Chapter 13 #2
As they rose from the table, Ava brushed past Gavan, her skirts fluttering against his knee, deliberate or not, it left his nerves buzzing. “Do try to look less like ye’re attending your own execution, Lord Darkwood,” she murmured without looking at him.
His reply, “Perhaps I am,” was lower than he intended, more confession than jest.
Before he could answer, Ava crossed the room, joining Ferguson near the hearth. She glanced his way, just a glance, but it landed like a weight, and offered the barest flicker of acknowledgment, a silent challenge in her eyes. What game was she playing at?
Gavan took his usual place at the periphery, watchful and unobtrusive, but his gaze kept straying to Ava. She glided through the room as though she owned the space, laughter bubbling easily as she allowed Ferguson to lead her toward the forming circle.
Gavan’s grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles went white. He’d told himself he was here for Moira. But watching Ava now, radiant and entirely too close to Ferguson, he couldn’t pretend his focus hadn’t shifted.
“Lord Darkwood,” came Poppy’s voice, light and teasing, as she swept by with a glass of champagne. “Do try no’ to look like ye’ve been sentenced to hard labor. It’s only charades.”
“I was no’ aware charades had become mandatory,” Gavan muttered.
“Oh, it is in my house.” Poppy grinned, then glanced toward Ava and Ferguson with a knowing tilt of her head. “Though I suspect some of our guests will be more… entertaining than others.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t trust himself to.
The game began, laughter erupting as Poppy mimed some absurd scene that left Dougal guessing wildly and the rest of the room in stitches.
Gavan barely saw it. His gaze kept returning to Ava, how gracefully she moved, how effortlessly Ferguson drew her in, how completely she seemed to forget herself when she smiled at the charlatan.
It was calculated, of course. Gavan knew Ferguson’s type. He’d seen it in London and Edinburgh, in the card rooms and gentlemen’s clubs where men like him thrived.
When his turn for charades came, Gavan declined with a curt shake of his head, earning good-natured jeers from Poppy. He didn’t care. His focus was fixed elsewhere.
Eventually, Ferguson excused himself from the group and sauntered toward the sideboard, pouring a glass of port with the unhurried confidence of a man who’d never been denied anything. Gavan seized the moment.
“Ferguson.” His voice cut through the hum of conversation like a blade.
Ferguson turned, all easy charm. “Lord Darkwood. Enjoying yourself?”
“I was no’ aware I was meant to,” Gavan replied flatly.
Ferguson chuckled, swirling the port in his glass. “Ah, well. Some of us manage to find enjoyment where we can.”
“Some of us also know when enjoyment becomes recklessness.”
That earned a brief pause, telling. Ferguson’s grin didn’t falter, though his eyes sharpened. “If ye’re referring to your cousin, I assure ye my intentions are—”
“I was no’ referring to my cousin.” Gavan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But since ye mentioned her, I’ll remind ye that Moira’s future is no’ a game.”
Ferguson’s grin widened, testing. “And Lady Ava? Is she part of this little lecture as well? Ye two go back some years, do ye no’? One can always tell.”
Gavan’s jaw flexed. “Lady Ava’s reputation is no’ for ye to play with.”
Ferguson raised his glass in mock salute. “Ah. So this is about her. I wondered.”
Before Gavan could answer, Ferguson leaned in just slightly, enough for his words to hit like a challenge. “Careful, Darkwood. People might start to think your protectiveness of Lady Ava runs deeper than mere neighborly concern.”
Gavan’s blood burned, but he didn’t give Ferguson the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he stepped back, voice low and even. “Enjoy your port. But I’ll be watching.”
He left Ferguson standing there, still smiling, but with that subtle stiffness in his shoulders that told Gavan he’d struck a nerve.
When he glanced back toward the charades circle, Ava’s gaze had already found his.
She’d seen the exchange, he could tell by the way her chin lifted, her brows knitting just slightly.
Jealous, she was probably thinking. Of course.
She would mistake his warning for something else entirely.
Across the room, Freya leaned toward Ava, whispering something that made her smirk.
Wonderful. Now they’d all have something to gossip about.
Gavan turned away first, his pulse hammering, his thoughts snarled.
He’d come here to protect Moira. But every step he took toward that goal seemed to drag Ava into the center of it, and her reputation, her safety, felt as precarious as his cousin’s.
And if he was wrong, if Ferguson’s intentions were genuine, what then?
Protecting them both could blowback spectacularly. But he had the proof still in his pocket that Ferguson had a past that was less than gentlemanly.
Her laugh with Ferguson clung to him like a burr. Was he protecting her, or punishing himself?
For the first time in years, Gavan wasn’t sure whether his instincts would save them, or ruin everything.