Page 9 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Heatherfield Castle came into view, a grand stone structure of a castle that had seen generation after generation. It had not fallen into disrepair like his own estate. Gavan couldn’t help but wish that his father had followed in his old friend's footsteps in the way he managed his properties. But wishing wasn’t going to patch roofs or keep tenants from fleeing overseas.
The ache in his chest was dull but persistent, part frustration, part guilt.
Talking to Ava was the thing that he needed to do right now.
By the time he reached the courtyard and handed his reins to a groom, his insides felt like they were going to twist out. He was so irritated that she had sabotaged him that he was ready to barge through the door of the castle and demand an explanation.
But he knew such behavior would not be appropriate. And he also knew that if her father caught him yelling at her, he was bound to be removed from the property, no matter how long-standing their friendship was.
Gavan nodded at the groom, patted his horse on the neck, and then walked up the stairs to the ornate entrance. He paused, squaring his shoulders, before the oak door. The entrance swung open before he had a chance to knock.
The butler welcomed him inside. "The Earl is in his study, my lord," he said, indicating that Gavan should move to the study off to the left.
The interior was an elegant collection of eras, polished wood floors overlaid with Aubusson rugs, stone archways flanked by modern sconces, and tapestries that whispered of knights and queens but hung beside imported French oil paintings. The scent of beeswax polish and lavender hung in the air.
"Actually, Angus, I’m here to see Lady Ava," Gavan kept his voice firm and steady, no indication of his purpose for being there.
The butler, for his part, did not flinch or make a face. He simply nodded. "I will let her ladyship know that ye are waiting in the drawing room."
Angus led the way to the drawing room that Gavan had spent hours in over the years, playing cards and listening to their fathers argue over brandy.
The room welcomed him like a memory, high ceilings with carved beams, shelves full of old tomes, a piano in the corner. The furniture was newer, reupholstered in pale blue and cream, but the scent of firewood and lemon oil hadn’t changed. He walked to the window and gazed out across the moors.
He could remember sitting in this room as a lad, playing cards with Ava and her sisters while their fathers drank brandy in the study. That was before responsibility had settled like a weight in his chest. Before the land had started slipping through his fingers. Before Ava had become... this whirlwind of intentions and interference.
His father would have called it meddling. His mother might've called it spirit.
Either way, it was exhausting.
And now here he was, begging help from the very person who seemed determined to undo everything he was barely holding together.
This room felt heavy, not because of what he was about to say, but from those who had once filled it. His own parents, now gone. Ava’s mother, long since passed.
The walls felt like they held the ghost of laughter and the echo of children who once believed the world was theirs. There’d been a time when life felt full of invincibility. Now it just felt full. Full of duty, and dust, and debts.
“Ahem.”
Gavan turned. Ava’s voice sounded behind him, light, but not the least bit excited to see him. In fact, her tone carried all the annoyance of someone who was being forced to be polite.
He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but she did seem to be irritated with him more often than not since they’d come of age. He turned around to face her. She was as beautiful as she was every time he saw her. And beautifully irritating. Her day dress was a soft lilac trimmed in matching ribbon, elegant without being overly grand. The way her waist cinched made him forget his own name for a second. Her dark hair was swept back in a chignon, with loose curls brushing her cheeks. And yet it was her eyes, sharp, perceptive, always watching, that unnerved him the most.
He cleared his throat. "I’ve come to discuss an important matter with ye," he said, standing straighter than necessary.
He’d practiced this speech the entire ride over. First firm. Then reasonable. Then firm again. None of it seemed to matter now, standing here with her eyebrow arched and a sarcastic remark already forming on her lips.
"Have a seat. Shall I ring for tea?" she asked with a glint of sarcasm.
"I will no’ be staying long enough for tea. ’Tis something I need to say and something ye need to stop doing."
She cocked her head, examining him as though he were a particularly dull book. “Well, that’s a shame. I had my heart set on bribing ye with biscuits before ye started scolding me.” Her voice was all honey, but her eyes had shifted to steel.
"Aye. I need ye to stop with this foolhardy matchmaking game ye’ve been playing."
"Game?" she said. "I assure ye, I’ve played no games."
"I beg to differ, my lady," he said formally. So different from when they were children, he would have addressed her by her first name as they played a game of tag out in the fields.
"When people love each other verra much and they want to get married, why would ye blame me for that?"
