Page 58 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Ye’ve never been a coward a day in your life, my lady.” He guided her through the steps, his hand steady at her back, his thumb brushing the silk at her waist in a way that felt like fire even through the fabric.
“I didna agree to dance so that we’d make a scene,” she said, her voice quieter now, meant for him alone.
“Neither did I.” His voice softened. “But I needed ye to know, I will no’ stand by while anyone hurts ye.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
He leaned in just slightly, enough for only her to hear. “Even if that means standing between ye and the rest of the damned world.”
Her breath hitched, so slight he might have imagined it. These were words he’d wanted to say for so long, words he’d suppressed. He felt as if a mighty weight had been lifted from his shoulders after having uttered them.
They danced in silence after that, the music swelling and carrying them through the room. Gavan was aware of every inch between them, and every inch that wasn’t. The warmth of her palm in his. The subtle brush of her body against his. The way her gaze wouldn’t quite meet his, as if she feared what she’d see there. Or what he might see in her eyes.
When the final chord fell and the dance ended, Gavan released her hand with aching reluctance and bowed.
“Thank ye, my lady,” he said, because anything else would have been too much, or not nearly enough.
She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Ye are impossible,” she said finally, but her voice lacked its usual bite.
She curtseyed and then she walked away, leaving him in the center of the floor, pulse hammering, knowing two things with startling clarity. One, he’d just made himself the subject of every whisper in the room. And two, he would do it again.
For her part, Ava didn’t look back. The crowd seemed to swallow her up, but he could still feel her, like an ache in the bones, like a question he couldn’t answer.
Around him, the whispers swelled. “Did you see the way he looked at her?”
“Surely this means…”
Gavan had just changed the course of both their lives with a single dance, and he wasn’t sure if it was courage or madness that kept him from chasing after her.
The room hadn’t stopped spinning when the music did.
Ava curtseyed, murmured something polite, she couldn’t even recall what, and stepped back, but she could still feel Gavan’s hand at her waist, the steadiness of his palm, the warmth that had bled through her gown and into her skin. Every nerve in her body buzzed, the taste of him lingering as if the memory of that solstice kiss had found its way back between them, unspoken but undeniable.
She wanted to leave. Saints above, she wanted to flee, to retreat to the safety of her bedchamber, draw the curtains, and pretend she hadn’t just been swept across her own ballroom in full view of half the county by the very man who had humiliated her at the festival.
But she couldn’t.
Every eye in the room seemed to be on her. Watching. Whispering. Measuring the way her hand had lingered in his for a fraction too long, the way her chest still rose and fell like she’d been running. The way she was breathing now that she’d walked away.
“Daring,” someone hissed near the refreshment table.
“Or foolish,” another replied.
“She looks like she’s about to faint,” a third whispered, not quietly enough.
Ava’s cheeks burned. She reached for a glass of punch she didn’t want, more for something to do with her hands than anything else. Despite her best efforts to will her heart to settle, it refused to obey.
She felt the weight of Gavan’s presence, even now, though he’d stepped back into the crowd. Gavan was the walking embodiment of her undoing. His words still rang in her ears: Even if that means standing between ye and the rest of the damned world.
It wasn’t just a dance. He’d made that plain. That had been a declaration. But of what? A protector? Dare she hope something more?
That thought terrified her. Or perhaps the idea of her hopes being burst, her heart breaking, did. She glanced toward her father, who was boisterously entertaining his fellow lords and receiving several claps on the back as if some mighty deal had just been struck.
“Are ye all right?” Moira’s soft voice pulled her back, and she rested her hand lightly on Ava’s arm.
Ava glanced at Moira, a smile she didn’t feel pasted on her lips. “Of course,” she said, with the reflexive poise she’d perfected over years of social warfare. “Why would I no’ be?”
“Because ye look like ye canna breathe.” Moira’s brows drew together in obvious concern. “Take a turn in the garden with me for a moment? The air will be cooler. And I think we could both use a little fresh air.”
