Chapter 12
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady’s accomplishments should include music, drawing, and embroidery—pursuits which please without ever exhausting the mind. It is advisable for a lady to read poetry, but not philosophy, for one inspires romance and the other rebellion.
The wind still clung to her hair when Ava returned to Heatherfield Castle, her cheeks flushed from the brisk ride.
Her mare’s hooves struck the hard-packed ground in a steady rhythm that matched the pulse still drumming in her ears. The heather along the roadside bent in the wind, bowing low in chaotic unison, while the hills rolled out ahead of her like some great, green quilt.
A familiar mix of relief and suffocation engulfed Ava as she stared up at the grey stone walls of Heatherfield Castle bathed in pale sunlight.
Her home. Her cage. She slowed the mare, savoring the last moments of wild freedom before she’d have to slip back into her role as dutiful daughter and matchmaker.
And still, under the wind and the creak of saddle leather, she swore she could hear her own voice chasing her: Running away, like always.
The words tasted different now that she’d spoken them aloud.
No longer a taunt, but something nearer to an accusation or maybe even a confession.
She handed her mare off to the waiting groom, but lingered for a moment in the courtyard, breathing in the earthy scent of horses and heather.
The familiar scents steadied her, or at least, she told herself they did.
She hadn’t meant to shout at Gavan. Well. Perhaps she had.
The words had leapt out of her as Gavan’s back disappeared over the rise, carried on the same wild wind that had been whipping through her parasol at the garden party. Running away, like always. How many times had she wanted to throw that at him over the years?
But saying it hadn’t made her feel triumphant. It had only left her feeling exposed, like she’d ripped out a page from their shared youth that should’ve stayed tucked away.
No matter. She had no time to brood over Gavan Douglas.
Ava spent the rest of the morning bustling through Heatherfield like a woman possessed.
She oversaw every detail, directing footmen to shift heavy furniture out of the east gallery, fussing over the angle of the easels, even insisting Cook rearrange the cakes into what she declared was a far more appetizing display.
It wasn’t just for Moira, though she told herself it was. This little soiree was for herself, too. To prove she could still create something beautiful, orderly, and ideally within her control, even when her thoughts felt anything but.
At one point, she paused by the gallery window, resting her fingertips against the cold glass.
The wind still clung to her skin, but that wasn’t what set her pulse racing.
It was the memory of Gavan’s nearness on the rose path, his shadow falling across hers, his gaze pinning her like a tapestry on the wall.
Running away, like always.
She straightened her shoulders and told herself the ride had only left her flushed. That was all.
By midmorning, the castle’s east gallery was transformed into something more playful than stately, a painting studio for the day.
The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, and a long row of easels stood in the center of the room, draped with crisp sheets of paper.
A row of tables held cakes of prepared watercolor paints, brushes, and water and soft cloths for rinsing, as well as smocks to protect their clothing.
Even Cook had been conscripted, providing an array of cakes and champagne that lent the whole affair a celebratory air.
It wasn’t just for Moira, though matchmaking still hummed at the back of Ava’s mind. It was for her, too. A day to indulge in laughter, gossip, and creation with the women she trusted most.
By the time the clock struck noon, the gallery hummed with conversation.
Poppy swept in first, bright as a summer bouquet in a daffodil-yellow gown.
Freya followed, elegant and wry, with a footman dutifully trailing behind her to carry in a wrapped easel of her own.
Moira, of course, arrived blushing and beaming, still glowing from all that had happened in the previous days, no doubt.
“Oh, Ava, this is perfect!” Poppy declared, spinning slowly in the space. “I feel like an artist already. Or at least a muse.”
“Ye are far too excitable to be a muse,” Freya teased, selecting a brush with a critical eye. “But perhaps a verra colorful subject.”
Ava smiled, adjusting the folds of her pale yellow morning dress. “We’ll all be subjects and artists by the end of it. The goal is to enjoy ourselves, no’ to produce masterpieces.”
“Speak for yourself,” Poppy said, pouring champagne into the tallest glass she could find. “I fully intend for the Royal Academy to beg me for this painting when it’s done.”
“Please,” Freya said, twirling her brush like a duelist’s blade. “If the Royal Academy sees mine, they’ll beg me to stop painting altogether.”
“Then ye’ll simply have to become a muse instead.” Poppy dabbed a scandalous splash of vermilion onto her paper. “Though I suspect ye’d terrify any poor artist who tried to capture ye.”
