Page 29 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Every instinct told her to say no. To keep her distance. To maintain control. And yet, her hand was already in his before she could form the refusal.
The music swelled as he led her to the floor, and his hand settled at the small of her back with maddening confidence.
“Still think this is about ye?” he murmured as they began to turn.
Ava forced her voice to stay even, again ignoring his bait. “Ye do seem rather fixated on Ferguson.”
“Ferguson’s a problem,” he said. “For Moira. And possibly for ye.”
“Me?” she scoffed. “Ye think I’m so easily led astray by a charming man?”
“I think ye like to play with fire.”
His words skimmed over her skin like a touch.
Ava tilted her chin, refusing to flinch. “And I think ye like to imagine ye’re the only one who sees the danger.”
“Am I wrong?”
The space between them felt too small, the music too slow, every turn bringing her closer to the man who had once left her standing alone on a ballroom floor with her heart in her throat.
“No,” she said quietly.
His hand flexed slightly at her back, his gaze dropping, not to her lips, surely not, but close enough that her breath caught all the same.
For one dizzying, dangerous moment, she thought he might kiss her.
It was the winter ball all over again, hope, foolish and bright, unfurling in her chest.
The music faded, the dancers breaking apart into polite bows and curtsies. Ava stepped back, releasing Gavan’s hand with more care than she’d meant to, her fan snapping open like a shield.
“Thank ye for the dance,” she said smoothly, as if her pulse weren’t still pounding in her throat.
Gavan only inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Ava.”
It was infuriating, how he could stand there so steady while her composure felt like it had been rattled loose. She turned on her heel, her skirts sweeping behind her as she crossed the floor. She needed to focus.
On Moira. On Lachlan. On anything that wasn’t Gavan Douglas and the echo of his hand at the small of her back.
She found Moira near the edge of the hall, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, not from Lachlan’s company, Ava realized with a jolt, but from Asher McRae’s.
The quiet scholar looked nothing like the man Ava remembered from the garden party. He leaned closer, his expression animated while he sketched shapes in the air with his hands. Moira laughed, her fingers brushing his sleeve in an intimate, easy gesture that made Ava’s stomach twist.
They were too close.
Ava blinked, willing the irritation prickling at her to disappear. This wasn’t the plan. Moira wasn’t supposed to look at Asher like that, not when Lachlan Ferguson, with all his polish and effortless charisma, was meant to be the prize.
Before Ava could intervene, Asher bent his head, saying something too low for her to catch. Moira’s blush deepened. Then, to Ava’s astonishment, he offered his arm, and Moira took it without hesitation.
They slipped out toward the open doors, the night air spilling cool and fragrant into the hall.
Ava’s fan stilled.
They were headed to the gardens, alone.
She spotted Lachlan across the room, still engaged in conversation with Lady Drummond, entirely unaware that his supposed conquest had just wandered off without a chaperone with the most unassuming man in the county.
It should have been laughable. It wasn’t.
