Chapter 18 #2
Moira stayed a bit longer, fussing with the curtains until Ava reluctantly let the light spill into the room. By the time she left, the tray of tea had gone cold, and Ava sat propped against the headboard, staring out at Heatherfield Castle gardens as if they might hold an answer.
They didn’t, of course. Answers rarely came so easily.
But action she could manage.
Ava did not sit in bed and let the county write her story for her. If they wanted a tale of the tragic spinster, humiliated and hiding, they would be disappointed.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the chill of the floorboards shocking her awake as she stood. Her body still felt heavy, unsteady, but her mind was sharpening.
If the rumors were undoubtedly still stirring, then she needed to know exactly what they were saying. Every scrap of it.
And there were only two people in the Highlands who could be counted on to bring her the full measure of local gossip, wrapped in wit and sharpened like a blade: Freya and Poppy.
By the time Eleanor returned to clear the breakfast tray, Ava was already seated at her writing desk in her dressing gown, quill in hand.
“Fetch fresh stationery,” Ava asked, ignoring the maid’s startled glance.
“I need to send a note to Lady Reay and Lady Lovat that I require their company for tea this afternoon. Oh, and Miss Douglas as well,” she added, because Moira had earned a seat at this particular council.
She would add that it was urgent, not caring at all if that seemed dramatic. Let it seem dramatic.
“Of course, my lady,” Eleanor said, bobbing a quick curtsy and scurrying off.
By noon, the east drawing room had been transformed into a salon of strategic hospitality.
Fresh flowers in tall vases, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, and a table laid with delicate china and an array of cakes that could soothe even the most vicious gossip.
Ava had donned a gown of soft pink trimmed in ivory, subtle, elegant, entirely unscandalized.
She’d swept her hair up with the practiced ease of a woman who would not be cowed.
Poppy arrived first with all the unsubtle flourish Ava expected, eyeing her hostess with exaggerated suspicion. “Well, well. The elusive Lady Ava emerges. I was beginning to think ye’d expired in that big bed of yours.”
Ava arched a brow. “And deprive ye of the satisfaction of prying into my affairs? Never.”
Freya followed with quieter grace, her expression more curious than cutting. “We were worried,” she said simply, which was almost worse than Poppy’s teasing.
“Do no’ be,” Ava replied, gesturing toward the tea service with hostessly poise. “I’m alive, as ye can see. And I’d like to know exactly what the rumors are about me.”
“Ah.” Poppy plucked a sugared violet from the cake stand. “My favorite kind of tea party.”
Moira slipped in last, a little hesitant but visibly relieved to see Ava upright and composed. Ava reached for her hand as she passed, a quiet reassurance, before turning back to the others.
“Tell me everything,” Ava said, pouring the first cup of tea with deliberate calm. “Every rumor. Every speculation. Do no’ spare me for the sake of my feelings, I assure ye, I dinna have any left.”
Poppy’s eyes glittered with anticipation as she perched on the edge of the sofa. “Dearest, where shall I start? The festival alone has spawned enough chatter to last until Michaelmas.”
“Then start there,” Ava said coolly. “I want to know exactly how bad it is.”
Freya exchanged a glance with Poppy. “They’re saying Gavan publicly defended ye. That ye, how shall I put this, provoked his… display.”
“They’re saying,” Poppy added with wicked relish, “that his words sounded less like a neighbor defending a lady’s honor and more like a man claiming what’s his. That he kissed ye right out in the open.”
Ava felt her pulse spike, though her expression didn’t so much as flicker. “And are they saying I welcomed such a claim? That we…kissed?”
“Some are,” Freya admitted gently. “Others… are less kind. They say ye’ve overplayed your hand. That ye’ve finally met a scandal ye can no’ manage. Did ye… kiss him?”
Ava took a deliberate sip of tea, as if the words were nothing more than an oversteeped brew. “What if I did? They underestimate me,” she said, voice as smooth as silk.
Moira shifted beside her. “Ava—”
“No,” Ava cut in, setting down her cup with a decisive clink. “If they think I’ll cower, they’re mistaken. If they think this is my ruin, they forget who I am.”
Poppy grinned, clearly delighted. “Oh, I’ve missed this, Ava.”
“Good,” Ava said, sitting straighter. “Because she’s the one who will host a dinner party next week.
Freya, ye’ll help me craft the guest list, only the most strategic names.
Poppy, ye’ll plant whatever rumors I need planted in the meantime.
If they want to talk about me, then I’ll make sure they’re talking about what I want them to. I’ll no’ be ruined by a mere kiss.”
Moira blinked at her. “Ye’re throwing a party to fix a scandal?”
“I’m throwing a party to control it,” Ava corrected.
“I canna believe ye kissed him. I’m going to need more details on that.”
“No’ worth the telling,” she lied. And for the first time since the kiss and her subsequent humiliation, she felt something other than shame.
She felt like herself again.
When the tea had been drunk and the cakes picked over, her friends finally dispersed. Poppy promised to stoke the right kind of chatter. Freya warned that Ava should prepare herself for the judgment she was likely to receive. Moira, however, offered a quiet squeeze of her hand.
The house fell quiet again.
Ava remained in the east drawing room long after the last goodbyes, sorting out what her friends had shared.
The sunlight had shifted, turning the gold-embroidered curtains a deep, burnished amber.
Somewhere beyond the windows, she could hear the gardeners at work, clipping away the dead growth to make room for new blooms.
She envied them that simplicity.
Because no amount of pruning would ever make this tangle with Gavan simple.
She closed her eyes and let herself replay the memory she’d been avoiding all morning. His voice cutting through the noise of the festival. The steadiness in his gaze when she turned, startled, and then… God help her, the way the world had simply stopped when he kissed her.
She’d wanted that moment for years and hated herself for enjoying it.
And she hated him for giving it to her in front of an entire festival, then dragging her name into the muck with his reckless defense.
Her fists curled in her skirts.
She had thought she’d buried those old feelings, her girlhood fascination, the ache of losing him when they’d drifted apart. But the kiss had unearthed it all, raw and terrible and alive.
She rose abruptly, pacing the length of the room.
Why did he do it? Was it guilt? Some misguided attempt at gallantry? Or, her heart betrayed her with a treacherous leap, had it been something else?
No. She couldn’t let herself think that way.
Whatever Gavan Douglas felt, it didn’t matter.
Not anymore. But as she moved toward the window, she realized she could still feel the ghost of his hand at the small of her back, the press of his lips, the way his breath had hitched as if he, too, had been startled by how right it felt.
Ava pressed her palms flat to the cool glass.
She was Lady Ava Woodmoor, daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield. She did not wallow. She did not pine.
And yet, for the first time in years, she could not imagine walking into the next room, the next gathering, the next assembly without wondering, ‘what will I do when I see him again’?