Chapter 14
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Ava had been laughing, actually laughing, not the polite kind she saved for tedious dinners, when the hush fell. She hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in Poppy’s ridiculous impression of a swooning damsel, until a shift in the air prickled along her skin.
Gavan was watching her.
It wasn’t unusual, not really. He’d been watching her all night, at dinner, across the drawing room, when Ferguson leaned in just a little too close. But this was different. His gaze wasn’t the cold, disapproving sort she’d grown accustomed to weathering. It was sharp, searching. It was… intense.
Her pulse skipped.
She turned back toward the circle, refusing to acknowledge the heat that had crept up her neck. Ferguson leaned in to whisper something, but she didn’t catch it, too aware of the weight of Gavan’s stare across the room.
“Lady Ava,” Poppy sang out, breaking the spell. “Ye’re next!”
“Oh no,” Ava said, shaking her head with mock dread. “I canna possibly follow your performance, Poppy.”
“Nonsense. Ye’ll be brilliant.” Poppy gave her a shove toward the center of the room.
Ava took her place in the open space, smoothing her skirts and tilting her chin like a performer preparing for the stage. The crowd called out suggestions, laughing, shouting, teasing, until finally one was chosen: a Shakespearean tragedy. Delightful.
She mimed with exaggerated flourish, sweeping her arm to her brow in despair, then collapsing dramatically into an imaginary grave. Laughter erupted and Ava allowed herself to bask in the humor. Playing games came easily to her, always giving her a sense of control.
“Romeo and Juliet!” Lachlan called out with a wide and confident grin.
“Macbeth!” Dougal shouted over him.
A low, steady voice cut through the din from the back of the drawing room. “Hamlet.”
Her gaze snapped to where Gavan leaned against the mantel with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. And yet his mouth quirked like he already knew he was right.
“Correct,” Ava said, forcing her voice to stay light.
The room cheered, and Poppy announced the next performer, but Ava barely heard it. Gavan hadn’t looked away. Neither had she.
Later, as the circle shifted for the next turn, she found herself standing near him, too near, really, the fire warming one side of her and his presence warming the other in a way she couldn’t name.
“Hamlet?” she asked quietly, as the others laughed and mimed in the center.
His mouth curved just slightly. “Ye give yourself away when ye’re performing despair.”
“That’s a compliment?”
“An observation,” he said, but his voice had softened.
They were so close, she could feel the brush of his sleeve when he shifted, could smell the faint mix of cedar and the smoky hearth clinging to his coat. She told herself to step away, to rejoin the others, but her feet didn’t move.
For a heartbeat, it felt like it used to, when they were younger, before the years of distance and barbed words. The air between them was taut and full of something unspoken and impossible to name.
“Lady Ava,” Ferguson called from across the room, snapping the thread. “Ye must be on my team for the next round.”
Ava blinked, stepping back just enough to breathe. “Of course,” she said, forcing a bright smile.
But as she moved to Ferguson’s side, she felt Gavan’s heavy, unrelenting gaze follow her. And she hated how much she wanted to look back.
Ferguson’s voice, smooth as poured wine, drew her back into the circle and said, “Our defeat shall be glorious.”
She arched a brow as she joined him. “Ye’re awfully confident for a man who has no’ seen me mime anything but death.”
“I have faith,” he said with that easy, devastating grin. “Besides, I can carry us to victory.”
She almost laughed at that, but the memory of Gavan’s knowing gaze still clung to her, making it harder to give Ferguson her full attention.
“Acting pair number two!” Poppy called. “Your word is—” She whispered it into Ava’s ear with a wicked smile, and Ava bit back a laugh. A nursery rhyme. Lovely.
She and Ferguson launched into it, Ava crouching and miming exaggeratedly fetching a pail. At the same time, Ferguson hammed it up with sweeping gestures, tossing invisible water over his shoulder like some hopelessly dashing farmer. The room howled.
“Jack and Jill!” Gavan guessed instantly, and the room erupted into applause.
Dougal crowed in triumph as he clapped Gavan on the back.
“Winner chooses their next partner,” Poppy declared. “Rules are rules.”
Ava expected Gavan to choose Moira, or Freya, or anyone else. But when Gavan’s gaze swept the circle and landed on her, she felt the moment lodge deep in her chest.
“Lady Ava,” he said evenly. “If ye’ll join me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Her breath caught. “Me?”
“Ye were spirited in your performance,” he said, almost deadpan, but she caught the faintest glimmer in his dark eyes.
