Chapter 21
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Mr. Asher McRae is to marry Miss Moira Douglas.
“Hmm, I think that spot should have the best vantage point.” Ava pointed toward the table near the window for the footman to move the pink roses in the parlor. The porcelain vase was massive and ornate, passed down through generations and entirely too heavy to lift.
“My lady?”
“Perfect.” Ava’s voice trailed off when a carriage rolled up the long gravel drive.
A very distinctive carriage with a crest with a salamander on it. They’d hunted for salamanders as children, Ava keeping one and sticking it in her governess’s bed.
The only thing she could hope for was that the carriage contained only one person from the Douglas clan, and preferably Moira.
Ava smiled as she swept toward the door, convincing herself that only Moira would dare come unannounced.
Moira was halfway up the steps before the butler could even announce her, her cheeks flushed with a joy that could only mean one thing. She clutched a reticule in one gloved hand and looked as though she might burst from the secret barely contained in her grin.
“Ye’re glowing,” Ava said, embracing her warmly. “Which can only mean Asher finally found his courage.”
Moira laughed, practically bouncing in her tiny slippers. “He did, and I said aye.”
Ava’s chest swelled with genuine happiness as she took Moira’s hands in hers, giving a gentle squeeze. “Ye’ve made him the happiest man alive.”
“And I am the happiest woman.” Moira opened her reticule and pulled out an envelope with Ava’s name written on the front. “We’re having a ball to celebrate next Saturday. I’m hand-delivering the invitations myself.”
Ava opened the envelope, tracing the elegant script: A Celebration of the Betrothal of Miss Moira Douglas and Mr. Asher McRae.
“Oh, Moira.” She pulled her into another quick hug. “This is wonderfully perfect. Ye deserve every happiness.”
She meant every word. And yet…
As Moira chattered excitedly about the preparations, the gown she’d commissioned, the menu Poppy had helped her plan, the musicians Asher had insisted on hiring from Edinburgh, Ava felt that treacherous little pang beneath her ribs.
While she was happy for Moira, ecstatic even, watching her friend glow with the all-consuming joy Ava had long ago convinced herself wasn’t for her… well, it stung.
A maid set out tea on the table, and Ava glanced at the invitation where she’d laid it on the side table, the swirling letters blurring.
Moira would walk into that ballroom on Asher McRae’s arm, her future and her happiness secure.
But Ava? Gavan was courting her, her father had confirmed, but the dizzying confusion of where she stood, or if he would commit, left her feeling off kilter. And nervous. What if he decided not to commit in the end?
Her heart thudded at the memory of the way he’d said her name in the garden.
The way his lips had nearly claimed hers again.
The way he’d looked at her as though she were the only person in the world.
And then when they’d been lining up their shots with the bows, and he’d come to stand behind her, his hands gently on her shoulders, his breath in her ear… She’d nearly fainted from need.
The memory came unbidden, consuming her.
The scent of roses cloying in the warm summer air, the sound of her own breath catching just before Gavan’s full lips met hers.
The searing touch of his hand at her waist setting every nerve alight.
The press of his body, firm and unyielding, had sent sparks of yearning crashing through her.
The kiss had been hasty, and yet, completely earth-shattering. Lingering and replaying in her mind like a melody.
She’d spent years building her life without the luxury of those sorts of dreams, of being wanted, of being chosen. And now, with every passing day, she found herself daring to hope that a life with Gavan was possible.
That his boldness at the ball, his defense at the solstice, the kisses that haunted her every quiet moment… weren’t some misguided sense of obligation.
That the feelings she had were real and reciprocated by Gavan.
That he wasn’t only playing at courtship to soothe his conscience or repair her bruised reputation. That this wasn’t going to be a repeat of the past.
“I’m so happy for ye,” Ava said again, because she needed Moira to feel the truth in it, and because if she said it enough, perhaps it would drown out the ache inside her.
Moira offered a sweet and guileless smile as she raised her teacup. “And I’m happy for ye.”
Ava nearly choked on her tea. “For me?”
“Ye and Gavan,” Moira said, her voice softer now. “Ye’re… different with him, Ava. Lighter. And he…” She trailed off, smiling knowingly. “He’s been like an entirely new man since that night at Poppy’s ball.”
Ava’s pulse skipped a beat, and she had to set her teacup down as her fingers were suddenly slick. “Ye think so?”
“I know so.” Moira, for all her naivete, actually winked.
