Chapter Nine
Beth
Beth glances around under the guise of stretching her neck. She and Lord Montson are seated on one of the Bloughtons’ benches at their second tea of the week. Lord Montson’s still prattling on about his father’s bets for the regatta next month, but Beth’s barely paying attention.
She knows Gwen is around here somewhere. She came in with her father and Beth saw Mother greet them. Mother and Lord Havenfort are standing on the patio now, speaking quietly, Lord Havenfort leaning in to hear her mother, smirking at what must be witty commentary. They’re becoming awfully chummy, though Mother still won’t say a word about their tea earlier in the week. Beth wishes she felt half as content sitting here with Lord Montson as Mother seems loitering with Lord Havenfort, swapping jokes and gossip, shoulders close.
Gwen was supposed to come save her from this. They agreed after Lord Montson left that she would run some interference so Beth would get a little relief. Lord Montson’s lovely, but he’s becoming increasingly intense, and honestly looking up at him is hurting her spine and her brain. She really could use one of Gwen’s dirty jokes right now.
“So if the LRC wins, he really might go spare,” Lord Montson says.
Beth hums and reluctantly gives him back her attention. “Has he placed any other bets?”
“He’s got a pool going on some law making its way through the chambers,” Lord Montson says dismissively. “But it’s the sporting events that really get him going.”
“Seems to be the way with men,” Beth says, forcing a smile.
“Do you bet on cards or anything like that?”
She does, but she’s not about to admit to it, especially since it’s always just been with the staff. “A lady would never,” she says.
Lord Montson chuckles. “I do some small wagers, but nothing like my father. I’d hate to think what could happen if you get in too deep, like Lord Mason.”
Beth fights a wince, spotting Mr. Mason and Meredith across the way, giggling together as they sit on a picnic blanket that’s strewn with fallen blossoms. Lord Montson shouldn’t speak so openly about the Masons’ misfortune. Gwen’s told her some of it, and it seems Mr. Mason’s lucky to have any fortune to offer at all, and that’s mostly down to Lord Havenfort stepping in.
“You’ll just have to stick to the smaller games then,” Beth agrees tightly.
Lord Montson nods and then waves. Beth looks over and sees his mother gesturing for him. “I suppose my time is up, but you and your mother will join us on the boat tomorrow, yes? My mother’s so looking forward to having a companion, and I promise to teach you to steer if you like.”
Beth nods with the best smile she can muster. She’s rather sure she’ll be seasick, but he’s so excited to show her his father’s boat, she can’t ruin that for him.
“Excellent. Then I’ll take my leave,” he says, snagging her hand to raise it to his lips for a prolonged kiss.
Beth keeps her smile wide across her face, lowering her eyes as if in pleasure. She’s desperate for him to leave. She wants to speak with Gwen—wants just a few minutes of freedom from the ritual of all of this. But Lord Montson takes his time, releasing her hand slowly and standing to look down at her as if she’s something special.
She wishes it made her feel more. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, other than that something certainly must be. She’s being envied around the garden, she can see it.
From no one, to one of the most coveted matches in the season—she should be crowing, giddy, excited. Instead, she’s simply grateful when Lord Montson finally takes his leave with a little bow, smiling his pretty smile as he saunters off to join his mother.
Beth stays seated, watching them go, her leg jumping beneath her skirts. She waits until they’re out of sight to light off the bench. She heads for the refreshments, trying not to look relieved. Trying not to look like she’s desperately searching for Gwen.
She notices Mother and Lord Havenfort seated on the opposite side of the patio now, talking with a few other guests, making polite connections. Though as she stands there watching, they keep turning to continue some other conversation between themselves, more interested in each other than whatever news is being shared by the other adults. Their casual impropriety bolsters her and she gives in to a little desperation, moving through the party with purpose, searching for her friend.
She spots Gwen along the far edge of the hedgerow, standing alone with a glass of champagne like she’d like to slink into the shrubbery if she could. Beth feels the tension of her conversation with Lord Montson finally let go. She snags her own glass, taking a grateful sip, and hurries to join Gwen, mostly out of sight, thoroughly out of mind.
“You were supposed to come spring me,” Beth announces as she slips in beside Gwen, their skirts rustling together.
Beth likes the play of her pale purple against Gwen’s deep green satin. It looks like spring.
“Sorry,” Gwen says stiffly before taking the last swig of her champagne. “Excuse me.”
Beth blinks and then shoots her hand out, catching Gwen’s elbow. “What’s the matter?”
Gwen hesitates, pulling lightly against Beth’s grip on her arm. “Nothing. I need more champagne.”
