Page 44 of The Scot's Perfect Match
She told herself she was angry. That was easier than admitting what she really felt. Because if she wasn’t angry, she would have to acknowledge the way his nearness still rattled her, the brush of his sleeve when he’d offered his arm, the quiet solidity of him as he walked her to the carriage, the unspoken things humming in the air between them as they stood in the glow of the lanterns.
She hadn’t expected to feel sixteen again tonight. That was the worst of it. She thought she’d buried that lass long ago, the one who used to race him across the fields, laughing breathlessly when he caught her, only to pull away before he could see what she was really thinking.
And yet, there she’d been, alive and restless in her skin as they stood so close in that drawing room, almost touching, almost something.
She drew in a steadying breath, but it didn’t help. His voice stayed with her, the way it always did. So did that look, dark, searching, like he could still read her as easily as he once had.
It was dangerous to indulge these thoughts. She knew it.
She wasn’t a lass anymore, but a woman. She had work to do, plans to see through. Making sure Moira’s future was secure. A certain charming Lachlan Ferguson to keep pointed in the right direction.
That was where her focus needed to be. Not on Gavan and the maddening, uninvited way he still lingered in her thoughts.
The carriage wheels hummed over the uneven road, filling the silence with a steady rhythm and hiding the pounding of her heart.
Ava tipped her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, her decision was made.
She would double down on her plans. She’d ensure Moira’s match was as good as sealed before Gavan ruined it. And in doing so, she would occupy herself, fill every moment with tea parties, garden strolls, and perfectly placed “accidental” encounters, until there wasn’t room left for the restless, foolish lass she’d felt like tonight.
By morning, she’d be sensible again.
She had to be.
Because if she wasn’t careful, Gavan Douglas would ruin far more than her composure.
15
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady must never leave her home without a bonnet; a bare head suggests either poor breeding or poor judgment. The ribbons of a bonnet should be tied neatly beneath the chin, for a dangling bow is the mark of a careless heart. A bonnet adorned with flowers must reflect the season, else the wearer be accused of folly—or of anticipating events not yet hers to claim.
The ride home was quieter than Gavan expected, until Moira broke the silence.
“I like him,” she said suddenly, staring out the window as though the night might give her courage. “A lot.”
He blinked, terrified of the man in question. “Who?”
“Asher,” she replied, and though her voice was soft, there was no hesitation. “He’s kind. And he does no’ look at me like I’m just another name on a guest list.”
Relief flooded him that she hadn’t said Ferguson. Gavan watched her in the dim carriage light, the flush on her cheeks, the way she twisted her gloves between her fingers. “He’s a good man. Smart, too,” Gavan admitted carefully. “His family has worked the land for generations.”
Moira glanced at him, wary. “Ye dinna mind?”
“I mind plenty of things,” he said dryly, “but Asher McRae is no’ one of them.”
Her smile, relieved and hopeful, was brighter than the lanterns. “I knew ye’d understand. He listens. Really listens. When we spoke during charades, I told him I hated the smell of orange blossoms, and later he pointed out there were none used in the décor because he made a point to convey it casually to our hosts.”
Indeed, that was impressive. “I’m glad he’s paying attention.”
Moira folded her hands primly in her lap, though her grin remained. “It’s nice. To feel seen. No’ a single gentleman went so far in London. Nor any here besides Mr. McRae.”
Gavan studied his cousin, the way she held her gloves like a shield, at the quiet hope in her voice. He wanted to remind her that kindness could be a mask. But something in her expression stopped him. She deserved to keep that hope a little longer, he thought, even if it made his chest ache with the weight of it. And McRae was a good man.
There was no need for Gavan to sour her excitement. He turned to look out the window, watching the shadowed hills roll by. “Be careful of those who may be jealous of your flirtations,” he said finally. “The season has a way of making people into something they’re no’.”
“I’ll be careful,” Moira said softly. “But no’ everyone is a wolf in disguise, ye know.”
Her words sat with him long after the carriage rattled to a stop.
