Page 52 of The Scot's Perfect Match
She stood like a marble statue at the edge of it all, her spine rigid, hands fisted in her skirts. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in her chin, the deliberate way she held herself still, as if sheer willpower could keep the whispers from reaching her.
And he could see her face. Not triumphant. Not grateful. But humiliated as he’d suspected she would be. As if his public defense had stripped her of the only armor she had left. And it was entirely his fault. If only he’d had the sense and self-control not to kiss her.
Her eyes met his across the distance. For a moment, he swore he saw every emotion on her face. The sharp hurt of betrayal, the rawness of humiliation, the flash of anger she wore like a crown. Ava did not run, not from whispers, not from men like Ferguson, not from him. And yet she gathered her skirts and fled like the ground itself had burned her.
“Ava!” His voice cut through the hum of the festival, but she didn’t stop.
He followed her toward the line of waiting carriages, shoving past a startled couple in his way. But by the time he reached her, she had already climbed inside, the driver snapping the reins.
“Ava, wait!”
The wheels lurched forward, gravel spitting from under the hooves. And then she was gone.
Gavan didn’t move at first, frozen in the wake of her departure, listening to the hollow rattle of the wheels as they carried her away from him. He’d wanted to shield her, to show her she wasn’t alone. And instead, he’d dragged her into the center of a spectacle, for that she would never forgive him. His boots felt rooted to the dirt, heavy as the shame pressed in on his ribs.
Something white on the ground caught his eye.
He stooped to pick it up, her handkerchief, the fabric still damp, delicate lace edges clinging to his fingers.
Gavan’s chest tightened as he closed his fist around the discarded lace. He’d defended her in front of everyone. He’d wanted to protect her. And all he’d managed to do was hurt her.
As the carriage wheels rattled away, he held her handkerchief damp in his palm. The idea that he’d made her cry cut sharper than any slap could have.
18
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady may ride, provided she does so with grace, modesty, and at no greater speed than her reputation may bear. The side-saddle is the only proper seat for a lady; to ride astride is to invite whispers of unseemly boldness.
Ava hadn’t left her room in three days.
The curtains stayed drawn, muting the bright summer sun to a dull grey glow. Trays of untouched tea and broth came and went, Cook’s efforts rewarded with little more than polite lies about her “delicate constitution.” She told her father, the staff, even Freya and Poppy when they came calling, that she had a megrim.
But her body wasn’t sick.
Her heart was.
It was humiliating, really, the way it throbbed with an ache she didn’t have the words for.
She’d spent years convincing herself she didn’t need anything from Gavan. That what they’d been to each other as adolescents belonged to another life, a lass who’d been too naive to know better. She’d wrapped herself in purpose instead. Matchmaking, hosting, arranging everyone else’s futures, taking care of her father, keeping busy so she never had to face the hollowness of her own life.
But then Gavan had said her name. Kissed her.
And right after, had claimed it was a mistake. Just like that, everything she’d locked away came roaring back. Every foolish hope, every unspoken want.
She pressed the heels of her hand against her eyes, as if that might push the memory away. It didn’t. She could still feel it. The press of his mouth against hers, unsteady and desperate, as if he’d been holding himself back for years and couldn’t any longer. And worse than all of it, she’d kissed him back.
She’d wanted that kiss. The press of his lips so possessively on hers. She’d wanted him.
And for one foolish, fleeting moment, she’d felt like she belonged to herself again. Not the hostess, not the matchmaker, not the daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield, who carried herself like a shield. But Ava. Just Ava.
But then she’d seen the crowd when he’d turned on Lachlan Ferguson.
The shock on their faces. The whispers darting like knives through the festival air. The murmurs of her name on the lips of people who would dine on her humiliation for months.
She was hopeful no one had seen their kiss… Hopeful no one had seen the way he’d leapt away from her like she carried the plague. But they’d certainly not been in private either. Now, she was a spectacle. A scandal.
And worse, Gavan’s righteous defense of her hadn’t felt like a rescue. It had felt like exposure.
