Page 66 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava’s pulse skipped a beat, and she had to set her teacup down as her fingers were suddenly slick. “Ye think so?”
“I know so.” Moira, for all her naivete, actually winked.
Ava didn’t trust herself to answer. Her throat felt tight, her stomach fluttering. Needing a distraction, she flashed a smile and stood to tuck the invitation carefully into her writing desk out of sight.
They finished their tea while discussing dresses for Moira’s ball, and finally, when the lass took her leave, Ava hoped she could breathe easier. She lingered in the doorway, watching the carriage disappear down the drive, waiting for a sense of relief that didn’t come.
She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips, still remembering the exquisite sensation of Gavan’s mouth sliding over hers.
In that moment, Ava knew she was lost, for she wanted what Moira had. But it was not the dresses. Nor the party. Not even the invitation with its perfect script.
She wanted the certainty. The promise. Ava wanted to know she was desired and loved, not out of duty or obligation, but for herself.
And there was only one man she needed that from: Gavan Douglas.
More than anything, she wished with a ferocity that frightened her that Gavan wasn’t pretending.
Ava closed the door, pressing her back against its solid oak frame, her hand to her chest to quell the erratic beating of her heart.
She glanced at her reflection in the gilded mirror above the mantel. The cream-colored day dress, with tiny pink roses embroidered on it and a pink ribbon cinched just below her breasts, was flattering. But what she lacked was the glow Moira had about her, the kind of glow that only came with the surety of being loved.
Ava wanted to walk into that betrothal ball as though she belonged in her own story. That however, would take attention away from her friend, which she didn’t want to do.
Before she could overthink it, she rang for her maid.
“I need to go to the modiste for a new gown,” she said when the maid appeared.
“Aye, my lady. I’ll have the carriage prepared.”
A gown that would make Gavan drop to his knees. She turned back to the mirror, meeting her own eyes. “Something fit for a fairytale.”
Ava began to pace, her mind already sketching what she wanted. Layers of shimmering fabric in the palest, softest blue, like moonlight over water. A daring neckline, but not too scandalous. Beaded embroidery, crystals, that would catch the candlelight with every turn. And a skirt that would float, not simply swish, when she danced.
She wanted to embody the heroine of every fairy tale she had ever read but had been too cautious to write for herself. Gavan would see her and forget every other woman in the room. She wanted him to see her and remember. Remember the lass who used to race him through the fields, wind in her hair, laughing like she had no cares in the world.
She wanted him to see the woman she’d become, sharp, determined, yet still capable of being undone by one kiss.
Ava’s pulse quickened, imagining the way he'd smolder the moment he caught sight of her in the enchanting gown.
“My lady, the carriage is ready.”
Ava nodded, taking the offered shawl and departing for the modiste in town.
“Lady Ava,” the modiste said in a thick French accent, her measuring tape draped like regalia around her neck. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I need a gown for an engagement ball. And I need it in a matter of days. Please say ye can rush it.”
The modiste blinked, then smiled like a general handed a near-impossible challenge. “Ah. One of those commissions.”
Ava couldn’t help but smile. “Exactly one of those.”
Ava crossed to the measuring stand and stood tall. “I want something unlike anything I’ve worn before. Pale blue, soft, but luminous. Enchanting, like a fairytale.”
“Romantic,” the modiste murmured, scribbling notes. “And daring?”
“Daring enough to be noticed. But no’ too scandalous.”
The modiste arched a knowing brow. “We shall make you unforgettable, my lady, and perhaps you will have a happily ever after.”
