Chapter 18
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
A lady may ride, provided she does so with grace, modesty, and at no greater speed than her reputation may bear. The side-saddle is the only proper seat for a lady; to ride astride is to invite whispers of unseemly boldness.
Ava hadn’t left her room in three days.
The curtains stayed drawn, muting the bright summer sun to a dull grey glow.
Trays of untouched tea and broth came and went, Cook’s efforts rewarded with little more than polite lies about her “delicate constitution.” She told her father, the staff, even Freya and Poppy when they came calling, that she had a megrim.
But her body wasn’t sick.
Her heart was.
It was humiliating, really, the way it throbbed with an ache she didn’t have the words for.
She’d spent years convincing herself she didn’t need anything from Gavan.
That what they’d been to each other as adolescents belonged to another life, a lass who’d been too naive to know better.
She’d wrapped herself in purpose instead.
Matchmaking, hosting, arranging everyone else’s futures, taking care of her father, keeping busy so she never had to face the hollowness of her own life.
But then Gavan had said her name. Kissed her.
And right after, had claimed it was a mistake. Just like that, everything she’d locked away came roaring back. Every foolish hope, every unspoken want.
She pressed the heels of her hand against her eyes, as if that might push the memory away.
It didn’t. She could still feel it. The press of his mouth against hers, unsteady and desperate, as if he’d been holding himself back for years and couldn’t any longer.
And worse than all of it, she’d kissed him back.
She’d wanted that kiss. The press of his lips so possessively on hers. She’d wanted him.
And for one foolish, fleeting moment, she’d felt like she belonged to herself again. Not the hostess, not the matchmaker, not the daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield, who carried herself like a shield. But Ava. Just Ava.
But then she’d seen the crowd when he’d turned on Lachlan Ferguson.
The shock on their faces. The whispers darting like knives through the festival air. The murmurs of her name on the lips of people who would dine on her humiliation for months.
She was hopeful no one had seen their kiss… Hopeful no one had seen the way he’d leapt away from her like she carried the plague. But they’d certainly not been in private either. Now, she was a spectacle. A scandal.
And worse, Gavan’s righteous defense of her hadn’t felt like a rescue. It had felt like exposure.
She had wanted him to fight for her for so long, but not like that.
Ava rolled to her side, curling beneath the blankets like a child. Even Freya and Poppy, with their insistent knocks and bright chatter, couldn’t coax her out of this bedchamber.
She, who had spent years scoffing at the idea of letting a man ruin her peace, was now wasting away over one.
Pathetic.
Her father had come to her door that morning, his deep voice softened with concern. “Ava, dearest, ye must at least eat something. People are beginning to ask questions.”
She’d promised him she would eat. Promised him she’d get up. But then she’d heard the faint echo of voices from the front hall. Another friend waiting for her to emerge, and she’d stayed exactly where she was.
Safely hidden from rumors and inuendo.
Her gaze drifted to the covered window; thankful she couldn't see the rolling moors she and Gavan used to ride together over. She could almost picture the two of them racing, his laughter in the wind, hers following close behind before she overtook him for the win. For one breathless instant, she let herself imagine what might have been if they hadn’t drifted apart.
If he’d kissed her years ago. If she’d let herself love him then. Her chest tightened painfully at the thoughts.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room, though her voice shook. “Never again.”
She had been a fool once and she would not be a fool twice.
No one could make her leave her bedchamber. Let the world go on without her, whispering and mocking. Ava would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her face, nor their desire of seeing her break.
And as for love?
She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound that scraped her throat. “Never again,” she whispered to the darkened room.
She was done with love. Done with Gavan Douglas. Why did declaring that make her heart ache worse?
A knock at the door broke through the heavy silence. Her maid always knocked twice before entering, but this one lingered, hesitant.
Ava pulled the coverlet higher over her head to block out the noise, the scent of lavender sachets mingling with the stale air of the room.
“Leave the tray by the door, Eleanor.” Her voice came out hoarse, more like a croak. “I’ll fetch it later.”
But the knock came again, softer this time.
She sighed. “Eleanor, leave it, please.”
The door creaked open, and it wasn’t Eleanor standing there with the breakfast tray, but Moira.
