Chapter 22
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
It is with no small degree of shock that society has discovered the sudden disappearance of Mr. Lachlan Ferguson of Glenbrae.
Known for his silver tongue and his restless eye, Mr. Ferguson was last seen at a gathering where his attentions were divided rather too freely between two blushing debutantes.
By dawn, both the gentleman and his promises had vanished.
Rumors abound that he has fled north to escape the consequences of too many entanglements; others suggest an angry male relation may have hastened his departure; and a few, more romantic souls, insist he has been carried off by a brokenhearted admirer.
Whatever the truth, one thing is certain, Lachlan Ferguson’s absence is proving far more entertaining than his presence.
Gavan tugged at his cravat for at least the third time. The damned thing felt like a noose around his neck. Bloody hell.
“Ye’re fidgeting,” Moira said beside him, her tone a mix of amusement and exasperation as they stood at the entrance to the grand hall, greeting guests.
“I am no’,” he muttered, though he tugged again at the starched knot.
“Ye are. Ye have no’ been this twitchy since your first dance at Almack’s.”
He shot her a look. “I was no’ twitchy.”
“Ye nearly stepped on the niece of a duchess and then forgot her name.” Moira grinned, positively glowing in her engagement finery. “’Twas adorable.”
He sighed through his nose, resisting the urge to loosen his cravat again. “Ye were barely a bairn then, how would ye know? And I dinna recall being mocked by the bride-to-be as being part of my guardian duties.”
“Consider it a bonus,” she said sweetly, then turned to greet another wave of guests with a practiced curtsy and that delighted laugh she’d perfected since her betrothal. “Besides, my father will be in attendance, and all guardian duties can be returned to him.”
Gavan forced himself to focus on the tasks at hand.
Smiling stiffly, shaking hands, enduring well-meaning congratulations for Moira’s match to Asher.
And Asher, damn him, looked every bit the ecstatic groom, beaming as though he’d won a prize, which he had.
The lad had gone from Highland farmer and scholar to fiancé of a Douglas in what felt like the blink of an eye, and yet Gavan couldn’t bring himself to be anything but genuinely pleased for both of them.
It should have helped his nerves. It didn’t.
Because this wasn’t just Moira’s night.
He scanned the glittering ballroom, the golden chandeliers blazing above a sea of silk and taffeta.
Music swelled from the quartet at the far end, the lilting and vibrant notes of a Scottish reel wrapping through the air as couples turned and twirled and leapt across the polished floor.
The scent of roses, hundreds of them, mingled with champagne and melting candle wax.
A picture-perfect betrothal ball, one that he knew Ava had a hand in designing.
Which made it feel almost like a battlefield.
Because she wasn’t here yet. Would she arrive fashionably late or not at all?
It’d been several days since he’d gone to Heatherfield Castle, since he’d coaxed her into practicing archery together, and announced he wanted to court her.
Every night since he’d been haunted by their kiss.
The kiss that had stripped him of every careful defense he’d built.
He hadn’t dared call on her in the days since, giving her space, though every hour had stretched like an eternity.
He’d sent gifts of flowers, books, and a journal. Things he knew she’d like…
But tonight, that ended. He wasn’t going to avoid her anymore. It was time to stop the games. Gavan was going to propose.
The thought steadied him. He’d already secured her father’s permission. “About damn time,” Lord Heatherfield had said with a knowing smirk, and Moira had made her opinion clear, too. “If ye dinna do it soon, Gavan, I’ll propose for ye,” she’d declared, hands on her hips.
He’d spent his life being deliberate. Careful. Especially since the death of his father, when he’d had to take on not only the duties of the estate, but also to rebuild it. And yet for the first time in years, his path forward with Ava felt simple.
Then the doors opened.
And there she was.
A hush rippled through the room.
Ava stepped into the ballroom like she’d been plucked from the pages of a fairytale.
Her gown was made of a pale blue silk that cascaded like moonlight over her frame, the skirt whispering with each measured step.
Tiny crystals gleamed along the bodice, sleeves and hem, catching the light like stars.
Her hair, dark and gleaming, was swept up and pinned with matching diamond stars.
For a moment, Gavan forgot how to breathe.
She didn’t smile at first. She didn’t need to. The room bent around her, every head turning, every voice lowering as if instinctively bowing to her quiet, commanding presence.