“Oh, I’d make them work for it.” Freya gave a wicked grin.
Ava laughed, letting the warmth of their friendly chatter fill her. This was why she loved these afternoons. No men, no obligations, just the bright, chaotic freedom of women who weren’t afraid to speak plainly.
“Though really,” Freya added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hum, “it’s a pity Lord Darkwood is no’ here. The way he watched ye yesterday, why, Ava, I think ye could’ve made him fetch your brushes with a single look.”
Poppy gasped in mock outrage. “Oh, imagine! Lord Darkwood as a handmaiden. What a delightful reversal of fortunes.”
“He’d hate every moment of it,” Freya said with relish. “But I daresay he’d do it for ye.”
Moira giggled, settling her skirts carefully on the stool Ava had prepared for her. “I’ll be happy if mine resembles anything at all.”
“Ye’ll do wonderfully,” Ava assured her, handing over a palette. “Besides, I suspect ye’ve been too busy swooning over suitors to worry about painting.”
Moira’s blush deepened, though her grin remained unrepentant.
“Perhaps a little,” Moira admitted, her grin widening.
She leaned forward, lowering her voice like they were schoolgirls sharing a secret.
“But ye dinna understand, Mr. Ferguson does no’ just say pretty things.
He listens. When I told him about missing the gardens back home, he said he’d bring me cuttings from his uncle’s greenhouse.
And when I mentioned my favorite waltz, he promised to ask the musicians to play it at the next assembly. ”
Ava blinked. That was fast. Calculated. Exactly what she’d expect from a man like Ferguson, charming, aye, but knowing just how to make himself indispensable. Especially if he suspected his interests were being usurped by a confident Mr. McRae.
“That’s… thoughtful of him,” Ava said carefully, starting to believe that what Gavan said was true. Of course, she had set her sights on Ferguson for Moira, but it was evident she’d be happier with McRae, and really, that was the whole point: Moira’s happiness.
Moira’s blush deepened. “It’s more than thoughtful. I feel like he truly sees me.”
“Ah, aye,” Freya said slyly, mixing a shade of deep green on her palette. “The suitors. We’ve all heard about Ferguson. But I saw Boyd positively mooning over ye yesterday. And McRae lurking in your shadow like a verra handsome ghost.”
Moira laughed, ducking her head. “It’s all verra flattering.”
“Flattering?” Poppy scoffed, leaning in conspiratorially. “Dearest, it’s a veritable campaign. I half expect them to start sending ye sonnets.”
Ava sipped her champagne, listening as Moira recounted who’d sent flowers, who’d hinted at calling, and how her cousin had only grumbled about it all over breakfast. Ava felt a pang of guilt knowing how deliberately she’d orchestrated some of those encounters.
Still, she smiled brightly. “Ye deserve every bit of it, Moira. Though I’m curious, which of them has made the biggest impression?”
Moira hesitated just long enough for the other women to lean in. “I canna possibly say,” she demurred, though her rosy cheeks gave her away.
“Ferguson,” Freya mouthed knowingly, and Ava had to bite back a laugh.
They painted and gossiped in equal measure, champagne softening edges and brightening cheeks. The afternoon sunlight pooled golden across the wooden floor, making the whole scene feel suspended, an idyllic pocket of feminine freedom.
It wasn’t until Freya set down her brush with a mischievous little clatter that Ava sensed the shift. “Speaking of impressions,” she said casually, “I noticed ye and Lord Darkwood having quite the… cozy conversation in the rose path.”
Ava didn’t miss a beat, swirling a thick streak of white onto her painting. “Cozy is no’ the word I’d use,” she said coolly.
Ava dabbed a streak of pale blue onto her canvas, too forcefully, leaving a jagged slash across what was supposed to be sky. Cozy. Was that what they’d looked like? To her friends, to the other guests?
She wanted to scoff, to dismiss it. But the memory of his eyes on hers beneath the climbing roses refused to quiet.
That steady, maddening gaze, so full of censure, aye, but something else too.
Something that had set her pulse thrumming and made her feel, for one treacherous heartbeat, sixteen again.
She’d buried that lass years ago. The one who’d once leaned too close on a summer night and felt the sharp sting of rejection when he pulled away.
But in his presence, on that shaded path, was as if no time had passed.
And worse, she didn’t know if his concern for Moira was truly about Moira… or about her.
“Oh?” Poppy’s brows lifted. “Because from where I stood, it looked like the two of ye were about to—”
“Discuss Moira’s welfare,” Ava interrupted, more sharply than intended. “Which we did. Briefly.”
