Chapter 6
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
When seated at tea, a lady should speak softly, as though her words were no stronger than the steam rising from her cup. Remember: the purpose of tea is not refreshment but performance.
The ride home was quiet, but only in the metaphorical sense. Moira chattered away beside him in the carriage, her cheeks still pink from the excitement of the ball. Her lady’s maid sat stoic, pretending to blend in with the cushions.
“Was it no’ splendid?” she said, beaming out the window as if the stars themselves were still dancing. “And Mr. Ferguson, Lachlan, what a dream. So refined. And tall. Did ye see how he danced? Like he was born to it. And those eyes…”
Gavan grunted noncommittally, shifting in his seat as the carriage thudded rhythmically over the ruts in the road, a steady clunk-thump, clunk-thump that filled the silence between Moira’s excited bursts of chatter.
The moon hung low above the hills, its glow turning the window glass as pale as bone.
Outside, the hedgerows whispered with the rustle of small animals darting through the underbrush, and once, the low, mournful hoot of an owl echoed across the field.
The scent of damp earth and heather seeped in through the carriage’s cracked window, mingling with the must of old leather and the faint perfume still clinging to Moira’s gown.
The seat creaked faintly beneath Gavan as he shifted his weight, the sound loud in the quiet that fell when she paused to sigh dreamily.
The whole countryside felt hushed, as if holding its breath, not peaceful, but expectant.
And in the quiet, Gavan’s thoughts moved like storm clouds gathering at the edge of a darkening sky.
The moon cast enough light through the window to illuminate Moira’s glowing expression.
He should be happy for her. Encouraging, even. But something sat wrong in his gut, he couldn’t decide if it was the punch, the dancing, or the particular way Lachlan Ferguson had looked at Ava.
Too familiar. Too sure of himself. And Ava, damn her, had looked back, if only briefly, and dare he even think it, to annoy him?
“I think he might call on me,” Moira continued, clasping her hands in her lap. “He said he’s staying nearby with his uncle for the rest of the season. That must mean something, dinna ye think?”
“Means he’s in the country,” Gavan said dryly.
Moira rolled her eyes. “Dinna be so stuffy. Ye must admit, he made an impression.”
Oh, he did. On everyone, apparently. Including Ava. And that was the real problem.
Gavan leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to speak ill of the man, not without proof, but he’d heard things in London last year. Whispers. Debt. A broken engagement. A trail of heartbroken smiles left in his wake as his carriage rolled on.
None of it had ever been confirmed. But Gavan had a decent eye for men who knew how to play a room, and Lachlan Ferguson played it like a violin.
And Ava, with her schemes and spark, might just be the perfect tune.
His jaw tensed. He hadn’t said anything to her. Hadn’t warned her properly. He didn’t want to come off possessive, or worse, jealous. Because he wasn’t.
He wasn’t.
He just… didn’t want Moira to be hurt. Or Ava to be taken in by a smile that looked more practiced than sincere.
Moira let out a dreamy sigh beside him.
“Oh, and ye should’ve seen the way he bowed,” Moira gushed, fingers fluttering as if she could still feel the moment.
“So precise, like something out of a painting, none of that sloppy dipping the other men do. And when Lady Ava introduced us, he said, oh, what was it?, ‘The evening just improved by a magnitude.’ Isn’t that clever?
And he brought me a glass of lemonade without me even asking.
Just noticed I was warm and dashed off. That’s the sort of attention a man ought to pay, dinna ye think? ”
Gavan stared straight ahead, jaw tight. He tried not to listen. But every word sank in like a nettle pressed against skin. Clever. Charming. Dashing off for lemonade. Ava smiling. Moira glowing. And all of it too quick. Too easy. Too practiced.
“I think he likes me,” she said softly.
Gavan opened his eyes, watching the countryside pass in silver-edged blurs.
“Perhaps he does,” he said. “But ye must no’ put all your eggs in one basket. There are plenty of gentlemen to consider this season.”
Hell, he hoped the man was sincere in his interest. That the rumors were not true. Because if he wasn’t… if he turned out to be the same polished disappointment Gavan suspected…
He’d be damned if he let either of them find out too late.
Moira sighed again, this time softer, more hopeful. “He’s no’ like the other men, ye know. He listened. Really listened.”
Gavan almost smiled. That was the danger of men like Lachlan Ferguson, they knew how to listen just enough to make a woman believe she was the only voice in the room. Hell, with women other than Ava, he did the same.
He stared out the window, the dark hills rolling past like sleeping beasts.
Last winter in London, Gavan had been standing near the fireplace at his club, half-listening to the usual gossip when Lachlan’s name floated past in conversation between two baronets.
“Heard about Ferguson? Broke it off with the Ainsworth lass just before Christmas,” one had said, swirling brandy. “Family’s furious. Thought it was all but settled.”
“Furious, aye, but lucky,” the other replied with a laugh. “He’s charming but never stays long. I’d wager the man’s more in love with his own reflection than anyone else.”
Later that same night, Gavan cornered a footman and plied with brandy, let it slip that Mr. Ferguson had been found arguing in the garden with a married woman, her gloves in his coat pocket and her husband not far behind.
