Chapter 10
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Rumors swirl like the Highland mists around Lachlan Ferguson of Glenbrae.
Though his waistcoat is always in the latest cut and his smile deemed most persuasive, whispers suggest that his attentions are far less constant than his tailor.
At last week’s assembly, Mr. Ferguson was seen escorting a certain young lady to supper with an air of devotion, only to be discovered in a shadowed alcove not an hour later, paying compliments of equal fervor to a widowed countess.
Young ladies are advised to step lightly, for it seems Mr. Ferguson’s affections wander as freely as his eye.
The candlelight of the Strathcael assembly rooms had been soft, flattering, made for whispered confidences and planned encounters.
This was… different.
The rooms pulsed with a different kind of life entirely, crowded, chaotic, filled with the scent of beeswax and pine smoke, the hum of dozens of voices competing with the fiddles and pipes of the musicians in the gallery.
The walls were draped with dark green fabric, the benches filled with townsfolk eager to watch the spectacle of gentry dancing alongside their own.
And the floor, crowded, scuffed, alive, felt nothing like the perfectly polished spaces Ava was used to commanding.
It was thrilling, in its own way.
She stood just inside the entrance, her pale blue gown catching the light, a pearl comb glinting in her hair as she took in the scene.
Her plan felt simple enough: keep Lachlan Ferguson’s attention fixed squarely on Moira.
Manage the other suitors so they didn’t ruin the illusion.
Keep Gavan out of her hair long enough to secure something like success.
And yet, for the first time in years, Ava found herself… off balance.
It wasn’t the noise, though it buzzed like a hive around her. It wasn’t the assembly room itself, or even the weight of her plan pressing down on her shoulders.
It was the memory.
She still couldn’t shake it, the hidden path, the scent of roses and summer heat clinging to her skin, the way Gavan had looked at her when they’d been alone.
Close enough, she’d felt his breath when he’d told her she was meddling.
Close enough, she’d thought, for one impossible, foolish heartbeat, that he might kiss her.
She hadn’t let herself think about that in years.
Not since the last time.
The winter ball. She’d been nineteen, giddy in a new gown, foolish enough to think her smile might coax a different one from him.
He’d danced with her, a rare thing even then, and for one dizzying moment she’d thought it was more than politeness.
Thought the way his hand lingered at her waist meant something.
Thought he’d lean in when the music ended.
But he hadn’t.
He’d only nodded, as stiff and unreadable as ever, and left her standing in the center of the floor like a silly lass with too many hopes and no sense.
Ava inhaled sharply, shaking the memory from her head. Foolish. All of it. Gavan Douglas didn’t kiss her then for the same reason he didn’t kiss her in the rose path now: because she wasn’t someone he wanted. She was someone he tolerated.
And yet…
Her stomach still flipped when she thought of his hand on her elbow, the way his voice had softened when he’d said her name.
She was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.
“Lady Ava,” came a warm, amused voice at her side.
Ava masked the treacherous flutter in her chest at the hope it was Gavan with a practiced smile before she turned to face Lachlan Ferguson.
He was as perfectly composed as ever, black coat cut to perfection, hair slightly tousled in a way that looked effortless and deliberate all at once. He offered a shallow bow, his smile sly and knowing.
“Ye look lovely this evening,” he said. “Almost enough to make a man forget we’re in the village assembly rooms and no’ a ballroom in Mayfair or Edinburgh.”
Ava arched a brow. “And here I thought gentlemen enjoyed a bit of rustic charm.”
“I do,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, enough for the words to feel like a confidence. “But then, I’d enjoy anything if ye were in the room.”
Ava kept her smile polite, her gaze sliding deliberately toward the floor where Moira stood near the refreshment table, her pale green dress a soft complement to her coloring. “Ye seem to have misplaced my friend,” she said lightly.
“No’ misplaced,” Lachlan said. “Only postponed. She’s delightful company.”
“Then perhaps ye should return to her before she feels forgotten.” She kept her voice gentle and friendly, not wanting to offend, but also to give him a hint that she was not the one he should be pursuing.
Lachlan’s grin turned boyish, practiced. “Do I sense a hint of jealousy, Lady Ava?”
She laughed, sweet and sharp as a sugared lemon drop. “Ye are amusing, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Perhaps.” He inclined his head. “When there is a beautiful lass before me.”
