Chapter 3
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady must never presume to know the heart of a gentleman better than he knows it himself, though she may flatter herself with such fancies.
Ava climbed out of the carriage, stepping down into the street of the Scottish town, Strathcael, she had lived in since she was a child.
Everything was familiar to her, the cobble-lined streets, the shopfronts painted in cheerful colors, green, blue, cream, with flower boxes overflowing from their windowsills.
The scent of fresh bread wafted from the bakery, mixing with sea air and peat smoke.
Children played near the fountain. The butcher’s bell jingled as a cart pulled up.
Everything hummed with the comfortable rhythm of home.
Even the people were familiar and dear.
She waved to the baker, asked how the milliner’s daughter was doing, since she’d been sick with a fever the previous week.
And then delighted the fabric shop owners by ordering a full bolt of fabric from Paris.
She was already planning the next ball that she was going to host at her father’s house. He agreed only because he assumed she was doing it for herself.
But she had other ideas.
She stepped out of the fabric shop, the sun warm against her cheeks, and paused at the top of the stone step, mentally rearranging the guest list for the third time that morning.
Her father believed she threw balls for her own amusement, which was only partially true. While she did enjoy a well-curated evening of gowns and gossip, Ava never hosted without a purpose. A dance floor was a battlefield. A guest list was a chessboard.
With the London season over, eligible men were flocking back to Scotland like peacocks without a parade.
Thomas Mackintosh had just returned from Oxford, still awkward but now with the slight confidence of a man who could quote Virgil.
Lord Baird’s second son had acquired an inheritance and a better cut of suit, which made him suddenly presentable.
Even the shy MacCallum twins were of age now, their dimpled cheeks more attractive than adorable.
Three potential pairings already circled in her mind. She would, of course, observe carefully, but she didn’t believe in leaving these things to chance. Love was fine and well, but it was inefficient on its own.
She adjusted her gloves and stepped forward, eyes scanning the street automatically for familiar faces. If there was a newcomer in town, or an overlooked gem, she’d find them. There was always someone in need of a nudge toward the altar. And Ava loved nothing more than a matchmaking challenge.
She noticed a young woman, with her lady’s maid, that she had never met before walking down the street. She was wearing a soft pink gown with a matching bonnet, and her hair curled gently, framing her face and peeking beneath the brim.
“Good afternoon,” Ava said with a bright smile, stepping smoothly beside the unfamiliar young woman. “I dinna believe we’ve met, I’m Lady Ava Woodmoor, of Heatherfield.”
The woman turned toward her with an open, pleasant smile. “Miss Moira Douglas. Lovely to meet ye.”
Ava took in the soft pink gown, the carefully curled hair beneath the bonnet, the gentle, unhurried cadence of her speech. Gracious. Innocent, perhaps. Definitely new.
“I thought ye might be visiting,” Ava said lightly. “We’re quite a small community, new faces dinna often go unnoticed.”
“Aye, my cousin lives here,” Moira said, still smiling. “I’ve come to spend the Scottish season with family.”
“How lovely,” Ava replied, already filing the lass under potential project. Ava’s eyes lit with polite interest. “Then ye must come to my ball this weekend. It’ll be the first proper gathering of the season, perfect for getting to know people.”
“I’d love that,” Moira said. “Thank ye.”
“And who is your cousin, if I may ask?”
“Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood.”
Ava’s stomach dropped, her blood rushing from her face to pool in her feet. Of all the names in all of Scotland. She could’ve said Campbell. McLeod. Even MacLaren. But no, Gavan Douglas.
Ava’s least favorite storm cloud wrapped in a cravat.
Her smile froze. Her jaw, she feared, might do the same. Now she had no choice but to nod pleasantly and pretend this wasn’t the worst possible turn the afternoon could take.
It was always Gavan. Gavan who contradicted her in public. Gavan who smirked at her ideas like she was a wayward child. Gavan who ruined a perfectly good guest list by existing on it.
She’d once described him to a friend as an oxcart full of gloomy Mondays and still, he’d haunted her thoughts more than any man ought to.
And now he’d be at her ball. Standing in her drawing room. Possibly speaking to her.
She forced her lungs to work. She smiled graciously and nodded at Moira, knowing now she would find his cousin a suitor so fast Gavan wouldn’t know what hit him.
She wished she could rescind the invitation, because that meant he would escort his cousin to the party this weekend, but since she’d already issued it, it would be rude to take it back.
This would not go well for her.
She tried to keep her smile in place as she grinned at Moira.
Well, the sooner she found Moira a match, the sooner she would get Gavan away from her, as he was only attending the festivities for his cousin.
So, it was settled then. Moira was going to be her new matchmaking project.
“How delightful,” she said smoothly. “I will be delighted for ye to attend. We shall have to make sure ye meet all the right people.”
Ava smiled, just enough to be polite, but her jaw ached from the effort of keeping it in place. The thought of Gavan attending her ball, standing in her drawing room with that smug expression, was almost too much to bear. Still, it wouldn’t do to let Moira see any of that.
