Chapter 19
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
It has been whispered in every drawing-room from Heatherfield to Holyrood that Lady Ava Woodmoor, youngest daughter of the Earl of Heatherfield, has found her once-gleaming reputation rather…
frayed. In an effort to smooth over these most unfortunate whispers, Lady Ava has announced she will host a dinner party of uncommon elegance at Heatherfield Castle.
Invitations, it is said, are already the most coveted in the county, for who would not wish to watch a lady attempt to stitch together her reputation with fine china, candlelight, and a surfeit of wine?
Whether her table restores her name or topples it entirely remains to be seen.
Gavan hadn’t wanted to come.
Not after kissing Ava in the middle of the solstice festival like a total buffoon. Not after the way Ava had looked at him, not just wounded, but as if he’d stripped her of every last scrap of self-respect she had left.
But Moira wanted to go, had been invited, and though she had her lady’s maid as a chaperone, after what happened with Ferguson, she was concerned about being duped once more, and begged Gavan to attend.
So here he was, climbing the familiar stone steps of Heatherfield Castle, and trying not to think about what would happen on the other side of the massive oak doors.
Candlelight beamed from the tall windows, glowing like a beacon.
The sounds of laughter and the hum of violin strings filtered outside.
Ava’s parties were never small affairs, but this one, her first since the solstice festival, felt different.
Like she’d planned it with the purpose of showing everyone that nothing had happened.
The last time he’d been to Heatherfield, Ava had been laughing, surrounded by friends who adored her. Would she be laughing tonight?
Gavan felt like an intruder standing on the outside.
He had been replaying the day of the festival in his mind ceaselessly, the kiss, the confrontation, her tears.
Every step closer to the house felt like walking toward judgment.
What would he say if she sent him away? What would he do if she didn’t even look at him?
“She’ll be glad ye came,” Moira said as they handed off their cloaks to the waiting footman, as if she could hear his thoughts.
He snorted. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Moira gave him a look only a cousin could. “Ye could at least try not to look like ye’re walking into an execution.”
If only she knew.
The drawing room was already packed with guests dressed in their evening finery and smelled faintly of beeswax and late-summer roses.
Candlelight from the crystal chandeliers bounced off gilded mirrors, casting the guests in a warm glow.
But the conversations weren’t forgiving.
He caught his name once, Ava’s twice, half-heard phrases slithering like serpents through the air.
“Lady Ava’s daring to host a fete after the festival…”
“Lord Darkwood looks grim, do ye no’ think? Or lovesick.”
Gavan ignored them, though his nerves burned with every word.
Freya, Lady Lovat perched near the fire, eyeing him with an unreadable expression, before she glanced toward her cohort, Poppy, Lady Reay, laughing with two other ladies by the window. They were thick as thieves with Ava.
A smattering of neighbors and acquaintances sipped wine or nibbled at sugared almonds, eyeing him with curiosity. Gavan had no interest in anyone but Ava, the only person who mattered.
She stood near the far side of the room, dressed in deep burgundy silk that brought out the blue of her eyes. She had chosen the color deliberately because it was bold, commanding, impossible to ignore. The perfect hostess, speaking to Lady Drummond with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He’d always thought of Ava as a summer storm.
But tonight she was something worse. She was calm.
Controlled. A perfect hostess carved from poise and self-discipline, hiding the wound he’d given her behind layers of silk and civility.
Trying to recapture the reputation she thought was shattered, but which was clearly still intact given the sheer number of important guests.
And yet he couldn’t stop remembering her as she’d been before the world had taught her to wear a mask. He could still picture her, barefoot in the heather, laughing at his too-serious frown, eyes bright with the promise of things they’d been too young and too foolish to name.
He saw it, even if no one else did. The stiffness in her shoulders. The longer pauses before she laughed. She was wearing her confidence like battle armor, and the sight of it made his chest ache.
And then she saw him.
Their gazes met across the crowded room. For a heartbeat, Ava stilled. Then her chin lifted in that familiar, infuriating way, the one that said he would get nothing from her but poise.
“Lord Darkwood,” she said when he approached, her voice smooth as cut glass.