Ava dismissed him with a flick of her fan, but the warmth of his gaze followed her as she glided toward the refreshment table. She couldn’t afford his attention, not for herself, not when it belonged on Moira. And when Ava’s own answer would always be a solid no.
Moira, at least, seemed entirely oblivious to the shifting currents around her. She was laughing with Mr. Asher McRae, who looked far more animated than Ava had ever seen him, his hands gesturing as though he were explaining some fascinating bit of poetry.
Ava blinked.
That wasn’t in the plan.
Moira wasn’t supposed to look at Asher like that, soft and curious, like she might actually be enjoying herself. And Asher, usually so restrained, was smiling like he’d just unearthed a secret meant only for the two of them.
A ripple of irritation ran through her.
She’d orchestrated this, Ferguson and Moira. The glamorous gentleman and the sweet Highland lass. It was supposed to be perfect.
And yet, the way Moira leaned in when Asher spoke, the way her blush deepened when he teased her, Ava knew trouble when she saw it.
“Your plans are unraveling.”
The low voice at her back was too familiar.
Ava didn’t turn. “Lord Darkwood,” she said, spinning her fan lazily. “Lurking is unbecoming.”
“I’m observing.”
She finally faced him. Gavan. Impossibly tall in his dark coat, his expression carved in granite.
“And what do ye observe?” she asked sweetly.
“That ye’ve spent the entire evening pushing Ferguson at my cousin while she seems far more interested in McRae. And well, Ferguson seems far more interested in ye.”
Ava’s jaw tightened, ignoring his latter observation. “She’s interested in both. It’s called keeping one’s options open.”
“It’s called confusion,” he countered.
“Perhaps ye’re confused,” she said, tilting her head. “Ye always seem so concerned with where my attention is directed.”
His eyes darkened. “Ye think this is about ye?”
She smiled, sharp and provocative. “Is it no’?”
For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face, something unguarded, something that made her heart jolt before she could stop it.
“Dance with me,” he said abruptly.
Ava blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dance with me.”
“That sounded remarkably like a command.”
“It was an invitation,” he said evenly. “Do ye accept?”
Every instinct told her to say no. To keep her distance. To maintain control. And yet, her hand was already in his before she could form the refusal.
The music swelled as he led her to the floor, and his hand settled at the small of her back with maddening confidence.
“Still think this is about ye?” he murmured as they began to turn.
Ava forced her voice to stay even, again ignoring his bait. “Ye do seem rather fixated on Ferguson.”
“Ferguson’s a problem,” he said. “For Moira. And possibly for ye.”
“Me?” she scoffed. “Ye think I’m so easily led astray by a charming man?”
“I think ye like to play with fire.”
His words skimmed over her skin like a touch.
Ava tilted her chin, refusing to flinch. “And I think ye like to imagine ye’re the only one who sees the danger.”
“Am I wrong?”
The space between them felt too small, the music too slow, every turn bringing her closer to the man who had once left her standing alone on a ballroom floor with her heart in her throat.
“No,” she said quietly.
His hand flexed slightly at her back, his gaze dropping, not to her lips, surely not, but close enough that her breath caught all the same.
For one dizzying, dangerous moment, she thought he might kiss her.
It was the winter ball all over again, hope, foolish and bright, unfurling in her chest.
The music faded, the dancers breaking apart into polite bows and curtsies. Ava stepped back, releasing Gavan’s hand with more care than she’d meant to, her fan snapping open like a shield.
“Thank ye for the dance,” she said smoothly, as if her pulse weren’t still pounding in her throat.
Gavan only inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Ava.”
It was infuriating, how he could stand there so steady while her composure felt like it had been rattled loose. She turned on her heel, her skirts sweeping behind her as she crossed the floor. She needed to focus.
On Moira. On Lachlan. On anything that wasn’t Gavan Douglas and the echo of his hand at the small of her back.
She found Moira near the edge of the hall, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, not from Lachlan’s company, Ava realized with a jolt, but from Asher McRae’s.
The quiet scholar looked nothing like the man Ava remembered from the garden party. He leaned closer, his expression animated while he sketched shapes in the air with his hands. Moira laughed, her fingers brushing his sleeve in an intimate, easy gesture that made Ava’s stomach twist.
They were too close.
Ava blinked, willing the irritation prickling at her to disappear. This wasn’t the plan. Moira wasn’t supposed to look at Asher like that, not when Lachlan Ferguson, with all his polish and effortless charisma, was meant to be the prize.