Chapter 1
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
It is not the duty of a young lady to arrange marriages for others; she should be wholly occupied with arranging herself into one.
The only other time in Lady Ava Woodmoor’s life that she could remember being this satisfied with herself was the day she’d convinced her governess to jump into the pond to catch a toad.
Today was entirely different with her friends Lord and Lady Myrton married off in a match created by herself.
The ceremony had been held in the rose garden, just as she'd envisioned, with pale pink peonies overflowing from every urn and garlands of wisteria dripping from the archway. Even the lace runners along the aisle had matched the bride’s gloves—Ava had seen to that personally.
It was, as she liked to think of it, perfectly orchestrated bliss.
The wedding nuptials had been splendid, and right now Ava was reliving the work of her design.
The ceremony had unfolded beneath a canopy of white and pink roses, stitched with ivory ribbons that fluttered like sighs in the breeze. Ava had insisted on a string quartet, and the soft strains of their music had given the vows a picturesque glow—just as she’d planned.
No detail had escaped her notice. After all, she’d been planning her own wedding since she was a wee lass, until she’d decided she wasn’t ready to marry and had made it her mission to give her well-planned dreams to everyone else.
The hand-tied bouquets of pale blush roses and lavender had filled the air with a most beautiful scent.
The flower girls wore wreaths Ava had woven herself.
Artistry. Order. A vision executed to perfection.
Even the doves had cooperated—released at the precise moment the couple kissed, their white wings sweeping into the sky like the ending note on a love story she had written.
The bride had wiped discreetly at her damp, bliss-filled eyes, while the groom had looked stunned by joy, and the audience had practically swooned. Ava took it all in with the quiet satisfaction of a master at work.
The wedding had been everything she could have dreamed for the happy couple. Elegant, emotional, and, most importantly, entirely of Ava’s enterprise.
Her feet deliciously ached from having danced the afternoon away, even if her father had warned her to contain herself. Ava had been entirely too jubilant for his peace of mind. But when was her father ever calm?
Oh, it had been glorious. And heaven help her if she wasn’t already planning the next.
She’d made the decision last season after having played a part in the connection—and subsequent wedding—of her friends Poppy and Dougal, the Earl and Countess of Reay.
She’d spotted the way Poppy’s eyes lingered just a touch too long across the ballroom and noticed how Dougal’s usually stern expression had softened, almost imperceptibly, whenever she passed.
Ava had orchestrated not one but two dances without either of them realizing she’d put them directly in each other’s paths.
There’d been exhilaration in the wondering—would it work?
A jolt of panic when they’d nearly bypassed each other without speaking.
But then, oh, the thrill. The brush of fingers, the shy glances, the spark caught between them like sunlight on crystal.
In that moment, Ava had felt the rush of secret power. As if she controlled the fates. Well, maybe just nudged them a bit.
From that day forward, she’d made it her mission. Her calling. Her responsibility. To see all those of eligible age perfectly matched and marched down the aisle.
As long as it kept her from having to do the same.
She told herself she had no desire for matrimony. And yet... there had been a strange tug when she watched the newlyweds depart earlier, hand-in-hand and utterly unaware of anyone else. A tug she refused to name.
And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had offers. There’d been plenty. But not one of them gave her that spark, that flutter in her belly she knew was necessary before agreeing to love, honor, cherish.
She’d already helped several of the townspeople tie the knot, too.
No matter their class or station, she was willing to help them cross from the world of the unwed, into the institution of marriage.
Love didn’t discriminate, and neither did Ava’s ambition.
But lately, a whisper of doubt crept in when the music faded, and the flowers were carted away.
What if it wasn’t always joy she was stitching together, but the illusion of it?
Ava listened to the fading laughter, the quieting of the music, as the newly married couple rode their carriage off into the distance.
A flash of envy threatened to knock her off kilter, but she kicked it away, reminding herself that she had yet to meet someone who made her swoon the way Lord Myrton had knocked the balance from his bride’s feet.
Still, something about the hush that settled after the guests had moved on to tea and cake and conversations, left her feeling unmoored. The rose petals scattered on the lawn no longer looked celebratory, but like debris. The doves had flown. The quartet had packed their instruments.
The spell was broken.
And Ava, master of the magic, stood at its center—feeling triumphant and alone at the same time.
She let out a long sigh. It was fine. She had work to do. More matches to make. Other people’s love to orchestrate.
That flicker in her chest? That weight on her shoulders? She refused to give it a name.
“Admiring your handiwork?” The deep rumble of her nemesis Gavan’s voice slid up her spine and he came to stand beside her.
Impeccable timing, Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood had. She was still basking in the afterglow of a perfectly executed ceremony when he showed up, like a stormy rain cloud drifting over her sun-drenched day.
“Do ye no’ have someone else ye could be bothering?” She didn’t bother to keep the disdain from her voice. No matter how rude she was to him, he never seemed to catch her hints that she would rather have the earth open and swallow him whole than have to speak to him again.
“My, my, are we no’ testy?”
Ava rolled her eyes and contemplated leaving this very perfect spot with the very perfect view of the slowly disappearing carriage. But really why should she be the one to leave? Gavan was intruding on her space not the other way around.
“I canna fathom another way to be around ye. Ye are rather irksome.” She flexed her fingers, keeping herself from crossing her arms in a most unladylike fashion.
“Irksome. Hmm.” Even the way he said hmm was entirely irritating.
“Did ye want something or are ye just set on being a bother?”
