Page 14 of The Scot's Perfect Match
That caught her. Ava blinked. “Ye dinna trust him?”
“I have my reasons,” he said, tone clipped, not offering more. “Just… keep that in mind.”
Their steps slowed for the final turn. His gaze locked with hers.
“Ava. Dinna meddle where ye don’t belong.”
Her pulse flickered at her throat.
Ava's breath hitched slightly, the weight of his hand still firm at the small of her back as the music slowed. She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said something clever. But his nearness threw off her rhythm far more than his footwork ever could.
“Ye always do this,” she said quietly.
“Do what?” His voice was low, close to her ear now.
“Speak to me like I’m the problem when ye dinna even trust me enough to tell me what ye’re really worried about.”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, like he was biting back more than words. “Maybe because every time I speak plainly, ye twist it into a challenge.”
“Because everything with ye is a dare,” she whispered, not sure if she meant it as accusation or confession.
His gaze flicked down to her lips, just for a second, but it was enough to ignite something reckless in her chest. The music faded, and yet neither of them moved.
“I’m serious, Ava.”
“I know.”
Still, she didn’t step back. And neither did he.
It would be so much easier if they truly disliked each other.
So much easier if he didn’t still look at her like that. And if she wasn’t careful, she might start looking back at him the same way.
6
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
When seated at tea, a lady should speak softly, as though her words were no stronger than the steam rising from her cup. Remember: the purpose of tea is not refreshment but performance.
The ride home was quiet, but only in the metaphorical sense. Moira chattered away beside him in the carriage, her cheeks still pink from the excitement of the ball. Her lady’s maid sat stoic, pretending to blend in with the cushions.
“Was it no’ splendid?” she said, beaming out the window as if the stars themselves were still dancing. “And Mr. Ferguson, Lachlan, what a dream. So refined. And tall. Did ye see how he danced? Like he was born to it. And those eyes…”
Gavan grunted noncommittally, shifting in his seat as the carriage thudded rhythmically over the ruts in the road, a steady clunk-thump, clunk-thump that filled the silence between Moira’s excited bursts of chatter. The moon hung low above the hills, its glow turning the window glass as pale as bone. Outside, the hedgerows whispered with the rustle of small animals darting through the underbrush, and once, the low, mournful hoot of an owl echoed across the field. The scent of damp earth and heather seeped in through the carriage’s cracked window, mingling with the must of old leather and the faint perfume still clinging to Moira’s gown. The seat creaked faintly beneath Gavan as he shifted his weight, the sound loud in the quiet that fell when she paused to sigh dreamily. The whole countryside felt hushed, as if holding its breath, not peaceful, but expectant. And in the quiet, Gavan’s thoughts moved like storm clouds gathering at the edge of a darkening sky.
The moon cast enough light through the window to illuminate Moira’s glowing expression.
He should be happy for her. Encouraging, even. But something sat wrong in his gut, he couldn’t decide if it was the punch, the dancing, or the particular way Lachlan Ferguson had looked at Ava.
Too familiar. Too sure of himself. And Ava, damn her, had looked back, if only briefly, and dare he even think it, to annoy him?
“I think he might call on me,” Moira continued, clasping her hands in her lap. “He said he’s staying nearby with his uncle for the rest of the season. That must mean something, dinna ye think?”
“Means he’s in the country,” Gavan said dryly.
Moira rolled her eyes. “Dinna be so stuffy. Ye must admit, he made an impression.”
Oh, he did. On everyone, apparently. Including Ava. And that was the real problem.