And then her eyes found his.
The noise, the crowd, the weight of dozens of stares, all of it fell away. And he only had eyes for her.
Gavan’s pulse steadied. Moira nudged his arm discreetly, as if to say, “Go on, ye idiot,” before slipping off toward Asher, who had been waiting like a man aching for his bride.
He started to move toward her, and at the same time, she stepped in his direction. Her chin was held high, every inch the poised, confident lady. But he saw past the performance, saw the faint tremor of nerves in her hands, the way her gaze darted briefly to the floor before finding his again.
By the end of this night, Lady Ava Woodmoor would no longer be untouchable, she would be his.
As they drew closer, the swell of chatter resumed around them, but Gavan barely heard it.
“Lord Darkwood.” Ava's voice was poised but softer than he expected, almost as if she'd saved that intimate tone just for him.
“Lady Ava.” Gavan bowed low, his own voice deep and gravelly. When he straightened, the words he’d rehearsed jumbled in his mind, blocked by one line, the one that came out, “Ye are stunning.”
“Thank ye,” she said, tilting her head, a shy smile playing on her lips.
He offered his arm. “Would ye dance with me?”
She inclined her head and took his offered arm, her gloved fingers warm against his sleeve. “I’m shocked. Dancing at balls now, my lord, I thought ye’d sworn it off,” she murmured.
“I needed the right dance partner,” he said, leading her toward the floor.
The quartet slid seamlessly into a waltz, slow and melodic, the notes filling every shadowed corner of the ballroom with quiet promise.
When he placed his hand on her waist, Ava stiffened for just a breath, then relaxed into his touch. He led her through the familiar steps, her skirts brushing against his shins as they began to turn.
When they were adolescents and Gavan’s mother had wanted him to learn how to dance, Ava had been invited to the lessons. Back then, he hadn’t known what to call the feeling of holding her this close. Now he did.
Desire.
And something more profound, he could no longer pretend away. Love.
“Ava,” he began, his voice lower now, meant for her alone.
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and curious. He could drown in their depths.
“I’m glad ye came tonight,” he said carefully.
“As am I,” she said.
“I need ye to know,” he continued, the words clawing their way out before doubt could drag them back under, “that I’m sorry for what I did to ye, all those years ago.
I was a coward. With my father’s poor health, and then his passing, I didna want to leave anyone behind…
That meant ye. But, now I know, I dinna want to be the man who only hovers at the edge of your life.
I want to be part of it. To love ye. To give ye the best years of my life. ”
He drew her closer, their steps slowing until they were no longer waltzing so much as standing still in the center of the floor.
Ava’s breath hitched. The words she’d been longing to hear for so very long stilled her heart in her chest and then sent it pounding thunderously. “Gavan—”
But whatever words she’d been about to utter faltered on her tongue when his thumb brushed across her hand, his gaze burning into hers like a vow.
“I want ye, Ava,” he murmured. “I want ye to be mine.”
* * *
His apology and declaration weren’t quite a proposal. But it was close enough to make her heart thunder.
“Why do I feel,” she whispered, voice shaking, “that ye’ve been practicing that speech for days?”
“Because I have.”
The final notes of the waltz faded, and still they didn’t move. Dancers shuffled off the dance floor, and another reel was struck up, but Gavan ignored it, his attention solely on her.
“Walk with me,” he said, his voice rough with something that wasn’t quite command and wasn’t quite plea.
For a heartbeat, Ava hesitated, knowing what walking out into the gardens with him meant, knew the whispers it might spark, knew how it would change everything.
Her body made the decision before her mind could reject him, and she was suddenly nodding. “Just for a moment,” she said softly.
His hand closed over hers, and she was mesmerized by the sheer size of his palm against her own.
The garden was peaceful compared to the ballroom, just the soft chirp of crickets and the faint murmur of music spilling through the open French doors. The sky was dotted with stars, and light from the moon cast shadows on the flagstone.
Gavan led her far enough from the house that the laughter of the guests was nothing more than a distant hum.
When he let go of her hand, it felt wrong, like a part of her was now missing. But it also brought with it a dose of reality, and her gaze flicked back to the open doors and windows in a flash of panic.
“I should no’ have come out here,” she said first, her tone carefully measured, but her hands fidgeting in the folds of her skirt. “If anyone notices—”