Page 47 of The Scot's Perfect Match
He remained standing, watching them with a narrowed but not unkind gaze. Asher was gentle. Thoughtful. His admiration wasn’t theatrical, it was… sincere.
The pang hit unexpectedly, low and sharp.
Not jealousy. Not exactly.
But longing.
For what Moira had in front of her. For how easy it was, how openly affection passed between them without caution.
He thought of Ava’s laughter again. Of the heat in her eyes when she teased him. Of how her gaze softened when she didn’t mean for it to. Of how badly he wanted to see that softness again, directed at him, unguarded, without pretense.
Not for a game. Not for a performance.
“Would ye like to join us?” Moira turned to him with polite curiosity, but her expression begged him to leave.
With her maid as chaperone, he wasn't required to remain, so Gavan shook his head. “No, I’ll leave ye to your visit.”
He nodded to Asher, then stepped out of the room, the scent of fresh flowers and lighthearted conversation trailing after him like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.
16
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
An unmarried lady must never enter a boat with a gentleman unchaperoned, lest she drift into ruin as swiftly as the current. It is prudent for a lady to feign a delicate fear of water. Courage in such matters smacks of independence.
Ava woke to sunlight spilling across the embroidered canopy of her bed, golden and far too cheerful for how unsettled she felt. She lay there for a moment, staring at the play of light and shadow on the ceiling, as if it could untangle the knot in her chest.
She hadn’t meant to dwell on last night, but the memory replayed itself the moment she blinked awake.
Gavan’s hand closing over hers during charades had been steady and warm, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. His gaze had held hers in the quiet after their pantomime victory, filled with unspoken words straining against the wall they’d both carefully built over the years. And Lachlan Ferguson, his easy flirtations, his practiced charm. The way she’d laughed at one of his quips, realizing too late that Gavan had been watching.
It had been a game. All of it. Charades, the banter, the smiles. And yet, when she’d lain in bed last night staring into the darkness, she hadn’t been thinking about the game or the victory or the applause. She’d been thinking about Gavan Douglas and the strange, jagged way he still had the power to leave her feeling both sixteen and unsteady.
Ridiculous.
She shoved the coverlet back and rose. No amount of rumination would change what had happened. She had a day to prepare for, Strathcael’s annual summer solstice festival, a day of merchant stalls, music, and far too many people she needed to charm.
By the time she joined her father for breakfast in the east-facing morning room, she’d arranged herself into a picture of composure. Her pale blue morning gown, trimmed with white embroidery, was perfect; her hair, pinned into a soft chignon, gave no hint that she’d been up half the night sifting through old memories and inconvenient feelings.
“Good morning, Papa,” she said lightly as she swept into the room.
“Good morning, my dear.” Lord Heatherfield, tall and silver-haired, folded his paper and gestured to the seat across from him. “Ye look particularly well-rested.”
She kissed her father on the cheek and with a practiced smile said, “Someone has to maintain the family reputation.”
He chuckled and reached for his tea. “And what does my social strategist have planned today?”
“The solstice festival, of course. Poppy insists it’s the pinnacle of the season.” Ava buttered a piece of toast she didn’t particularly want, her mind already moving past breakfast. “I imagine every eligible bachelor within fifty miles will make an appearance to be near all the lovely maidens.”
Her father arched a brow. “And which of them are ye matchmaking this time?”
She feigned innocence. “All of them, Papa. I’m frightfully egalitarian.”
He shook his head fondly. “Ye do enjoy meddling.”
It wasn’t meddling. It was a strategy. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“Now, if only ye’d see to your own match.”
