Page 2 of The Scot's Perfect Match
In that moment, Ava had felt the rush of secret power. As if she controlled the fates. Well, maybe just nudged them a bit.
From that day forward, she’d made it her mission. Her calling. Her responsibility. To see all those of eligible age perfectly matched and marched down the aisle.
As long as it kept her from having to do the same.
She told herself she had no desire for matrimony. And yet... there had been a strange tug when she watched the newlyweds depart earlier, hand-in-hand and utterly unaware of anyone else. A tug she refused to name.
And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had offers. There’d been plenty. But not one of them gave her that spark, that flutter in her belly she knew was necessary before agreeing to love, honor, cherish.
She’d already helped several of the townspeople tie the knot, too. No matter their class or station, she was willing to help them cross from the world of the unwed, into the institution of marriage. Love didn’t discriminate, and neither did Ava’s ambition. But lately, a whisper of doubt crept in when the music faded, and the flowers were carted away.
What if it wasn’t always joy she was stitching together, but the illusion of it?
Ava listened to the fading laughter, the quieting of the music, as the newly married couple rode their carriage off into the distance. A flash of envy threatened to knock her off kilter, but she kicked it away, reminding herself that she had yet to meet someone who made her swoon the way Lord Myrton had knocked the balance from his bride’s feet.
Still, something about the hush that settled after the guests had moved on to tea and cake and conversations, left her feeling unmoored. The rose petals scattered on the lawn no longer looked celebratory, but like debris. The doves had flown. The quartet had packed their instruments.
The spell was broken.
And Ava, master of the magic, stood at its center—feeling triumphant and alone at the same time.
She let out a long sigh. It was fine. She had work to do. More matches to make. Other people’s love to orchestrate.
That flicker in her chest? That weight on her shoulders? She refused to give it a name.
“Admiring your handiwork?” The deep rumble of her nemesis Gavan’s voice slid up her spine and he came to stand beside her.
Impeccable timing, Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood had. She was still basking in the afterglow of a perfectly executed ceremony when he showed up, like a stormy rain cloud drifting over her sun-drenched day.
“Do ye no’ have someone else ye could be bothering?” She didn’t bother to keep the disdain from her voice. No matter how rude she was to him, he never seemed to catch her hints that she would rather have the earth open and swallow him whole than have to speak to him again.
“My, my, are we no’ testy?”
Ava rolled her eyes and contemplated leaving this very perfect spot with the very perfect view of the slowly disappearing carriage. But really why should she be the one to leave? Gavan was intruding on her space not the other way around.
“I canna fathom another way to be around ye. Ye are rather irksome.” She flexed her fingers, keeping herself from crossing her arms in a most unladylike fashion.
“Irksome. Hmm.” Even the way he said hmm was entirely irritating.
“Did ye want something or are ye just set on being a bother?”
“I can assure ye, my lady, there is nothing ye have that I want.”
Good. Perfect. Excellent. Then why did her stomach drop like she’d just swallowed a stone?
Her jaw tightened. It was nonsense, of course. He’d come to her. Still, the words landed with a weight she hadn’t expected. She didn’t care, she told herself. Not one bit. She had orchestrated a wedding today. She was the one being useful, building futures, while Gavan simply… smiled.
My goodness was he really so obtuse?
In an attempt to calm herself, she smoothed her hands over her gown, a delicate shade of buttercream silk, embroidered with fine ivory thread and little rosebuds, the hem just brushing her ankles. It was a gown meant to be admired. Preferably from a distance. Preferably not by Lord Darkwood, who was staring entirely too boldly at the skirt which housed her legs.
“Best be running along then, my lord, else ye’ll miss the next person to annoy.”
The man had the audacity to chuckle, which only prompted Ava to sort through a mental catalogue of every Shakespearean insult she knew and to subsequently ask the lord for forgiveness for her sinful and cruel thoughts. Gavan couldn’t help being a complete annoyance. It seemed to be the way he was born, for she’d never known him not to make her bristle.
She glanced at him sideways, letting out a rather mournful sigh. She didn’t even like him. Absolutely not. So why did she feel oddly… noticed whenever he showed up?
If he didn’t irritate her so much, she’d be willing to admit he was handsome. She glanced at him sideways, scowling. If he didn’t make her blood boil so easily, she might be forced to admit his eyes—grey as a storm cloud and twice as unsettling—were entirely too arresting. Or that her fingers itched to ruffle the unruly dark curls that dared to defy order the way he did. Fortunately, either he opened his mouth and ruined it all, as usual, or there was the inevitable smirk on his too kissable lips that made her scowl.