Ava sat bolt upright, her hair a wild tangle, her nightdress creased from days of neglect. “Moira. What are ye…? Ye can’t just…”
“Ye’ve ignored my notes,” Moira said gently, closing the door behind her.
She wore a soft muslin morning gown, her fair hair tucked neatly under a ribboned cap, as if she’d dressed not just for the day but for courage.
“Freya and Poppy said ye would no’ see them either.
Ye’ve claimed the megrim, but somehow I doubt a megrim lets one write in such perfectly tidy handwriting.
” She set the still steaming tray on the table and crossed to the bed. “So here I am.”
Ava pulled the quilt higher, her cheeks burning. “Ye should no’ have come. It’s, this is hardly—”
“Hardly what?” Moira perched delicately on the edge of the mattress, studying her with a quiet steadiness that was impossible to shake off. “Hardly proper? Ava, please.” Her voice softened. “Ye’ve been locked away in here for days. I’m worried.”
“I told ye. The megrim.”
“A megrim does no’ make a woman look like she’s been crying herself to sleep.” Moira’s gaze flicked to the crumpled handkerchief on the nightstand, its lace edges still stiff with salt. “Nor does it keep her from opening the curtains.”
Ava turned her face toward the wall, wishing she could melt into it. “Go home, Moira.”
“No.”
The word was simple, but it struck like a bell.
Moira reached out, hesitant, then took Ava’s hand where it clutched the quilt.
Her fingers were warm, steady. “I do no’ know what happened at the festival,” she said softly.
“But I saw your face before ye ran. And I know ye, Ava. Ye dinna hide from gossip. Ye dinna let anyone see ye undone. And yet here ye are.”
Ava bit down hard on her lip, the memory of that kiss, and everything after, flooding back so sharply she thought she might be sick.
The warmth of his mouth on hers, the shock of his hand at her waist, the way the world had gone silent except for the sound of her own heart pounding.
And then, he'd declared his regrets, and the words the crowds had whispered.
The spectacle. His public defense felt more like being paraded through the square than being protected.
Her voice came out strangled. “I was such a fool.”
Moira frowned. “We all have moments when we feel like a fool. I certainly did when I heard what Ferguson said. But ye… what do ye have to feel foolish about?”
That only made Ava feel worse. Asking for pity from the friend who’d been openly humiliated.
“Fair point. Perhaps I have no’ always been honest with ye.
I’m a fool for wanting something I should’ve stopped wanting years ago.
” She dragged a hand through her messy hair, frustrated tears springing fresh to her eyes.
“Do ye know why I meddle in everyone else’s love lives, Moira?
Because it’s easier than facing my own.”
Moira squeezed her hand. “Ye think I dinna know what it’s like to be afraid of wanting too much. To want and be left to wonder if it makes me foolish?”
Ava let out a broken laugh. “I want Gavan. Once upon a time, I wanted him more than my next breath. And then, after everything, after years of silence, I thought…” She shook her head. “It does no’ matter what I thought. Because what I got was humiliation. Again.”
Moira’s brow furrowed. “Is that truly what ye think he intended? To humiliate ye?”
“Intentions dinna matter,” Ava said bitterly. “What matters is that now the entire county will think I’m some lovesick fool throwing herself at the brooding guardian of Darkwood Hall. And I canna bear it. I will no’.”
The admission hung heavy between them, raw and ugly.
Moira stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “Ava, I canna pretend to understand all of what has happened between ye and my cousin. But I know this, ye dinna deserve to hide in the dark for wanting something real. Even if it frightened ye. Even if it hurts. And I know Gavan has been brooding. Perhaps the two of ye should speak.”
Ava stared at her, the words clawing at the carefully constructed shell she’d built around herself.
Moira rose, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. “The festival was cruel to both of us. But I will no’ let one man’s mockery or one moment’s chaos define me. And ye should no’ let it define ye either.”
Ava swallowed hard. “That’s easier said than done.”
“Then I’ll help ye.” Moira smoothed her sleeve. “If ye’ll let me.”
Ava stared at her friend. Her sweet, earnest friend who’d once looked to her for guidance, and felt, for the first time in days, the faintest flicker of resolve.
She wasn’t sure yet how she’d face the county again, or Gavan, or even herself. But Moira was right. She couldn’t stay in the dark forever.