Chapter 15
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady must never leave her home without a bonnet; a bare head suggests either poor breeding or poor judgment.
The ribbons of a bonnet should be tied neatly beneath the chin, for a dangling bow is the mark of a careless heart.
A bonnet adorned with flowers must reflect the season, else the wearer be accused of folly—or of anticipating events not yet hers to claim.
The ride home was quieter than Gavan expected, until Moira broke the silence.
“I like him,” she said suddenly, staring out the window as though the night might give her courage. “A lot.”
He blinked, terrified of the man in question. “Who?”
“Asher,” she replied, and though her voice was soft, there was no hesitation. “He’s kind. And he does no’ look at me like I’m just another name on a guest list.”
Relief flooded him that she hadn’t said Ferguson. Gavan watched her in the dim carriage light, the flush on her cheeks, the way she twisted her gloves between her fingers. “He’s a good man. Smart, too,” Gavan admitted carefully. “His family has worked the land for generations.”
Moira glanced at him, wary. “Ye dinna mind?”
“I mind plenty of things,” he said dryly, “but Asher McRae is no’ one of them.”
Her smile, relieved and hopeful, was brighter than the lanterns.
“I knew ye’d understand. He listens. Really listens.
When we spoke during charades, I told him I hated the smell of orange blossoms, and later he pointed out there were none used in the décor because he made a point to convey it casually to our hosts. ”
Indeed, that was impressive. “I’m glad he’s paying attention.”
Moira folded her hands primly in her lap, though her grin remained. “It’s nice. To feel seen. No’ a single gentleman went so far in London. Nor any here besides Mr. McRae.”
Gavan studied his cousin, the way she held her gloves like a shield, at the quiet hope in her voice.
He wanted to remind her that kindness could be a mask.
But something in her expression stopped him.
She deserved to keep that hope a little longer, he thought, even if it made his chest ache with the weight of it. And McRae was a good man.
There was no need for Gavan to sour her excitement. He turned to look out the window, watching the shadowed hills roll by. “Be careful of those who may be jealous of your flirtations,” he said finally. “The season has a way of making people into something they’re no’.”
“I’ll be careful,” Moira said softly. “But no’ everyone is a wolf in disguise, ye know.”
Her words sat with him long after the carriage rattled to a stop.
Later, in the quiet of his study, Gavan nursed a glass of whisky and the thoughts he hadn’t dared name.
The study smelled faintly of smoke from the banked fire, and the air was heavy with the weight of every sleepless night he’d spent here.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, rattling them.
He set down his drink, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet, and for a moment, he simply stood there, feeling the room close in.
The house had gone still, the only sound the faint hiss of the fire and the occasional groan of old wood settling. He’d loosened his cravat, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest.
He’d meant to think about Moira, about Asher, about Lachlan Ferguson, about all the careful maneuvering this season demanded of him. But every time he tried, his mind wandered back to Ava.
The silver silk of her gown caught the firelight. The way her unguarded and warm laughter slipped out before she could tame it. The faint scent of lavender that filled the air when she brushed past him.
And the look she’d given him in the drawing room. A challenge, a question, a memory of everything they’d been and everything they hadn’t dared to be.
He swiped a hand over his face, hating himself for lingering on thoughts of something he couldn’t have.
He’d spent years convincing himself those feelings were dead, buried under the weight of duty, of family, of all the walls they’d built between themselves. But tonight had undone him in ways he couldn’t explain.
She wasn’t just Lady Ava, the matchmaker who infuriated him with her games. She was Ava, the lass who used to ride beside him over the moors, who teased him for being too serious, who once looked at him like she saw someone worth knowing.
And damn him, but he wanted her. Still.
He remembered a summer afternoon, long ago, when she’d raced him through the fields, her hair wild, her laughter echoing as she beat him to the ridge and teased him mercilessly for being too slow.
He remembered the softness in her voice the night she told him she’d always believed he’d do something remarkable with his life.
When had they stopped being that to each other? When had it all gone wrong?
The thought sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
Likely, when his father had passed and Gavan had become consumed with trying to build up his estate. No time for anything other than rebuilding.
He’d told himself he only cared about this season because of Moira, because Ava’s schemes could put his cousin’s heart, her future, at risk.
Because her schemes had already put his lands at risk.
But that wasn’t the entire truth, not really.
Tonight, when Ferguson brushed his hand along Ava’s back, when she leaned toward him, smiling in that soft way, Gavan had wanted to drag the man away by his collar.
Not for Moira’s sake.
For his. For Ava’s.
He gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened. This couldn’t go on, not like this. He’d either have to pull away completely and let her play her games while he swallowed the ache it left behind. Or…
Or stop pretending he didn’t want her.
The whisky burned on the way down, but it didn’t steady him. Nothing could, not with her face still so sharp in his mind.
Gavan leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire until the embers blurred.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d decide whether to keep running from her, or finally stop.
But deep down, he already knew the answer.
The following morning, Gavan entered the breakfast room earlier than usual, with a surprising lightness to his step despite having slept little.
The fire had been stoked, the silver coffee service gleaming beside a covered platter of eggs and toast. Moira was already seated by the window, sunlight pouring over her as she picked at a plate of scones, humming faintly.
She glanced up, immediately narrowing her eyes. “Ye’re… sprightly,” she said slowly, as if testing the word on her tongue. “That’s suspicious.”