“Lady Ava.” He bowed slightly. “Lady Drummond.”
Lady Drummond pursed her lips in a judgmental frown as she looked him over. He half expected a dressing down from the older woman.
“Lord Darkwood. Ah, I see I must attend to…” But she didn’t finish her sentence as she wandered off, leaving the two of them alone.
An onlooker would have seen nothing but polite civility as they stared at one another. But to him, the distance between them felt like a chasm. There was a coolness to her gaze that he didn’t like directed at him.
He needed to apologize. To beg her forgiveness for the numerous transgressions. But every word that came to mind felt inadequate.
The musicians shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz. And an idea came to him.
“Ava,” he said softly, low enough that only she could hear. “Dance with me.”
Her brows arched in surprise, amusement flickering through her carefully composed expression. “Ye? Ye dinna dance, Darkwood.”
“Aye, I do. Sometimes.”
“Since when? Have ye taken leave of your senses?”
“Almost certainly,” he said, holding out his hand, offering her a small, pleading smile.
For a moment, she simply stared at his outstretched hand. She was going to refuse him. But then, slowly, deliberately, she set her gloved fingers against his palm.
The warmth of her touch nearly undid him.
As he led her toward the dance floor, the room seemed to hush, and heads turned to follow.
“Do ye see?” someone whispered. “Lady Ava is dancing with Lord Darkwood.”
“After what happened at the solstice? Bold.”
“Bold? It’s practically a declaration.”
Let them look. Let them whisper.
When his hand settled at her waist, she tensed.
Barely, but enough that he felt it. He wished he could tell her how steadying it felt just to hold her again, how the scent of her, lavender and something soft and sweet, had haunted him since the day he’d met her.
The room blurred, reduced to the music and the heat between them.
The crowd pretended not to watch, their false indifference as subtle as a wall of eyes pressing to glass outside a confectioner’s shop.
“They’re staring,” Ava murmured, lips barely moving.
“Let them,” he said, surprising them both with the edge in his voice.
“Ye’re confident,” Ava murmured as he drew her into the first turn.
“Or desperate.”
“Desperation does no’ suit ye.”
“Neither does cowardice,” he said quietly.
Her gaze sharpened. “And which do ye think I am?”
“Ye’ve never been a coward a day in your life, my lady.” He guided her through the steps, his hand steady at her back, his thumb brushing the silk at her waist in a way that felt like fire even through the fabric.
“I didna agree to dance so that we’d make a scene,” she said, her voice quieter now, meant for him alone.
“Neither did I.” His voice softened. “But I needed ye to know, I will no’ stand by while anyone hurts ye.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
He leaned in just slightly, enough for only her to hear. “Even if that means standing between ye and the rest of the damned world.”
Her breath hitched, so slight he might have imagined it. These were words he’d wanted to say for so long, words he’d suppressed. He felt as if a mighty weight had been lifted from his shoulders after having uttered them.
They danced in silence after that, the music swelling and carrying them through the room.
Gavan was aware of every inch between them, and every inch that wasn’t.
The warmth of her palm in his. The subtle brush of her body against his.
The way her gaze wouldn’t quite meet his, as if she feared what she’d see there. Or what he might see in her eyes.
When the final chord fell and the dance ended, Gavan released her hand with aching reluctance and bowed.
“Thank ye, my lady,” he said, because anything else would have been too much, or not nearly enough.
She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Ye are impossible,” she said finally, but her voice lacked its usual bite.
She curtseyed and then she walked away, leaving him in the center of the floor, pulse hammering, knowing two things with startling clarity. One, he’d just made himself the subject of every whisper in the room. And two, he would do it again.
For her part, Ava didn’t look back. The crowd seemed to swallow her up, but he could still feel her, like an ache in the bones, like a question he couldn’t answer.
Around him, the whispers swelled. “Did you see the way he looked at her?”
“Surely this means…”
Gavan had just changed the course of both their lives with a single dance, and he wasn’t sure if it was courage or madness that kept him from chasing after her.
* * *
The room hadn’t stopped spinning when the music did.