Page 27 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Even if Ava didn’t either.
10
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Rumors swirl like the Highland mists around Lachlan Ferguson of Glenbrae. Though his waistcoat is always in the latest cut and his smile deemed most persuasive, whispers suggest that his attentions are far less constant than his tailor. At last week’s assembly, Mr. Ferguson was seen escorting a certain young lady to supper with an air of devotion, only to be discovered in a shadowed alcove not an hour later, paying compliments of equal fervor to a widowed countess. Young ladies are advised to step lightly, for it seems Mr. Ferguson’s affections wander as freely as his eye.
The candlelight of the Strathcael assembly rooms had been soft, flattering, made for whispered confidences and planned encounters.
This was… different.
The rooms pulsed with a different kind of life entirely, crowded, chaotic, filled with the scent of beeswax and pine smoke, the hum of dozens of voices competing with the fiddles and pipes of the musicians in the gallery. The walls were draped with dark green fabric, the benches filled with townsfolk eager to watch the spectacle of gentry dancing alongside their own. And the floor, crowded, scuffed, alive, felt nothing like the perfectly polished spaces Ava was used to commanding.
It was thrilling, in its own way.
She stood just inside the entrance, her pale blue gown catching the light, a pearl comb glinting in her hair as she took in the scene. Her plan felt simple enough: keep Lachlan Ferguson’s attention fixed squarely on Moira. Manage the other suitors so they didn’t ruin the illusion. Keep Gavan out of her hair long enough to secure something like success.
And yet, for the first time in years, Ava found herself… off balance.
It wasn’t the noise, though it buzzed like a hive around her. It wasn’t the assembly room itself, or even the weight of her plan pressing down on her shoulders.
It was the memory.
She still couldn’t shake it, the hidden path, the scent of roses and summer heat clinging to her skin, the way Gavan had looked at her when they’d been alone. Close enough, she’d felt his breath when he’d told her she was meddling. Close enough, she’d thought, for one impossible, foolish heartbeat, that he might kiss her.
She hadn’t let herself think about that in years.
Not since the last time.
The winter ball. She’d been nineteen, giddy in a new gown, foolish enough to think her smile might coax a different one from him. He’d danced with her, a rare thing even then, and for one dizzying moment she’d thought it was more than politeness. Thought the way his hand lingered at her waist meant something. Thought he’d lean in when the music ended.
But he hadn’t.
He’d only nodded, as stiff and unreadable as ever, and left her standing in the center of the floor like a silly lass with too many hopes and no sense.
Ava inhaled sharply, shaking the memory from her head. Foolish. All of it. Gavan Douglas didn’t kiss her then for the same reason he didn’t kiss her in the rose path now: because she wasn’t someone he wanted. She was someone he tolerated.
And yet…
Her stomach still flipped when she thought of his hand on her elbow, the way his voice had softened when he’d said her name.
She was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.
“Lady Ava,” came a warm, amused voice at her side.
Ava masked the treacherous flutter in her chest at the hope it was Gavan with a practiced smile before she turned to face Lachlan Ferguson.
He was as perfectly composed as ever, black coat cut to perfection, hair slightly tousled in a way that looked effortless and deliberate all at once. He offered a shallow bow, his smile sly and knowing.
“Ye look lovely this evening,” he said. “Almost enough to make a man forget we’re in the village assembly rooms and no’ a ballroom in Mayfair or Edinburgh.”
Ava arched a brow. “And here I thought gentlemen enjoyed a bit of rustic charm.”
“I do,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, enough for the words to feel like a confidence. “But then, I’d enjoy anything if ye were in the room.”
Ava kept her smile polite, her gaze sliding deliberately toward the floor where Moira stood near the refreshment table, her pale green dress a soft complement to her coloring. “Ye seem to have misplaced my friend,” she said lightly.
“No’ misplaced,” Lachlan said. “Only postponed. She’s delightful company.”