“I’m no’ allowed to be in good spirits?” Gavan replied mildly, helping himself to coffee.
“No’ when ye usually look like someone’s asked ye to shovel manure before breakfast,” she said, grinning over the rim of her teacup.
He gave a small snort but didn’t rise to the bait. “Perhaps I’ve simply decided to stop being insufferable for one morning.”
Moira arched a brow. “Or perhaps ye’ve realized that I was right about Asher McRae being perfectly lovely company.”
“Perhaps,” Gavan said, letting the word stretch deliberately. He took his seat across from her and produced a folded calling card from his jacket pocket, placing it on the table between them. “In fact, ye must have made quite the impression. Mr. McRae sent this.”
Moira’s hand flew to her mouth before she reached for the card, cheeks warming as she unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the neat, confident handwriting, and her blush deepened.
“He wishes to call on me this morning,” Moira said, still beaming.
“Then I’d better send for a chair with a wider seat,” Gavan said dryly. “That way ye can swoon properly when he arrives.”
“Oh, hush,” she laughed, tossing a piece of toast at him.
Gavan kept his expression neutral, though a flicker of satisfaction stirred in his chest. Asher MacLeod was no Ferguson. He had his faults, most men did, but he seemed the kind of earnest, dependable young man who wouldn’t leave Moira in tears before the season ended.
“Well then,” Gavan said, reaching for a slice of toast. “It seems ye have a visitor to prepare for. I trust ye’ll receive him with all the charm ye displayed last night.”
Moira gave him a look of mock offense. “I am always charming.”
“Ye’ll forgive me if I reserve judgment,” Gavan said with a chuckle.
She laughed, holding the card to her chest like a small treasure. “Do ye approve of him, then?”
He paused, considering her bright, expectant face. “I think,” he said carefully, “that he seems the sort of man who knows how to treat a woman with respect. That’s more than I can say for many who’ve sent ye flowers lately.”
“High praise,” she teased.
“It’s as high as I’m willing to go before my coffee,” he said, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at his mouth.
Moira tilted her head, still studying him. “Ye’re different this morning. Less… brooding. Did something happen last night after we returned?”
Gavan reached for his coffee, masking the jolt that question sent through him. “Nothing worth noting,” he said evenly. “But I imagine the day will be more eventful than the night was. McRae seems eager.”
Moira beamed at that, already rising from her chair. “Then I’d better change. I canna receive him looking like this.”
Gavan thought she looked perfectly presentable, but alas, he was no expert on women's fashion. She whisked out of the room in a flutter of pale skirts. And Gavan was left alone with his coffee and the echo of his thoughts from the night before.
He leaned back in his chair. Moira’s future, it seemed, might be falling into gentler hands than he’d feared.
After the breakfast dishes were cleared, Gavan returned to his study.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension from the night before still sitting there like a stone under the skin.
He could still see her standing across the charades circle, cheeks flushed from laughter, head tipped back as she guessed some ridiculous pantomime with unguarded delight. Ava, unmasked.
She’d glowed.
And when he’d stepped beside her, chosen her as his partner, the crackle between them had made the air feel different. And damn Ferguson for seeing it, for knowing it.
He was staring at the parchment when a knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Come in.”
A maid appeared, curtsying quickly. “Mr. Asher McRae has arrived, sir. He’s with Miss Moira in the drawing room, her maid acting as chaperone.”
Gavan stood immediately, brushing past her. “I’ll join them.”
He didn’t know why, exactly. Politeness, perhaps. Or the need to see for himself.
Asher rose as Gavan entered, dressed in a fashionably cut coat, flowers in one hand, his smile warm and, damn it, charming.
“Lord Darkwood,” he said with a nod. “I hope I’m no’ intruding.”
“No’ at all,” Gavan replied. He turned to Moira, who was positively glowing in a cream dress trimmed with pale lavender. She looked far too pleased for a woman receiving a casual morning call.
Asher presented the flowers with a bashful smile. “I thought something from the garden might be a better offering than words. Though I brought those, too.”
Moira accepted them with a delighted flush, and Gavan found himself folding his arms across his chest, if only to keep from fidgeting. They sat, began talking, easily, animatedly, with the kind of warmth that didn’t need performance.
Gavan watched as Asher leaned in, listening to Moira speak, and how easily admiration lit his face. No games. No armor. Just a young man who hadn’t yet learned to be afraid of wanting something. It was infuriating. It was enviable. When had he last let himself be that vulnerable?
He remained standing, watching them with a narrowed but not unkind gaze. Asher was gentle. Thoughtful. His admiration wasn’t theatrical, it was… sincere.
The pang hit unexpectedly, low and sharp.
Not jealousy. Not exactly.
But longing.
For what Moira had in front of her. For how easy it was, how openly affection passed between them without caution.
He thought of Ava’s laughter again. Of the heat in her eyes when she teased him. Of how her gaze softened when she didn’t mean for it to. Of how badly he wanted to see that softness again, directed at him, unguarded, without pretense.
Not for a game. Not for a performance.
“Would ye like to join us?” Moira turned to him with polite curiosity, but her expression begged him to leave.
With her maid as chaperone, he wasn't required to remain, so Gavan shook his head. “No, I’ll leave ye to your visit.”
He nodded to Asher, then stepped out of the room, the scent of fresh flowers and lighthearted conversation trailing after him like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.