“I can assure ye, my lady, there is nothing ye have that I want.”
Good. Perfect. Excellent. Then why did her stomach drop like she’d just swallowed a stone?
Her jaw tightened. It was nonsense, of course. He’d come to her. Still, the words landed with a weight she hadn’t expected. She didn’t care, she told herself. Not one bit. She had orchestrated a wedding today. She was the one being useful, building futures, while Gavan simply… smiled.
My goodness was he really so obtuse?
In an attempt to calm herself, she smoothed her hands over her gown, a delicate shade of buttercream silk, embroidered with fine ivory thread and little rosebuds, the hem just brushing her ankles.
It was a gown meant to be admired. Preferably from a distance.
Preferably not by Lord Darkwood, who was staring entirely too boldly at the skirt which housed her legs.
“Best be running along then, my lord, else ye’ll miss the next person to annoy.”
The man had the audacity to chuckle, which only prompted Ava to sort through a mental catalogue of every Shakespearean insult she knew and to subsequently ask the lord for forgiveness for her sinful and cruel thoughts.
Gavan couldn’t help being a complete annoyance.
It seemed to be the way he was born, for she’d never known him not to make her bristle.
She glanced at him sideways, letting out a rather mournful sigh. She didn’t even like him. Absolutely not. So why did she feel oddly… noticed whenever he showed up?
If he didn’t irritate her so much, she’d be willing to admit he was handsome.
She glanced at him sideways, scowling. If he didn’t make her blood boil so easily, she might be forced to admit his eyes—grey as a storm cloud and twice as unsettling—were entirely too arresting.
Or that her fingers itched to ruffle the unruly dark curls that dared to defy order the way he did.
Fortunately, either he opened his mouth and ruined it all, as usual, or there was the inevitable smirk on his too kissable lips that made her scowl.
Smirks like that were dangerous.
“Good day, my lord,” she said, deciding that it would in fact be prudent if she were the one to leave.
“I’ll escort ye,” he volunteered.
“My legs and faculties are just fine.”
The absurd man had the nerve to stare down at her legs, again.
“Aye, they do appear to be quite fine.”
Ava let out a groan. “Must ye be so crass?”
He raised a brow. “Must ye be so irritable?”
Ava’s mouth dropped open and a squeak came out. The start of something rude no doubt before she managed to stop herself.
“I said good day!” she said a little too loudly.
Gavan’s smile deepened and he gave a mock salute which only rendered her speechless, and her vision to go red.
“Why ye—”
“There ye are.”
Saved by her father, Ava rushed toward him. “Papa, I was looking for ye.”
He patted her hand where she threaded it through his elbow, warm and familiar, and she waited for him to escort her to their waiting carriage.
But he didn’t move.
Instead, he stood there smiling, first at Gavan, then back at her, and Ava’s stomach plummeted.
Oh no. That look. That hopeful gleam in his eyes.
Her father, dear man, was reading entirely too much into the moment, as if Gavan had said something meaningful or glanced at her a second too long.
As if they hadn’t just exchanged barbs like they always did.
He wanted her settled, she knew that. He was so desperate for her to find a match, and here Gavan stood, the perfect candidate in his eyes. Not in hers.
But she couldn’t blame him, not really. He’d been devoted to her mother—God rest her soul—and he simply wanted Ava to know that kind of joy. Like her sisters had. But he didn’t seem to understand, she just wasn’t ready and may never be.
“Lord Darkwood, I trust ye’re well.” Her father’s eyebrows lifted in that maddeningly hopeful way, as if he were expecting Gavan to drop to one knee and declare undying love that very moment.
Ava wanted to yank on her father’s arm and disappear into their carriage. She didn’t want to hear anything else from Gavan, especially not in that insufferably smooth voice. And she certainly didn’t want her father mistaking politeness for courtship. She wanted to be very far from both of them.
This instant.
“Lord Heatherfield, always a pleasure to see ye,” Gavan replied with practiced charm.
“We’ve missed your company of late.” Her papa patted her hand again, a knowing little squeeze that made Ava bristle. As if she shared his opinion. As if she hadn’t just envisioned pushing Gavan into the ornamental fountain.
Their fathers had been dear friends, which meant their families had spent years in close company, long afternoons of cards and cordial disagreements, hunts across sun-dappled fields, winter dances where the children were allowed to stay up too late.
Ava could still remember Gavan as a lad.
Bold, brash, always trailing mud behind him and daring her to race him to the stables.
But that was before.
After his father’s death, Gavan had been all but swallowed by the estate. He’d inherited not just the land, but the quiet ruin left behind by illness and neglect. Fields untended. Tenants behind on rent. Livestock sold off too early.
She supposed she ought to feel some measure of sympathy.
And perhaps she did, somewhere far beneath the layers of irritation he stirred up every time he opened that smug, maddening mouth.
“I do hope to call on ye soon, my lord,” Gavan said. “But I’ve been busier than usual with the estate, given the loss of several crofters.” He gave Ava a pointed stare.
“Understood. Do come by when ye can, we’ll go for a shoot.”
“’Twould be an honor, my lord.” Gavan bowed to them both, and it took every ounce of willpower Ava possessed not to sniff disdainfully in his direction, or perhaps throw her fan at his smug, stupid head.
As if sensing that, he grinned. “Good day, my lady.”
Only a nudge from her father had her returning the farewell. And she could have sworn she heard Gavan laughing the entire way back to their carriage.