Chapter 8
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
The garden party was, as Ava liked to think of it, a masterpiece.
Sunlight spilled across Heatherfield Castle lawns, setting the dewdrops on the grass glittering like tiny diamonds.
The gardens were in full bloom, roses climbing over trellises, lavender humming with bees, and early summer peonies bursting in delicate pinks and whites.
Long tables draped in pale yellow linens were laden with chilled lemonade, sugared strawberries, and delicate tea cakes.
Laughter floated across the lawn like music, blending with the strings of a quartet tucked discreetly beneath a white awning.
It was lively, elegant, and, most importantly, intimate. Every detail designed for conversation. And for a previous introduction to bloom into something more.
Ava moved through the crowd with a hostess’s grace, the same grace she'd witnessed from her mother.
Her pale green gown caught the sunlight, and a matching parasol rested lightly against her shoulder.
Her father was in his element, chatting with men and pointing to his stable where a new stallion was waiting to stud.
She stopped to chat with the MacDonalds dressed in full tartan, complimented Mrs. Worton on her hat which resembled a peacock strutting across her silver hair and offered a knowing smile to Lady Drummond whose curious eyes scanned the whole party, and whose smile suggested she’d already discovered a few secrets.
Ava made the rounds enough to suggest she’d orchestrated this whole gathering with nothing but kindness in mind.
In truth, it was a battlefield.
Her gaze drifted toward Moira, who stood near the rose arbor, blushing prettily as Lachlan Ferguson said something that made her laugh. It was working. They looked easy together, natural, just as Ava had planned.
Of course, the other three suitors were here too, and that required its own subtle choreography.
Mr. McRae, though shy, had been steered toward conversation with Miss Hannah Grant, who shared his fondness for agricultural reform.
More importantly, Hannah wasn’t Moira. John Kinnaird, an avid bird watcher, was planted firmly beside Mrs. Worton, who had an endless supply of amusing gossip and would, with luck, keep him entertained for the afternoon.
And Alistair Boyd, poor dear, had been nudged toward a spirited widow who seemed delighted by his easy manner and strong arms.
Three gentlemen gently redirected. One gentleman, Lachlan, right where Ava wanted him.
She allowed herself a small, private smile.
This was why she loved matchmaking. The pieces always moved exactly into position, if you were clever enough to set them up just right.
She spotted two familiar faces across the lawn, Freya and her husband Bryson, chatting animatedly with Poppy and Dougal near the lemonade table.
Ava made a mental note to join them shortly.
Friends who understood the delicate balance between gossip and strategy were invaluable at events like this, and Freya, in particular, had a knack for noticing everything worth knowing.
“Admiring your handiwork?”
Her spine stiffened at the voice.
Of course he was here. He would have chaperoned his cousin, and yet, she’d completely forgotten that fact as she’d admired her handiwork.
Ava turned slowly, schooling her features into something serene, even as her pulse jumped. Gavan Douglas stood a few paces away, all dark hair, broad shoulders, and that maddeningly steady stare. He looked as out of place at a garden party as a wolf at a tea table.
“Why, Lord Darkwood,” she said sweetly, tilting her parasol to block the sun, and perhaps to put something between them. “How lovely of ye to join us. I hope ye’re enjoying yourself?”
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”
Her smile sharpened. “How gracious of ye. But I’m afraid I’m rather busy ensuring my guests are happy. Including your cousin, who looks positively radiant at the moment.”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes flicked toward Moira and Lachlan before returning to her. “We’ll talk now, my lady.”
He spoke low enough that only she could hear, but still she bristled, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her parasol. “Ye’ll have to wait your turn,” she said lightly, as if he hadn’t just issued a demand.
Turning her back, Ava glided across the lawn with deliberate steps.
Mr. McRae spotted her first, breaking away from his conversation with Hannah and bowing low before meeting her gaze with light grey eyes. “Lady Ava. A fine gathering, as always.”
“Mr. McRae.” She smiled, light but noncommittal. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Verra much so. Though I had hoped to speak further with Miss Douglas.” He hesitated, tugging at his cuffs, as he turned toward the young lady in question in the distance.
Ava tilted her head, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Ah, but she seems already to be in conversation with Mr. Ferguson. I’d hate to pull her away when they seem so… well-matched.”
The flicker of disappointment on Ferguson's visage was more than noticeable, but he nodded. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” she echoed, already moving on.
Next was John Kinnaird, lounging like a cat beneath the shade of an elm with Mrs. Worton still chattering at his side.
