fix things.
Or at least make a very good show of trying.
She stood near the edge of the ballroom, surveying the crowd like a general on the brink of battle. Her father’s castle had never looked more dazzling, crystal chandeliers aglow, violins lilting through the air, a sea of silks and satins swirling across the floor. New arrivals from London mingled with Highlanders returned for the season. It was a debutante’s dream and a matchmaker’s playground.
Her gaze drifted to a tall, striking man across the room she hadn’t seen before. He had the look of someone who didn’t just arrive at a ball, he graced it. His black coat was cut just so, his jaw strong, his eyes sweeping the room as if cataloging it. Curious.
A whisper to her left confirmed it: Lachlan Ferguson.
So that was the infamous Ferguson heir, son of a viscount, just back from London, and already the subject of several hopeful mothers’ matchmaking schemes. He had the confidence of someone used to attention and the ease of someone who didn’t particularly need to earn it.
She watched him a moment longer. Broad shoulders, devilish smile, and the casual elegance of someone used to moving between the city of London and the Highlands of Scotland. She hadn’t even spoken to him, and she already knew exactly where to place him.
He was perfect, for someone else. She set her sights on the rest of the ballroom, cataloguing the gentlemen and ladies present.
“Lady Ava,” came the voice, warm, amused, and unmistakably directed at her. “I beg your pardon at my impertinence; I simply could no’ wait for someone to make an introduction for me.”
She turned to find Lachlan Ferguson bowing. Just as she’d expected. Confident. Polished. Handsome, in the way men tended to be when they were very aware of it. And entirely impertinent. She found that rather interesting.
He was even more handsome up close, unfortunately. The kind of handsome that made one’s heart skip a beat before good sense kicked it back into rhythm.
Ava smiled, composed as ever, though her thoughts moved quickly. Of course he’d seek her out. That was what men like Lachlan Ferguson did, gravitate toward the room’s most eligible lass. But that didn’t mean she had to play into it. Not tonight. Not when Moira needed a proper introduction, and she herself needed a distraction from the man brooding across the room with the Douglas jawline and the permanently furrowed brow.
Besides, Lachlan seemed like the sort who could easily be swept up in romance. And Moira, with her soft-spoken charm, might just be the breeze to do it.
She tilted her head, allowing just enough warmth into her expression to play the part of gracious hostess.
But before she could speak, her gaze flicked over Lachlan’s shoulder and landed squarely on Gavan Douglas who was staring directly at her. Moira stood at his side, her lady’s maid hovering just behind as chaperone.
