Chapter 20
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
If a lady finds herself invited to a garden party, light muslin or lawn gowns are preferred, as they suggest freshness and modesty; darker fabrics are too somber for daylight merriment. A parasol is not merely an accessory but a necessity, shielding both complexion and conversation.
Standing in the Heatherfield Castle drawing room with a fistful of flowers absurdly felt like the scariest thing Gavan had ever done.
Thank goodness he’d tucked Ava’s handkerchief in his pocket after the butler who’d greeted him eyed it suspiciously. He’d had the dainty square carefully laundered, though he could swear he felt the echo of her tears clinging to the fabric.
The bouquet felt ridiculous. An overabundance of various colors of midsummer roses, though Moira had gone through several colors before realizing she didn’t know which Ava liked best. This sort of…
heartwarming call wasn’t his style. He wasn’t a man of grand flourishes.
And this may have been the first time he’d ever shown up with fistful alongside his audacity.
Approaching footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts and his near attempt at an escape.
“Lord Darkwood,” came the voice of Edmund, Earl of Heatherfield, Ava’s father, as he entered the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who had no need to rush for anyone. His hair had gone almost entirely silver, but his sharp blue eyes—Ava’s eyes—still cut through a room like blades.
“Lord Heatherfield,” Gavan said with a short bow, feeling absurdly like a schoolboy dragged in front of a master.
Lord Heatherfield indicated he should take one of the chairs near the fire. “Sit, Darkwood. Ye look as though ye’re about to face the gallows.”
Well, that wasn’t far from the truth.
Gavan settled the flowers on a table and then took a seat, the handkerchief tucked safely in his pocket.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the low-burning fire and the distant murmur of servants somewhere deeper in the house.
Finally, Heatherfield spoke. “Ye’ve been spending a great deal of time under my roof lately.”
“Your daughter has hosted several… events,” Gavan said, cursing internally at how stilted the words sounded. “And my cousin has made friends with Lady Ava.”
Heatherfield’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a knowing smile. “Events, aye. And yet I suspect that is no’ what brings ye here, Gavan. Ye’re a man of purpose, like your father.”
Gavan gritted his teeth, then forced himself to relax. “Ye’re correct, my lord.”
His imbecile heart pounded like it meant to shake him apart. All he could think about was Ava in that burgundy gown, chin lifted like a queen on the battlefield. The way her breath had hitched when he’d kissed her, and how she’d leaned into him before breaking away.
“Then speak plainly,” Heatherfield said, settling back in his chair. “What do ye want?”
Gavan forced himself to meet Lord Heatherfield’s gaze. The man had never been one to beat around the bush, and given he’d known him since Gavan was born, he owed him the truth. “Your permission to court your daughter, my lord.”
The words hung between them like the toll of a church bell.
Heatherfield’s brows rose slightly, but enough to make Gavan’s pulse pound harder. “At last,” he said after a pause, leaning back with a sigh.
Internally, Gavan jolted, by some miracle remaining still on the outside. “At… last?”
Heatherfield let out a snort. “My lad, I’ve known for years. I saw it when ye two were children, how she looked at ye, and ye at her. I wondered when one of ye would gather the courage to do something about it.”
The entire Highlands had been pondering the same question, it would seem. “I should have come sooner,” Gavan admitted, his voice low.
“Perhaps,” Heatherfield said, steepling his fingers. “But I’m a patient man when it comes to my daughter’s happiness. Tell me, what has changed?”
Gavan hesitated, contemplating just how to explain. It wasn’t so much that anything had changed, but rather his eyes had been opened. That he’d spent years burying what he felt for Ava under duty, under fear, under the weight of what-ifs, and that one impulsive kiss had set it all aflame?
“I’ve stopped lying to myself,” he said finally. “About how I feel for her. About how long I’ve felt it. When my father died, there was so much to do… Still is. I didna think I had time for… courting. But I canna wait forever.” Not when someone else might swoop in and steal her away.
Heatherfield studied him for a long, musing moment. At last, he nodded. “About time.”
The words hit with unexpected force, easing something tight in Gavan’s chest.
Heatherfield rose, groaning as he did so and rubbing a sore spot on his lower back. “Stay here. I’ll fetch Ava.”
