Page 46 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Then I’d better send for a chair with a wider seat,” Gavan said dryly. “That way ye can swoon properly when he arrives.”
“Oh, hush,” she laughed, tossing a piece of toast at him.
Gavan kept his expression neutral, though a flicker of satisfaction stirred in his chest. Asher MacLeod was no Ferguson. He had his faults, most men did, but he seemed the kind of earnest, dependable young man who wouldn’t leave Moira in tears before the season ended.
“Well then,” Gavan said, reaching for a slice of toast. “It seems ye have a visitor to prepare for. I trust ye’ll receive him with all the charm ye displayed last night.”
Moira gave him a look of mock offense. “I am always charming.”
“Ye’ll forgive me if I reserve judgment,” Gavan said with a chuckle.
She laughed, holding the card to her chest like a small treasure. “Do ye approve of him, then?”
He paused, considering her bright, expectant face. “I think,” he said carefully, “that he seems the sort of man who knows how to treat a woman with respect. That’s more than I can say for many who’ve sent ye flowers lately.”
“High praise,” she teased.
“It’s as high as I’m willing to go before my coffee,” he said, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at his mouth.
Moira tilted her head, still studying him. “Ye’re different this morning. Less… brooding. Did something happen last night after we returned?”
Gavan reached for his coffee, masking the jolt that question sent through him. “Nothing worth noting,” he said evenly. “But I imagine the day will be more eventful than the night was. McRae seems eager.”
Moira beamed at that, already rising from her chair. “Then I’d better change. I canna receive him looking like this.”
Gavan thought she looked perfectly presentable, but alas, he was no expert on women's fashion. She whisked out of the room in a flutter of pale skirts. And Gavan was left alone with his coffee and the echo of his thoughts from the night before.
He leaned back in his chair. Moira’s future, it seemed, might be falling into gentler hands than he’d feared.
After the breakfast dishes were cleared, Gavan returned to his study.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension from the night before still sitting there like a stone under the skin. He could still see her standing across the charades circle, cheeks flushed from laughter, head tipped back as she guessed some ridiculous pantomime with unguarded delight. Ava, unmasked.
She’d glowed.
And when he’d stepped beside her, chosen her as his partner, the crackle between them had made the air feel different. And damn Ferguson for seeing it, for knowing it.
He was staring at the parchment when a knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Come in.”
A maid appeared, curtsying quickly. “Mr. Asher McRae has arrived, sir. He’s with Miss Moira in the drawing room, her maid acting as chaperone.”
Gavan stood immediately, brushing past her. “I’ll join them.”
He didn’t know why, exactly. Politeness, perhaps. Or the need to see for himself.
Asher rose as Gavan entered, dressed in a fashionably cut coat, flowers in one hand, his smile warm and, damn it, charming.
“Lord Darkwood,” he said with a nod. “I hope I’m no’ intruding.”
“No’ at all,” Gavan replied. He turned to Moira, who was positively glowing in a cream dress trimmed with pale lavender. She looked far too pleased for a woman receiving a casual morning call.
Asher presented the flowers with a bashful smile. “I thought something from the garden might be a better offering than words. Though I brought those, too.”
Moira accepted them with a delighted flush, and Gavan found himself folding his arms across his chest, if only to keep from fidgeting. They sat, began talking, easily, animatedly, with the kind of warmth that didn’t need performance.
Gavan watched as Asher leaned in, listening to Moira speak, and how easily admiration lit his face. No games. No armor. Just a young man who hadn’t yet learned to be afraid of wanting something. It was infuriating. It was enviable. When had he last let himself be that vulnerable?