He caught Ava’s eye, his smile quick and calculating.
“Lady Ava,” he drawled. “How verra fine ye look this afternoon. A woman of your taste might advise a man on how best to capture a lady’s attention. ”
Ava knew precisely which lady he meant.
“Advice?” She arched a brow, parasol tapping against her shoulder, then leaned in, to whisper. “Perhaps begin by staying upright for an entire evening without seeking refuge in the nearest punch bowl.”
Mrs. Worton laughed loud enough to startle the birds from the tree, perhaps afraid her peacock hat would take flight. Ava hadn’t been as quiet as she’d hoped. She wasn’t one to be mean, and she’d only meant to tease, but Kinnaird’s grin faltered.
“Ah. Witty and merciless, as ever.”
“I tease, Mr. Kinnaird.” Ava gave him a sweet smile that said she’d try very hard to keep him from Moira, too, then swept past before he could recover and ask her again.
Alistair Boyd was the last. He approached her near the lemonade table, his soft blue eyes too sincere for his own good. “Lady Ava,” he said, bowing with a kind of careful grace. “I… I hope ye might convey my regards to Miss Douglas. I’ve been unable to find a moment to speak with her.”
She softened, just slightly. Boyd was different. Too kind to toy with, too earnest for the sharper games she often played. “I will certainly convey them,” she said gently. “But ye must allow her some time. A garden party is overwhelming for anyone new to the season.”
His smile wavered but held. “Of course. Thank ye.”
Ava left him with a polite nod and turned toward the lemonade table where Freya, Bryson, Poppy, and Dougal had gathered, laughing about something Ava suspected was at the expense of half the men in attendance.
“Darling,” Freya said, sweeping Ava into an air-kiss. “Ye’ve outdone yourself. This is divine. Husband, do you no’ think this garden is just begging for another party? Preferably one where no one’s trying to marry off half the county?”
Bryson chuckled. “I think our hostess would be most disappointed if that were the case.”
“On the contrary,” Poppy said with a sly smile. “I think Ava would be relieved if she could marry off half the county and be done with it.”
Ava raised her parasol like a sword. “Dinna tempt me. I may put the entire guest list in pairs before the week is out.”
They laughed, but Freya leaned in, lowering her voice. “So tell me. Is Lachlan Ferguson truly interested in Lord Darkwood’s cousin? Or is he only here for the spectacle?”
Ava’s gaze slid toward the rose arbor where Moira and Lachlan were still deep in conversation. “He’s interested.” Her voice was firm, a mix of conviction and hope.
“Mm,” Freya hummed, exchanging a glance with Poppy. “Well, keep an eye on that one. Men that charming rarely belong to just one woman.”
Before Ava could respond, a shadow fell over their little circle.
“Ladies. Lord Lovat. Lord Reay.” Gavan Douglas stood just behind her giving her the sense he was the dark to their laughter and sunlight.
Ava didn’t need to turn to feel his presence, commanding, cool, and utterly immovable.
Freya arched a brow, clearly sensing the tension. “Lord Darkwood. How delightful to see ye. How are ye finding the garden party?”
“A lovely distraction,” Gavan said flatly, though his gaze was fixed squarely on Ava. “Might I have that word ye promised me?”
Bryson, wisely, ushered the women a few steps away. “Well, on that note, I think it’s time for more lemonade.”
They left Ava standing alone, parasol in hand, facing the gentleman annoyingly demanding her attention.
Before Ava could speak, a familiar, honeyed voice slid between them.
“Lady Ava,” Lachlan Ferguson said smoothly, approaching with a glass of lemonade in hand. “Ye are the verra image of summer this afternoon. I was just telling Miss Douglas that I’m convinced ye’ve managed to coax this garden into blooming solely for the occasion.”
Ava forced a pleasant smile, though she caught the flicker of heat in Gavan’s jaw as Lachlan offered her the glass. “How gallant, Mr. Ferguson. But I assure ye, the flowers hardly need my help.”
“Perhaps no’.” Lachlan’s grin tilted, teasing, his gaze briefly catching hers with a glint of something too knowing. “But they bloom brighter for having ye near.”
It was exactly the sort of line meant to land lightly, but Ava felt the weight of Gavan’s stare, cool and cutting, settle between them like a blade.
“Mr. Ferguson,” she said sweetly, “ye’re too kind. Now, I’m certain Miss Douglas is missing your company.”