Page 42 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ferguson bowed dramatically, unbothered. “I perform for the people, no’ for accuracy.”
Ava curtsied with equal aplomb, but as she straightened, her gaze snagged on Gavan.
He stood near the edge of the circle once more, arms folded, an inscrutable expression on his face, until Poppy announced the next round’s winner. “Lord Darkwood, ye’re up next,” she said, laughing. “Choose your partner.”
The room fell briefly quiet, waiting.
Gavan’s dark gaze swept the group once before settling on Ava. “Lady Ava,” he said evenly.
Her pulse leapt, ridiculous and unbidden, but she managed a cool nod. “Of course.”
As she stepped toward him, she caught Ferguson watching, his easy charm dimming just slightly at the edges. Interesting.
Gavan took his place beside her, and for a moment, the energy between them was more electric than the room’s collective anticipation.
“Try no’ to make me look like a fool,” Ava murmured as they were handed their prompt.
“Unlikely,” he said, voice pitched low enough for only her. “Ye’re far too capable to let that happen.”
The simple word, capable, landed heavier than it should have.
When the round began, she found herself leaning closer to him than was strictly necessary, gesturing toward him in exaggerated pantomime. He watched her movements intently, reading her with unnerving precision, and then too began twisting on his feet and jabbing his hands.
“Ye’re… fencing?” one of the guests asked, and she rewarded him with an approving tilt of her head.
“Dueling?”
This time it was Gavan who encouraged the crowd they were getting warmer.
Poppy shouted, “Swordfight.”
“Correct,” Ava said. The room erupted in cheers.
“No’ bad,” Ava said lightly, though her breath felt more labored than it should.
“No’ bad?” he countered, leaning close enough that his sleeve brushed hers, just for a moment. “That was an excellent performance.”
The brush of contact sent a ripple through her. She didn’t step away.
“Careful,” she murmured, “or I’ll think ye’re enjoying yourself.”
“Perhaps I am.”
The air between them thrummed with unspoken admissions, and she had the absurd sense that if they were alone, one of them might actually say them.
But they weren’t. And Ferguson, she realized, was still watching.
Across the room, Moira had paired off with Asher McRae, who was laughing warmly as she tried to act out something, Ava couldn’t tell what, but the sight of Moira so easily charmed was enough to soothe some of the tension simmering between Ava and Gavan.
Poppy clapped her hands to announce the next round, jolting them all back into motion. “Well done, Lord Darkwood and Lady Ava! Ye’ve redeemed the game. Now, who’s next?”
But Ava wasn’t listening. She was still keenly aware of Gavan beside her, the ghost of his nearness clinging stubbornly even as they stepped back into the crowd.
The game carried on with more laughter and teasing guesses, but Ava found herself oddly distracted. The echo of Gavan’s voice, steady, sure, lingered in her mind. Every time she glanced toward him, she found his gaze already there, dark and unreadable, like he was trying to puzzle her out and hated that he couldn’t.
When the final round ended with Gavan’s team winning, Poppy clapped her hands and declared the evening’s entertainment a triumph. Guests drifted toward the sideboard for more port or gathered in small clusters to dissect the evening’s more ridiculous pantomimes. Lachlan Ferguson, ever the picture of effortless charm, lingered near Ava, complimenting her acting skills with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
“Ye were marvelous.” He leaned in just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “Though I think Darkwood only chose ye because he knew ye’d make him look good.”
