Page 61 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Longing, and maybe a little envy, twisted in Ava’s chest. Moira looked so free. No armor, no performance. Just a lass being adored by someone who saw her for exactly who she was.
And then she felt it, that pull.
Gavan. Her grip tightened on the glass before she forced herself to loosen it.
He stood near the edge of the crowd, leaning against a wall, watching her. Tension filled his shoulders, and the flicker in his gaze when it found hers was like a tether stretching between them, pulling taut.
Her heart leapt and ceased it’s beating all in the same breath.
Ava should be furious with him. She should still be humiliated after what happened at the festival. She should not be standing here, lips tingling from his kiss, pulse still hammering from the sound of his voice when he’d told her he would stand between her and the rest of the world.
But all she could think, all she could feel, was the heat of him pressed against her in the garden, the taste of something that felt dangerously like hope.
“Lady Ava,” someone called, drawing her back into the room. A gentleman wanted an introduction. Someone else wanted to compliment the evening.
A permanent smile pasted to her lips, and with every kind word, she floated through her own party like the perfect hostess.
But inside, Ava was still in the garden, her body pressed tightly against Gavan, kissing him like they were the only two people in the world.
20
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
If a lady finds herself invited to a garden party, light muslin or lawn gowns are preferred, as they suggest freshness and modesty; darker fabrics are too somber for daylight merriment. A parasol is not merely an accessory but a necessity, shielding both complexion and conversation.
Standing in the Heatherfield Castle drawing room with a fistful of flowers absurdly felt like the scariest thing Gavan had ever done.
Thank goodness he’d tucked Ava’s handkerchief in his pocket after the butler who’d greeted him eyed it suspiciously. He’d had the dainty square carefully laundered, though he could swear he felt the echo of her tears clinging to the fabric.
The bouquet felt ridiculous. An overabundance of various colors of midsummer roses, though Moira had gone through several colors before realizing she didn’t know which Ava liked best. This sort of… heartwarming call wasn’t his style. He wasn’t a man of grand flourishes. And this may have been the first time he’d ever shown up with fistful alongside his audacity.
Approaching footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts and his near attempt at an escape.
“Lord Darkwood,” came the voice of Edmund, Earl of Heatherfield, Ava’s father, as he entered the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who had no need to rush for anyone. His hair had gone almost entirely silver, but his sharp blue eyes—Ava’s eyes—still cut through a room like blades.
“Lord Heatherfield,” Gavan said with a short bow, feeling absurdly like a schoolboy dragged in front of a master.
Lord Heatherfield indicated he should take one of the chairs near the fire. “Sit, Darkwood. Ye look as though ye’re about to face the gallows.”
Well, that wasn’t far from the truth.
Gavan settled the flowers on a table and then took a seat, the handkerchief tucked safely in his pocket.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the low-burning fire and the distant murmur of servants somewhere deeper in the house.
Finally, Heatherfield spoke. “Ye’ve been spending a great deal of time under my roof lately.”
“Your daughter has hosted several… events,” Gavan said, cursing internally at how stilted the words sounded. “And my cousin has made friends with Lady Ava.”
Heatherfield’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a knowing smile. “Events, aye. And yet I suspect that is no’ what brings ye here, Gavan. Ye’re a man of purpose, like your father.”
Gavan gritted his teeth, then forced himself to relax. “Ye’re correct, my lord.”
His imbecile heart pounded like it meant to shake him apart. All he could think about was Ava in that burgundy gown, chin lifted like a queen on the battlefield. The way her breath had hitched when he’d kissed her, and how she’d leaned into him before breaking away.
“Then speak plainly,” Heatherfield said, settling back in his chair. “What do ye want?”
Gavan forced himself to meet Lord Heatherfield’s gaze. The man had never been one to beat around the bush, and given he’d known him since Gavan was born, he owed him the truth. “Your permission to court your daughter, my lord.”
