Page 65 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Hmm, I think that spot should have the best vantage point.” Ava pointed toward the table near the window for the footman to move the pink roses in the parlor. The porcelain vase was massive and ornate, passed down through generations and entirely too heavy to lift.
“My lady?”
“Perfect.” Ava’s voice trailed off when a carriage rolled up the long gravel drive.
A very distinctive carriage with a crest with a salamander on it. They’d hunted for salamanders as children, Ava keeping one and sticking it in her governess’s bed.
The only thing she could hope for was that the carriage contained only one person from the Douglas clan, and preferably Moira.
Ava smiled as she swept toward the door, convincing herself that only Moira would dare come unannounced.
Moira was halfway up the steps before the butler could even announce her, her cheeks flushed with a joy that could only mean one thing. She clutched a reticule in one gloved hand and looked as though she might burst from the secret barely contained in her grin.
“Ye’re glowing,” Ava said, embracing her warmly. “Which can only mean Asher finally found his courage.”
Moira laughed, practically bouncing in her tiny slippers. “He did, and I said aye.”
Ava’s chest swelled with genuine happiness as she took Moira’s hands in hers, giving a gentle squeeze. “Ye’ve made him the happiest man alive.”
“And I am the happiest woman.” Moira opened her reticule and pulled out an envelope with Ava’s name written on the front. “We’re having a ball to celebrate next Saturday. I’m hand-delivering the invitations myself.”
Ava opened the envelope, tracing the elegant script: A Celebration of the Betrothal of Miss Moira Douglas and Mr. Asher McRae.
“Oh, Moira.” She pulled her into another quick hug. “This is wonderfully perfect. Ye deserve every happiness.”
She meant every word. And yet…
As Moira chattered excitedly about the preparations, the gown she’d commissioned, the menu Poppy had helped her plan, the musicians Asher had insisted on hiring from Edinburgh, Ava felt that treacherous little pang beneath her ribs.
While she was happy for Moira, ecstatic even, watching her friend glow with the all-consuming joy Ava had long ago convinced herself wasn’t for her… well, it stung.
A maid set out tea on the table, and Ava glanced at the invitation where she’d laid it on the side table, the swirling letters blurring.
Moira would walk into that ballroom on Asher McRae’s arm, her future and her happiness secure.
But Ava? Gavan was courting her, her father had confirmed, but the dizzying confusion of where she stood, or if he would commit, left her feeling off kilter. And nervous. What if he decided not to commit in the end?
Her heart thudded at the memory of the way he’d said her name in the garden. The way his lips had nearly claimed hers again. The way he’d looked at her as though she were the only person in the world. And then when they’d been lining up their shots with the bows, and he’d come to stand behind her, his hands gently on her shoulders, his breath in her ear… She’d nearly fainted from need.
The memory came unbidden, consuming her. The scent of roses cloying in the warm summer air, the sound of her own breath catching just before Gavan’s full lips met hers. The searing touch of his hand at her waist setting every nerve alight. The press of his body, firm and unyielding, had sent sparks of yearning crashing through her.
The kiss had been hasty, and yet, completely earth-shattering. Lingering and replaying in her mind like a melody.
She’d spent years building her life without the luxury of those sorts of dreams, of being wanted, of being chosen. And now, with every passing day, she found herself daring to hope that a life with Gavan was possible.
That his boldness at the ball, his defense at the solstice, the kisses that haunted her every quiet moment… weren’t some misguided sense of obligation.
That the feelings she had were real and reciprocated by Gavan.
That he wasn’t only playing at courtship to soothe his conscience or repair her bruised reputation. That this wasn’t going to be a repeat of the past.
“I’m so happy for ye,” Ava said again, because she needed Moira to feel the truth in it, and because if she said it enough, perhaps it would drown out the ache inside her.
Moira offered a sweet and guileless smile as she raised her teacup. “And I’m happy for ye.”
Ava nearly choked on her tea. “For me?”
“Ye and Gavan,” Moira said, her voice softer now. “Ye’re… different with him, Ava. Lighter. And he…” She trailed off, smiling knowingly. “He’s been like an entirely new man since that night at Poppy’s ball.”