Ferguson gave a good-natured bow and stepped aside. Ava, suddenly far more aware of herself than she liked, crossed the circle to stand beside Gavan.
“Try no’ to ruin my winning streak,” he murmured, low enough only she could hear.
“Try no’ to make me regret this,” she returned, her voice steadier than she felt, her smile more confident.
They took their place in the center as Poppy whispered their word, a historical figure. Ava nearly groaned.
“Dinna think too hard,” Gavan said under his breath.
“I never do when ye’re around,” she snapped back automatically, then regretted it the moment his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile.
They started. Ava mimed a crown, then a sword. Gavan followed her lead, drawing laughter with his deliberately stiff, regal posturing. When she mimed an execution, he fell to one knee with such mock-tragic grace that the room erupted.
“King Charles!” someone shouted.
“No, Henry!”
“Mary, Queen of Scots!” Freya finally called, and Poppy clapped in delight.
“Correct!”
The room applauded, but Ava barely heard them. She was too aware of the press of Gavan’s shoulder against hers, the faint warmth of his hand brushing hers when they both reached for an imaginary prop at the same time.
“Well played,” he said softly, meeting her gaze.
She meant to say something flippant, but all she managed was, “I did no’ want to ruin your streak.”
His answering look, steady, unreadable, too much, made her want to look away and hold his gaze all at once.
“Next round!” Poppy trilled, dragging the attention back to herself and breaking the spell.
Ava stepped back, smoothing her skirts with a practiced hand, pretending the tremor in her pulse was from the game.
But she could still feel him beside her. Still feel his eyes on her.
And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if winning was truly the point of the game, or if it had simply become an excuse to stand this close to him again.
Ava had known from the start that she and Ferguson would lose their round.
He was far too confident in his ability to read her gestures, and she, well, she was no actress.
What began as an attempt to pantomime a fox hunt quickly devolved into Ferguson making increasingly absurd guesses that had the room in stitches.
“Ye’re clearly an ostrich,” he declared, as she crouched low, miming the sighting of game.
“Do ye often see ostriches in the Highlands?” Ava said through laughter, pausing her movements just long enough to give him a withering look.
“No’ often, but I can dream,” he quipped, to the delight of their audience.
The allotted time ran out in a chorus of good-natured groans, and Poppy waved them back to their seats with mock despair. “Terrible! Positively abysmal! I’ve never seen a fox look less like a fox.”
Ferguson bowed dramatically, unbothered. “I perform for the people, no’ for accuracy.”
Ava curtsied with equal aplomb, but as she straightened, her gaze snagged on Gavan.
He stood near the edge of the circle once more, arms folded, an inscrutable expression on his face, until Poppy announced the next round’s winner. “Lord Darkwood, ye’re up next,” she said, laughing. “Choose your partner.”
The room fell briefly quiet, waiting.
Gavan’s dark gaze swept the group once before settling on Ava. “Lady Ava,” he said evenly.
Her pulse leapt, ridiculous and unbidden, but she managed a cool nod. “Of course.”
As she stepped toward him, she caught Ferguson watching, his easy charm dimming just slightly at the edges. Interesting.
Gavan took his place beside her, and for a moment, the energy between them was more electric than the room’s collective anticipation.
“Try no’ to make me look like a fool,” Ava murmured as they were handed their prompt.
“Unlikely,” he said, voice pitched low enough for only her. “Ye’re far too capable to let that happen.”
The simple word, capable, landed heavier than it should have.
When the round began, she found herself leaning closer to him than was strictly necessary, gesturing toward him in exaggerated pantomime. He watched her movements intently, reading her with unnerving precision, and then too began twisting on his feet and jabbing his hands.
“Ye’re… fencing?” one of the guests asked, and she rewarded him with an approving tilt of her head.
“Dueling?”
This time it was Gavan who encouraged the crowd they were getting warmer.
Poppy shouted, “Swordfight.”
“Correct,” Ava said. The room erupted in cheers.
“No’ bad,” Ava said lightly, though her breath felt more labored than it should.
“No’ bad?” he countered, leaning close enough that his sleeve brushed hers, just for a moment. “That was an excellent performance.”
The brush of contact sent a ripple through her. She didn’t step away.
“Careful,” she murmured, “or I’ll think ye’re enjoying yourself.”
“Perhaps I am.”
The air between them thrummed with unspoken admissions, and she had the absurd sense that if they were alone, one of them might actually say them.
But they weren’t. And Ferguson, she realized, was still watching.