"So," she said brightly, looping her arm through Moira’s, "what brings ye into town today?"
If she was going to manage this situation, she needed to know more about Moira—her tastes, her temperament, her prospects. The Scottish season was beginning in earnest, and with so many eligible bachelors returning, there would be no shortage of potential matches.
"I was looking for a new ribbon," Moira said cheerfully. "I have a lovely sky-blue dress at home, but I seem to have misplaced the ribbon. And perhaps a new pair of slippers."
"Well, I know just the place," Ava said, looping her arm more firmly through Moira’s and steering her across the square. "Ye’ll find that between ribbons and gossip, this town is well-supplied."
The little bell above the door jingled brightly as they entered the milliner’s shop. Inside, the scent of lavender sachets mingled with starched lace and dyed muslin. A kaleidoscope of ribbons lined the wall, spools upon spools in every imaginable hue. It was a riot of silk and satin.
Moira’s eyes widened. "Oh! It’s beautiful."
"’Tis," Ava agreed, though she said it with the practiced air of someone who’d seen it a hundred times. "But it can be a bit overwhelming. Are we thinking soft blue? Or something with contrast?"
"Blue," Moira said quickly. "To match my dress. But maybe something with a shimmer?"
Ava scanned the rows, then plucked a spool of pale blue shot through with silver threads. "Try this. It’ll catch the light when ye move, elegant but no’ flashy. Trust me."
Moira held the ribbon to her wrist and grinned. "’Tis perfect."
Ava allowed herself a small, satisfied nod. This she could do. Dress the lass up, make the right introductions, match her before Gavan had the chance to involve himself.
“Now,” Ava said, “slippers.”
They made their way across the street to the cobbler’s shop, where delicate shoes were displayed like confections on tiered stands. Ava motioned toward a pair of sky-blue slippers with tiny gems glinting at the toes.
Moira gasped. "They’re lovely, but, oh, I could no’."
"Nonsense. Ye must," Ava insisted, already signaling the shopkeeper. "Ye’re going to be the belle of the ball."
And if she was lucky, Ava thought, Gavan would see it and stay far, far away.
"Thank ye so much, Lady Ava," Moira said. "I’m delighted to make a friend so quickly after coming into town."
"Of course. Any cousin of Gavan is always a friend of mine." Ava practically choked on the words, but she had a new thing, a new project, and she was not going to let this go.
“My cousin speaks highly of ye,” Moira offered.
Ava nearly tripped over a shoe sizing stick haphazardly discarded, which in turn horrified the salesclerk. Ava, not at all offended, waved away the profusions of apologies with a smile.
“Does he?” Ava asked lightly, her voice pitched just a little too high.
“He said ye’re verra… capable.”
Capable? Ava blinked. That was what he’d said? Not charming. Not elegant. Not even tolerable. Capable. Like a governess. Or a stable hand. Or a particularly well-trained hunting dog.
She forced a smile, trying not to imagine strangling him with one of the pastel ribbons.
“How flattering,” she said, crisply. “And did he mention just what I was capable of?”
Moira only smiled and shrugged, clearly unaware of the emotional wound her cousin had just inflicted with his choice of words. “I didna have a chance to ask, but I would be happy to have him clarify.”
Capable. Ava was going to need a strong cup of tea. “Oh, goodness no. Let us just keep that between us.”
Besides, if she could focus on Moira, she could distract herself from her father’s increasing intentions for her to wed.
The longer she remained unwed, the more his gaze lingered when certain gentlemen entered the room, the more he "just happened" to mention someone’s eligible son over breakfast.
He wasn’t cruel about it, of course. He adored her.
But love could still apply pressure. It came in the form of gentle suggestions, like invitations sent to bachelors with modest fortunes and acceptable lineage.
It arrived with furrowed brows and offhand remarks: You know, your sisters were already engaged at your age.
Ava bristled at the memory. Her sisters had always followed the rules. Always played the part. Ava had never quite managed to be what the world wanted.
And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had offers, some respectable, some even flattering. But none of them had made her feel anything. Certainly not what she imagined one ought to feel when promising the rest of one’s life.
No, she’d rather be alone than bored.
That was why she focused on others. On finding them matches. On arranging their futures. It kept everyone from asking too many questions about hers.
And perhaps, if she managed to make enough happy endings for everyone else, she wouldn’t have to explain why she still hadn’t chosen one for herself.
As they shopped and chatted, Ava found herself, somewhat to her surprise, actually enjoying Moira’s company.
The lass was warm and gracious, with a sincerity that made Ava feel almost…
disarmed. That was rare. Alarming, even.
But rather than retreat, Ava found herself leaning in.
Someone like Moira deserved a man who was equally kind and genuine, not one of the preening peacocks who came to town thinking charm alone could secure a future.
Ava didn’t trust charm. She trusted intention. She trusted character.
She also trusted herself, especially when it came to arranging other people’s futures.
She glanced sideways at Moira, already imagining the short list of candidates. This wouldn’t be difficult. Sweet girls like her were practically begging to be matched.
And truly, if anyone was going to help Moira find a perfect match, it might as well be Ava.