Page 57 of The Scot's Perfect Match
He saw it, even if no one else did. The stiffness in her shoulders. The longer pauses before she laughed. She was wearing her confidence like battle armor, and the sight of it made his chest ache.
And then she saw him.
Their gazes met across the crowded room. For a heartbeat, Ava stilled. Then her chin lifted in that familiar, infuriating way, the one that said he would get nothing from her but poise.
“Lord Darkwood,” she said when he approached, her voice smooth as cut glass.
“Lady Ava.” He bowed slightly. “Lady Drummond.”
Lady Drummond pursed her lips in a judgmental frown as she looked him over. He half expected a dressing down from the older woman.
“Lord Darkwood. Ah, I see I must attend to…” But she didn’t finish her sentence as she wandered off, leaving the two of them alone.
An onlooker would have seen nothing but polite civility as they stared at one another. But to him, the distance between them felt like a chasm. There was a coolness to her gaze that he didn’t like directed at him.
He needed to apologize. To beg her forgiveness for the numerous transgressions. But every word that came to mind felt inadequate.
The musicians shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz. And an idea came to him.
“Ava,” he said softly, low enough that only she could hear. “Dance with me.”
Her brows arched in surprise, amusement flickering through her carefully composed expression. “Ye? Ye dinna dance, Darkwood.”
“Aye, I do. Sometimes.”
“Since when? Have ye taken leave of your senses?”
“Almost certainly,” he said, holding out his hand, offering her a small, pleading smile.
For a moment, she simply stared at his outstretched hand. She was going to refuse him. But then, slowly, deliberately, she set her gloved fingers against his palm.
The warmth of her touch nearly undid him.
As he led her toward the dance floor, the room seemed to hush, and heads turned to follow.
“Do ye see?” someone whispered. “Lady Ava is dancing with Lord Darkwood.”
“After what happened at the solstice? Bold.”
“Bold? It’s practically a declaration.”
Let them look. Let them whisper.
When his hand settled at her waist, she tensed. Barely, but enough that he felt it. He wished he could tell her how steadying it felt just to hold her again, how the scent of her, lavender and something soft and sweet, had haunted him since the day he’d met her. The room blurred, reduced to the music and the heat between them. The crowd pretended not to watch, their false indifference as subtle as a wall of eyes pressing to glass outside a confectioner’s shop.
“They’re staring,” Ava murmured, lips barely moving.
“Let them,” he said, surprising them both with the edge in his voice.
“Ye’re confident,” Ava murmured as he drew her into the first turn.
“Or desperate.”
“Desperation does no’ suit ye.”
“Neither does cowardice,” he said quietly.
Her gaze sharpened. “And which do ye think I am?”