Freya’s grin only widened. “If that’s all it was, ye’re awfully pink for such a dull topic.”
“I am no’ pink.”
“Ye are,” Poppy chirped.
Ava set down her brush, composing herself with a hostess’s poise. “Lord Darkwood and I disagree often. It’s hardly newsworthy.”
But even as the conversation drifted on, Ava couldn’t quite push aside the memory of his nearness yesterday, the tension humming between them, the way his gaze had pinned her in place. The conversation on the moors earlier, too.
Gavan unsettled her.
Worse, he thrilled her.
She masked it, as always, with a smile and a quip, but the afternoon stretched on with that memory unspooling in the back of her mind, an uninvited thread of longing she’d thought she’d buried years ago.
Ava forced a light laugh. “Perhaps I was flushed from walking. It was quite warm.”
But Freya only leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting. “Ye two used to be thick as thieves. Everyone knows it. Then one day ye were no’. And now…”
“And now nothing,” Ava cut in again, but this time her voice lacked its usual crisp command.
Poppy tilted her head, watching Ava with the keen perception that made her both delightful and dangerous to confide in. “Ye know, my mother always says the opposite of love is no’ hate, it’s indifference.”
“I dinna hate Gavan,” Ava said primly.
“Exactly.” Poppy's teasing smile felt more like a trap Ava was about to fall into.
Moira clapped her hands, blissfully unaware of the deeper undercurrents. Her naivete was often refreshing. “Oh, how wonderful! I’d love it if ye and my cousin could be friends again. He speaks so highly of ye.”
That caught Ava off guard. “Does he?”
“Constantly.” Moira nodded, her earnestness leaving no room for jesting. In fact, her genuine smile widened. “He says ye’re capable and clever.”
“Capable.” Ava repeated the word, heat pricking at her ears. But rather than play into her embarrassment, she went for boredom. “How verra… thrilling.”
Freya snorted softly, clearly savoring Ava’s discomfort.
Ava reached for her champagne, draining the last sip with a poise she didn’t quite feel. “This conversation is becoming terribly dull. Shall we critique one another’s paintings instead? I should like to see what colors Poppy has managed to spill on the floor this time.”
They laughed and let the subject shift, but Ava could feel their knowing glances linger like shadows at the edge of the golden afternoon.
And worse, when she was honest with herself, she knew why.
Because for all her protestations, for all her carefully layered poise, Gavan Douglas still had the power to make her feel like a young lass again: flustered, uncertain, and one breath away from wanting something she could not name.
Freya’s grin stayed wicked as she dipped her brush in a scandalous shade of red. “Oh, Ava,” she said airily, “ye do put on such a show. But I think ye protest too prettily.”
Poppy hummed in agreement, her smile soft but knowing. “Ye’re flushed, dearest. Whatever ye and Lord Darkwood were, or were no’, discussing, it left quite the impression.”
Ava arched a brow, forcing a languid sip of her refilled champagne. “If ye two are quite finished imagining romance where there is none, perhaps we can discuss something less tedious. Like which of ye is truly the worst painter here.”
They laughed, but Freya’s eyes still sparkled with the quiet satisfaction of a friend who knew she’d struck a nerve.
And Ava, poised, smiling, untouchable, couldn’t quite shake the sting of it.
Ava dabbed her brush into pale blue, trying to ignore the heat prickling at the back of her neck. Let them laugh. Let them imagine whatever ridiculous little story they wanted.
But when the conversation moved on, and Freya and Poppy were debating whether Moira’s painting looked more like a cottage or a lopsided cake, Ava found herself staring at her own painting, seeing nothing but a mess of color.
Her friends’ teasing shouldn’t matter. Gavan Douglas certainly didn’t matter.
And yet, the echo of his dark, steady gaze refused to leave her, clinging like a shadow she couldn’t paint over.
When the women had gone, the gallery felt impossibly quiet. Ava lingered by her easel, studying the blotches of color she’d daubed on the paper. It was meant to be a garden. It looked more or less the way her insides felt.
She dragged her thumb across one corner, smudging the paint until it blurred, a small, impulsive act that mirrored the tangle in her chest. Her friends’ words shouldn’t matter. Gavan Douglas certainly didn’t matter.
And yet, as she stood there in the quiet, she swore she could still hear his voice from the rose path. Low. Unrelenting. Unshakable. Only he was repeating her own statement back to her: Running away, like always.