Page 24 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava fixed them both with a smile sharp enough to end the inquiry. “Because, darling Freya, he is tiresome. And I am bored of talking about him.”
But as the conversation shifted to Lady Drummond’s terrible new hat and the next assembly’s seating, Ava couldn’t quite banish the memory of Gavan’s voice from her mind.
Or the way his words had cut through all her careful plans.
9
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Friendship among ladies is most commendable, so long as it does not encourage confidences which ought never be spoken aloud. Resist whispering with a friend too often in company, for whispers invite suspicion, and suspicion breeds scandal.
Gavan stood at the edge of the verdant lawn, far enough away from the clusters of laughing guests that no one would mistake his watchfulness for participation. From this vantage point, the party unfolded like a well-rehearsed play. All the actors in fine costumes issuing their polished lines.
And at the center of it all was Ava.
He watched her with practiced disinterest, at least, that’s what he told himself, as she floated between conversations, parasol in hand, laughter bubbling at all the right moments. She had a way of making everyone feel as though they’d been singled out, like the sun had briefly shifted just to shine on them. No wonder Ferguson gravitated toward her like a moth to flame.
The damnable cad.
And there he was now, the phony beaux, Lachlan Ferguson, leaning far too close to Ava beneath the shade of an oak, saying something that made her laugh. Not her polite hostess laugh, but the softer one, the one she didn’t hand out freely.
Gavan’s fists flexed, itching to call the man out.
This was precisely the problem. Ferguson worked his charm like a tradesman with a well-honed tool, practiced and effortless. And Ava, for all her intelligence, had a dangerous fondness for charming trouble.
He turned his gaze to Moira, who stood a few paces away speaking animatedly with Mrs. Worton. Oblivious. Too trusting by half. The sweet lass was so eager for a match after her season in London had been fruitless. And he couldn’t blame her. Every young lady seemed to have marriage on the mind, except for Ava.
If Ferguson weren’t in the picture, he’d let them all go about their nuptial business, but that self-absorbed man… He couldn’t let this stand.
The conversation with Ava had already churned through his mind a hundred times, her dismissive smile still needling him. She didn’t believe him about Ferguson. Of course, she didn’t, she never believed him until it was too late.
But this time, he’d make her see.
Men like Ferguson fed on admiration, and when it stopped coming, they moved on without a backward glance.
Moira couldn’t afford that kind of ruin.
No, if he wanted to protect his cousin, he needed more than whispers. He needed proof.
His jaw set as the first thoughts of a plan began to take shape. Ferguson’s charm might win over ballrooms and drawing rooms, but Gavan had learned long ago that charm rarely survived scrutiny. He’d dig. Quietly. Speak to the right people, those who weren’t swayed by a winning smile. Men who played cards with Ferguson. Servants who saw what their masters preferred to remain hidden. Those who spoke when brandy loosened their tongues.
And when he had what he needed, he’d lay it out plainly, before Ava, before Moira, before anyone else got swept into the handsome disaster that was Lachlan Ferguson.
The soft trill of Ava’s laughter drifted across the lawn again. He forced himself not to look.
He couldn’t afford to think about her, not now. This wasn’t about her.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
The plan sharpened in his mind with every passing minute, and yet his feet were already moving before he’d thoroughly thought it through.
Lachlan Ferguson was still beneath the oak, his posture lazy, his expression practiced, a man perfectly at home wherever he landed. Ava had drifted on to another cluster of guests, leaving Ferguson alone with a glass of champagne and an air of self-satisfaction that set Gavan’s teeth on edge.
“Ferguson.”
Lachlan turned at the sound of his name, all easy charm and disarming smiles. “Lord Darkwood,” he said warmly, as though they were old friends. “I was just thinking how rare it is to see ye at one of these gatherings. Lady Ava throws a splendid party, doesn’t she?”
Gavan ignored the bait. “Ye seem to be enjoying yourself.”