Gavan nodded, left alone with the crackle of the fire, his own hammering pulse, and the thoughts racing in his mind.
He stood, unable to keep still, adjusting his cuffs for the third time, tugging at his cravat, and cracking his neck.
He glanced at the flowers where he’d placed them on a table.
My god, what had he been thinking to bring so many?
There were at least three dozen in the bunch, of various colors, because he didn’t know which she’d love more.
Foolish, dolt. She loved pink roses. He considered leaving them, then thought better of it.
He had so little to offer her, at least this might bring her a moment of pleasure.
He was still rehearsing the words in his head when the door opened again, to reveal Ava standing beneath the frame. Her father had not returned with her, but the door was left wide, and no doubt the man stood just out of view.
Ava stepped into the drawing room like a vision, dressed in a mint gown that made her skin glow and her dark hair shine. Her expression, however, was not so soft, guarded, poised, that familiar mask she wore when she refused to let the world see her pain.
“Lord Darkwood,” she said, her voice careful, as she glanced at her maid who settled with some knitting by the window.
He bowed slightly, then, remembering the ridiculous bouquet, snatched it up for her. “Lady Ava. These are for ye.”
She took them without a word, her gloved fingers brushing his for the briefest moment, a touch that burned straight through him.
“And this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. “I believe ‘tis yours.”
Her lips parted in an O of surprise as her gaze flicked to the lace, then back to him. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and a wash of various emotions flitted over her lovely features.
“Thank ye,” she said at last, softly enough that it sounded almost like surrender.
For a moment, they simply stood there, two people caught between past and future, the firelight gilding the edges of everything they couldn’t yet say.
Gavan had faced down men with titles, an outlaw once or twice, angry crofters, and gentlemen with grudges older than both of them. But standing there, waiting for Ava to speak, he’d never felt more in danger of losing his life.
* * *
The drawing room fell into a tension-filled quiet. Ava listened to the faint tick of the clock on the mantel, beating in time with her heart. She was too nervous to sit down. And Gavan still stood before her, clutching the enormous bouquet and her handkerchief.
She gestured toward the settee, her hostess instincts leaping to the rescue despite her nerves' attempt to thwart her. “Shall I ring for tea?”
He shook his head, lips hitching into a slight smile. “No. I thought… perhaps we could try something more your style.”
Ava lifted her brow in question. “My style?”
“Archery.” His playful gaze held hers, steady and sure. “A bow and arrow, in the yard. Unless ye’d rather sit in here and let me fumble through small talk over porcelain cups.”
Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that hadn’t come close to being on the list. “Ye want me to shoot with ye?”
“Aye, my lady, I do.”
“Now?”
“’Twould be ideal,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her first instinct was to say no, to decline politely, to retreat to the safety of poised distance.
But she could still feel the echo of last night’s kiss all the way to her bones.
And the way he’d looked at her like she was the only person in the room had kept her up half the night.
She found herself unwilling to deny him or herself the experience.
“Verra well,” she said, tilting her chin. “But dinna think I’ll go easy on ye.”
Something flickered in his eyes, amusement, perhaps, or maybe admiration. “I would no’ dream of it.”
By the time they stepped into the late-morning air, the targets had been arranged at the far end of the yard, bright circles set against a backdrop of verdant green.
Charles, Heatherfield Castle’s butler, stood at attention nearby, bow in hand, ready to offer assistance should either of them need it.
Ava gave Gavan a sidelong glance as they crossed the grass together, some dampness gathering on the tips of her slippers. “Did ye plan this?”
“I prefer to think of it as… hoping,” he said mildly. “I hoped ye’d say aye. And Charles did let me know ye had the proper equipment still.”
She swallowed around the emotion gathering in her throat. They’d practiced targets together many times in their youth, but it had been years since the last time. “Ye take a lot of risks for a man who claims to dislike recklessness.”
“Some things are worth the risk.”
Her breath caught at the weight of his tone.
Charles handed her the bow first, the familiar feel of the polished wood like an old friend against her fingertips. She hadn’t shot since her mother had died, when all the things that had once brought her joy had felt too hollow to bother with, but the thrill of it came rushing back all at once.
“Ladies first,” Gavan said, stepping back to watch.