The story shifted with each telling, but the tone never did, amused, disbelieving, faintly impressed.
The way some men talked about Lachlan Ferguson, you’d think scandal was a virtue.
What had stayed with Gavan, though, wasn’t the stories.
It was the look on Lachlan’s face when someone bested him at cards, a brief flash of tight-lipped irritation, quickly masked by laughter.
Or the way he always seemed to glance around the room after delivering a clever remark, as if searching for applause.
He didn’t just enjoy being liked, he required it.
And Gavan had learned long ago that men who needed adoration rarely handled rejection well.
Gavan hadn’t paid much attention at the time; he didn’t travel in the same circles.
And Ava—Ava wasn’t one to offer adoration lightly. She challenged. She saw through polish. Which made Gavan wonder what, exactly, she saw in Lachlan Ferguson tonight.
Or worse, what Lachlan saw in her.
And now, watching his cousin twirl phrases like “charming” and “dashing” through the air, the memory returned sharp as a pebble in a shoe.
Moira reached for his arm. “Do ye think he’ll call tomorrow?”
Gavan hesitated. The words formed, heavy and bitter on his tongue.
He’s not who you think he is.
But instead, he only said, “I suppose we’ll find out.”
She smiled, content, and leaned back against the velvet cushion with a dreamy hum.
Gavan stayed silent, turning the reins of the conversation over in his mind, wondering if saying something now would make any difference, or only make things worse. Moira wasn’t a child. But she was hopeful. And hope made people blind.
Especially the good ones.
He rapped his knuckles against the side of the carriage, an old habit to ground himself. If Lachlan hurt her, if he played her like he’d played the Ainsworth lass, there’d be consequences. Whether Ava liked it or not, Gavan had promised to protect Moira. And he intended to keep that promise.
Even if it meant protecting her from someone with perfect bone structure and a practiced smile.
Even if it meant protecting her from Ava’s plans, too.
Moira drifted into silence beside him, lost in her thoughts. Gavan watched the countryside blur past the window, but his focus had shifted entirely.
The truth scraped at him. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was guarding anymore.
Moira was family. That part was easy, clear lines, clear duty. He’d promised her father, and he would see it through. But when it came to Ava…
That was where the edges blurred.
He wasn’t sure if he was protecting Moira from men like Lachlan or protecting himself from women like Ava.
From the sharpness of her wit. From the way her smile could both soothe and provoke.
From the ache that lodged behind his ribs when he saw her standing at the top of the stairs tonight, poised and glowing, like she’d planned the stars themselves to light her entrance.
And not the first time he’d felt it. Years ago, at a harvest gathering when they were barely grown, they’d been nudged into a dance by their parents.
She’d rolled her eyes but taken his hand.
“Try no’ to scowl the entire time,” she’d whispered, grinning.
“Ye’ll frighten the fiddler.” And then she’d laughed when he actually smiled.
A soft, surprised sound that had lingered longer in his mind than it should have.
He hadn’t thought about that moment in years. Not until tonight, when she leaned into Lachlan’s arm like it cost her nothing. When she smiled that same dazzling smile, and Gavan, damn him, felt something shift. Or snap.
He had told himself, repeatedly, that he wasn’t jealous.
That he didn’t care who Ava danced with, matched up, or paraded through her glittering little kingdom.
But watching her with Lachlan, laughing, radiant, entirely too unbothered, it scraped against something raw inside him.
His words about not being jealous rang hollow now, echoing in the quiet like a lie he’d told too often.
He could still feel the ghost of her hand in his when he’d cut into her dance.
The way her fingers had flexed once against his palm before she remembered herself.
The scent of lavender and lemon from her hair.
The sharp glint in her eyes when she accused him of never trusting her, and the softer one when she didn’t pull away.
It had been a dance, aye. But it had felt like more. Every turn had felt like a question he couldn’t answer. Every step had brought them too close to something they never spoke aloud. He had meant to reprimand her. Instead, he had walked away rattled.
That was the problem with Ava. She challenged him. Infuriated him. Made him feel too much and say too little. And somehow, he was always the one left turning over their conversations in his head while she moved on with the next grand scheme.
He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. Lachlan might be trouble, but Ava was a storm all her own.
And Gavan wasn’t sure which one was more dangerous.
Moira’s voice broke the quiet, light and hopeful. “Was it no’ lovely? Making Lady Ava’s acquaintance, I mean. She was so gracious. I am ever so grateful to her.”
Gavan opened his eyes, glancing over at his innocent cousin.
“She invited me to tea tomorrow,” Moira added, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Just the two of us. Would ye mind terribly if I went?”
Gavan hesitated, again. The sensible part of him wanted to say no, to keep his cousin well clear of Ava’s machinations. But what reason could he give that wouldn’t sound petty? That wouldn’t reveal how tangled he was in something he couldn’t even name?
He cleared his throat. “Just… dinna let her drag ye into one of her schemes.”
Moira only laughed, light and unconcerned. “Dinna be silly. She was lovely. I think we’ll be great friends. Just like the two of ye used to be.”
Gavan looked back out the window, the road unspooling ahead like a ribbon he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow.
Friends.
If only it were ever that simple with Ava.