Ava didn’t trust herself to answer. Her throat felt tight, her stomach fluttering. Needing a distraction, she flashed a smile and stood to tuck the invitation carefully into her writing desk out of sight.
They finished their tea while discussing dresses for Moira’s ball, and finally, when the lass took her leave, Ava hoped she could breathe easier. She lingered in the doorway, watching the carriage disappear down the drive, waiting for a sense of relief that didn’t come.
She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips, still remembering the exquisite sensation of Gavan’s mouth sliding over hers.
In that moment, Ava knew she was lost, for she wanted what Moira had. But it was not the dresses. Nor the party. Not even the invitation with its perfect script.
She wanted the certainty. The promise. Ava wanted to know she was desired and loved, not out of duty or obligation, but for herself.
And there was only one man she needed that from: Gavan Douglas.
More than anything, she wished with a ferocity that frightened her that Gavan wasn’t pretending.
Ava closed the door, pressing her back against its solid oak frame, her hand to her chest to quell the erratic beating of her heart.
She glanced at her reflection in the gilded mirror above the mantel.
The cream-colored day dress, with tiny pink roses embroidered on it and a pink ribbon cinched just below her breasts, was flattering.
But what she lacked was the glow Moira had about her, the kind of glow that only came with the surety of being loved.
Ava wanted to walk into that betrothal ball as though she belonged in her own story. That however, would take attention away from her friend, which she didn’t want to do.
Before she could overthink it, she rang for her maid.
“I need to go to the modiste for a new gown,” she said when the maid appeared.
“Aye, my lady. I’ll have the carriage prepared.”
A gown that would make Gavan drop to his knees. She turned back to the mirror, meeting her own eyes. “Something fit for a fairytale.”
Ava began to pace, her mind already sketching what she wanted.
Layers of shimmering fabric in the palest, softest blue, like moonlight over water.
A daring neckline, but not too scandalous.
Beaded embroidery, crystals, that would catch the candlelight with every turn.
And a skirt that would float, not simply swish, when she danced.
She wanted to embody the heroine of every fairy tale she had ever read but had been too cautious to write for herself.
Gavan would see her and forget every other woman in the room.
She wanted him to see her and remember. Remember the lass who used to race him through the fields, wind in her hair, laughing like she had no cares in the world.
She wanted him to see the woman she’d become, sharp, determined, yet still capable of being undone by one kiss.
Ava’s pulse quickened, imagining the way he'd smolder the moment he caught sight of her in the enchanting gown.
“My lady, the carriage is ready.”
Ava nodded, taking the offered shawl and departing for the modiste in town.
“Lady Ava,” the modiste said in a thick French accent, her measuring tape draped like regalia around her neck. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I need a gown for an engagement ball. And I need it in a matter of days. Please say ye can rush it.”
The modiste blinked, then smiled like a general handed a near-impossible challenge. “Ah. One of those commissions.”
Ava couldn’t help but smile. “Exactly one of those.”
Ava crossed to the measuring stand and stood tall. “I want something unlike anything I’ve worn before. Pale blue, soft, but luminous. Enchanting, like a fairytale.”
“Romantic,” the modiste murmured, scribbling notes. “And daring?”
“Daring enough to be noticed. But no’ too scandalous.”
The modiste arched a knowing brow. “We shall make you unforgettable, my lady, and perhaps you will have a happily ever after.”
Ava looked down at the floor, heat prickling her cheeks. “I would like that verra much.”
The modiste gave her a long, assessing look that saw far more than Ava intended to share. “A gown fit for a love story,” she said simply, and bent back to her work.
As measurements were taken and fabrics discussed, airy layers of organza over silk, crystals along the bodice that would catch the light like stars, Ava allowed herself to imagine walking into the ballroom not as the woman everyone whispered about, not as the hostess keeping up appearances, but as someone wholly herself.
Someone worthy of being gazed at by the man whose kiss haunted her.
The modiste smiled without looking up. “Wear diamond stars in your hair, and with the gown covered in crystals, ye’ll shine a star, and stars are for wishes, my lady.”
Hope… Ava swallowed, wanting it so badly, and afraid at the same time to let herself believe. She nodded, trying to remain still so as not to get pricked as the modiste wrapped fabric around her hips.
“When you walk into that ballroom, my lady, your admirer will be unable to look anywhere else.”
Ava drew in a shaky breath and finally let herself hope.