Page 19 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Gerald’s departure had left one of his largest holdings unmanned, and the three other crofters who’d preceded him to Canada left behind fields that wouldn’t tend themselves. Winter would be on them soon enough. He needed hands to keep the land running, coin to keep the people fed and the debts paid. He needed stability, but all he had was uncertainty.
And Lady Ava.
Her name alone made his jaw tense. He could still see her at the ball last night, radiant and irritating in equal measure, introducing Moira to Ferguson like she was bestowing a favor upon the both of them. She’d orchestrated that moment, just as she orchestrated everything.
Worse than that, he could still feel her hand in his from their dance, the light pressure of her fingers flexing once against his before she’d caught herself. The lilt in her voice when she teased him echoed in his ears, and the scent of lavender clinging to her hair when she’d leaned just a fraction too close still lingered in his nose. She’d walked away smiling, while he’d been left unsteady, wondering why he couldn’t seem to keep his distance.
She thought herself a harmless matchmaker. But she didn’t see the cost of her games, not to the people who left, not to the land they abandoned, and not to the cousin she was parading in front of every eager young man in the county.
He pressed a hand to the cool glass of the window, staring out into the coming night.
He’d need to do something.
A plan began to form, unwelcome, but necessary. He’d find out everything he could about these men: Ferguson first, then the others. Their families, their finances, their intentions. If they were unsuitable, they’d be discouraged from calling. Quietly, discreetly, but effectively. Moira would be kept safe, even if she didn’t thank him for it. But her father would.
His pacing resumed, his boots thudding against the thinning carpet. He needed to speak with Ava again.
He’d tell her plainly, once and for all, that she was to leave Moira out of her little games. He rehearsed the words in his mind, knowing full well how she’d turn them inside out. She’d laugh, no doubt, call him overdramatic, maybe even flutter her lashes like she had at the ball. But this time, he wouldn’t let her win.
But wasn’t that the real problem? That no matter how hard he tried, Lady Ava had a way of making him forget which side he was on.
8
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Lord Lachlan Ferguson, heir to Viscount Glenbrae: Due to inherit 3000 per annum and an estate in Scotland.
The garden party was, as Ava liked to think of it, a masterpiece.
Sunlight spilled across Heatherfield Castle lawns, setting the dewdrops on the grass glittering like tiny diamonds. The gardens were in full bloom, roses climbing over trellises, lavender humming with bees, and early summer peonies bursting in delicate pinks and whites. Long tables draped in pale yellow linens were laden with chilled lemonade, sugared strawberries, and delicate tea cakes. Laughter floated across the lawn like music, blending with the strings of a quartet tucked discreetly beneath a white awning.
It was lively, elegant, and, most importantly, intimate. Every detail designed for conversation. And for a previous introduction to bloom into something more.
Ava moved through the crowd with a hostess’s grace, the same grace she'd witnessed from her mother. Her pale green gown caught the sunlight, and a matching parasol rested lightly against her shoulder. Her father was in his element, chatting with men and pointing to his stable where a new stallion was waiting to stud.
She stopped to chat with the MacDonalds dressed in full tartan, complimented Mrs. Worton on her hat which resembled a peacock strutting across her silver hair and offered a knowing smile to Lady Drummond whose curious eyes scanned the whole party, and whose smile suggested she’d already discovered a few secrets. Ava made the rounds enough to suggest she’d orchestrated this whole gathering with nothing but kindness in mind.
In truth, it was a battlefield.
Her gaze drifted toward Moira, who stood near the rose arbor, blushing prettily as Lachlan Ferguson said something that made her laugh. It was working. They looked easy together, natural, just as Ava had planned.
Of course, the other three suitors were here too, and that required its own subtle choreography. Mr. McRae, though shy, had been steered toward conversation with Miss Hannah Grant, who shared his fondness for agricultural reform. More importantly, Hannah wasn’t Moira. John Kinnaird, an avid bird watcher, was planted firmly beside Mrs. Worton, who had an endless supply of amusing gossip and would, with luck, keep him entertained for the afternoon. And Alistair Boyd, poor dear, had been nudged toward a spirited widow who seemed delighted by his easy manner and strong arms.
Three gentlemen gently redirected. One gentleman, Lachlan, right where Ava wanted him.
She allowed herself a small, private smile.
This was why she loved matchmaking. The pieces always moved exactly into position, if you were clever enough to set them up just right.
She spotted two familiar faces across the lawn, Freya and her husband Bryson, chatting animatedly with Poppy and Dougal near the lemonade table. Ava made a mental note to join them shortly. Friends who understood the delicate balance between gossip and strategy were invaluable at events like this, and Freya, in particular, had a knack for noticing everything worth knowing.
“Admiring your handiwork?”
Her spine stiffened at the voice.
Of course he was here. He would have chaperoned his cousin, and yet, she’d completely forgotten that fact as she’d admired her handiwork.
Ava turned slowly, schooling her features into something serene, even as her pulse jumped. Gavan Douglas stood a few paces away, all dark hair, broad shoulders, and that maddeningly steady stare. He looked as out of place at a garden party as a wolf at a tea table.
