Page 56 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Her fists curled in her skirts.
She had thought she’d buried those old feelings, her girlhood fascination, the ache of losing him when they’d drifted apart. But the kiss had unearthed it all, raw and terrible and alive.
She rose abruptly, pacing the length of the room.
Why did he do it? Was it guilt? Some misguided attempt at gallantry? Or, her heart betrayed her with a treacherous leap, had it been something else?
No. She couldn’t let herself think that way. Whatever Gavan Douglas felt, it didn’t matter. Not anymore. But as she moved toward the window, she realized she could still feel the ghost of his hand at the small of her back, the press of his lips, the way his breath had hitched as if he, too, had been startled by how right it felt.
Ava pressed her palms flat to the cool glass.
She was Lady Ava Woodmoor, daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield. She did not wallow. She did not pine.
And yet, for the first time in years, she could not imagine walking into the next room, the next gathering, the next assembly without wondering, ‘what will I do when I see him again’?
19
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
It has been whispered in every drawing-room from Heatherfield to Holyrood that Lady Ava Woodmoor, youngest daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield, has found her once-gleaming reputation rather… frayed. In an effort to smooth over these most unfortunate whispers, Lady Ava has announced she will host a dinner party of uncommon elegance at Heatherfield Castle. Invitations, it is said, are already the most coveted in the county, for who would not wish to watch a lady attempt to stitch together her reputation with fine china, candlelight, and a surfeit of wine? Whether her table restores her name or topples it entirely remains to be seen.
Gavan hadn’t wanted to come.
Not after kissing Ava in the middle of the solstice festival like a total buffoon. Not after the way Ava had looked at him, not just wounded, but as if he’d stripped her of every last scrap of self-respect she had left.
But Moira wanted to go, had been invited, and though she had her lady’s maid as a chaperone, after what happened with Ferguson, she was concerned about being duped once more, and begged Gavan to attend. So here he was, climbing the familiar stone steps of Heatherfield Castle, and trying not to think about what would happen on the other side of the massive oak doors.
Candlelight beamed from the tall windows, glowing like a beacon. The sounds of laughter and the hum of violin strings filtered outside. Ava’s parties were never small affairs, but this one, her first since the solstice festival, felt different. Like she’d planned it with the purpose of showing everyone that nothing had happened.
The last time he’d been to Heatherfield, Ava had been laughing, surrounded by friends who adored her. Would she be laughing tonight?
Gavan felt like an intruder standing on the outside. He had been replaying the day of the festival in his mind ceaselessly, the kiss, the confrontation, her tears. Every step closer to the house felt like walking toward judgment. What would he say if she sent him away? What would he do if she didn’t even look at him?
“She’ll be glad ye came,” Moira said as they handed off their cloaks to the waiting footman, as if she could hear his thoughts.
He snorted. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Moira gave him a look only a cousin could. “Ye could at least try not to look like ye’re walking into an execution.”
If only she knew.
The drawing room was already packed with guests dressed in their evening finery and smelled faintly of beeswax and late-summer roses. Candlelight from the crystal chandeliers bounced off gilded mirrors, casting the guests in a warm glow. But the conversations weren’t forgiving. He caught his name once, Ava’s twice, half-heard phrases slithering like serpents through the air.
“Lady Ava’s daring to host a fete after the festival…”
“Lord Darkwood looks grim, do ye no’ think? Or lovesick.”
Gavan ignored them, though his nerves burned with every word.
Freya, Lady Lovat perched near the fire, eyeing him with an unreadable expression, before she glanced toward her cohort, Poppy, Lady Reay, laughing with two other ladies by the window. They were thick as thieves with Ava.
A smattering of neighbors and acquaintances sipped wine or nibbled at sugared almonds, eyeing him with curiosity. Gavan had no interest in anyone but Ava, the only person who mattered.
She stood near the far side of the room, dressed in deep burgundy silk that brought out the blue of her eyes. She had chosen the color deliberately because it was bold, commanding, impossible to ignore. The perfect hostess, speaking to Lady Drummond with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He’d always thought of Ava as a summer storm. But tonight she was something worse. She was calm. Controlled. A perfect hostess carved from poise and self-discipline, hiding the wound he’d given her behind layers of silk and civility. Trying to recapture the reputation she thought was shattered, but which was clearly still intact given the sheer number of important guests.
And yet he couldn’t stop remembering her as she’d been before the world had taught her to wear a mask. He could still picture her, barefoot in the heather, laughing at his too-serious frown, eyes bright with the promise of things they’d been too young and too foolish to name.