“You don’t,” Beth observes, noting the flush already creeping up Gwen’s neck, the slight fray of her blond curls around her face. “Chat with me awhile. We can make excuses to get more drinks later.”
Gwen’s shoulders slump, but she lets Beth pull her back to their shelter in the shrubs. Beth takes her in, watching the way Gwen won’t quite look at her—the way her eyes scan the party instead, as if in indifference.
“What happened?” she presses, concerned.
“Nothing,” Gwen says, twirling her empty glass in her hands. “How’s Montson?”
“Fine. We’re boating tomorrow,” Beth says tiredly, releasing Gwen’s elbow to thread their arms together, but Gwen pulls away. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just warm,” Gwen demurs, stepping a little away from her. “Is he going to wrap his arms around you and teach you to steer the ship?” Beth blushes at the mocking lilt in her voice. Gwen glances at her and rolls her eyes. “Predictable.”
Beth frowns, taking in what seems like . . . scorn, on her face. “I guess. He’s excited though. And so is his mother, to mine’s chagrin.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be bosom friends by the end of the season. She could even live with you and them,” Gwen says.
“I think Mother would rather die. Did you see though? She and your father have been talking all day. And laughing.”
Gwen nods, turning to look back at the party, disinterested. Doubt creeps into Beth’s chest. She can’t think of anything she’s done to disappoint her—to insult her. “Are you mad at me?” she asks, ashamed of how meek she sounds.
She’s a grown woman, and they’re both far too old for schoolyard quibbles.
“No,” Gwen says, glancing at her before looking back at Mr. Mason and Meredith, who have joined a group about to set up for croquet. “You and Montson would have won.”
Is she—“Are you jealous of me and Lord Montston?” she asks before she can censor the thought.
“Please,” Gwen says, scoffing as she steps away, marching toward the drinks.
Beth purses her lips and follows, tossing back the rest of her champagne. She scurries up beside Gwen. “You’re being awfully rude.”
Gwen huffs at her and strides around the side of the house, as if that might throw Beth off. But she’s not about to lose her only friend over something as stupid as Lord Montson.
“It’s not like I want to marry him,” she hisses. They clear the side of the manor and head for the open wine cellar door. “You were supposed to come interrupt over an hour ago. I’d much rather have been with you.”
Beth hesitates as Gwen continues straight down into the wine cellar. She glances back, but no one has followed them, and the pull of the dark and quiet is too strong to fight. More than that, maybe with some privacy, Gwen will get this stick out of her arse and explain what’s wrong.
Beth descends into the dim cellar, lit only by the open doors at the top of the stairs, and a small window along the same wall. It’s dusty and close, but wonderfully cool and calm. Gwen paces in front of a stack of barrels, her black slippers kicking up dust that swirls in the limited sunbeams from the grounds above.
“What is the matter with you?” Beth demands, coming to stand a few feet away. Gwen doesn’t look up, just keeps pacing. “Has something happened with your father?”
“What? No,” Gwen says, shaking her head with only a dismissive glance Beth’s way.
“I’m sorry I had to spend time with Lord Montson. It’s—God, this is why we’re here. You can’t actually be mad at me. If you tried even at all you’d be swarming with suitors, and I wouldn’t be acting like you are,” Beth lets out, frustrated.
Something else creeps up her chest at the thought, but she pushes it away, channeling her anger and disappointment and sadness toward Gwen and her indifference.
“I don’t want this any more than you do, but I have to—I don’t have a choice, and Lord Montson’s not terrible. Gwen, please, I know we sort of made a pact, but I need him, whether I like it or not.”
“He’s not terrible,” Gwen admits, glancing up before turning back to the racks of wine bottles along the walls. “But he’s a dullard. You could do better.”
“How?” Beth exclaims. “If you can’t get one, how on earth am I supposed to?”
“Because you’re beautiful and bright and you can smile and curtsy and look like you mean it,” Gwen spits back.
“That’s—that’s hardly anything,” Beth says, watching in fascination and annoyance as Gwen finally faces her full on. “I’m lucky Lord Montson’s interested and I should—I should be grateful.”
Gwen’s look hardens. “You deserve a hell of a lot more than Lord Montson.”
“What do you want from me?” Beth demands, fisting her hands into her dress. “I’m not going to do better than him and I thought at least I’d have you while I had to accept that.”
“I want you—” Gwen says, breaking off with a hiss.
Something’s changed and Beth wishes she knew what it was. How they went from holding hands beneath the table to . . . this.
“Want me to what?” Beth insists. “What should I be doing better?”
“That’s not—” Gwen cuts herself off again, glaring at Beth.
“You’ve had three goes at this and you haven’t done it. What am I doing so wrong that you can judge me for it?” Beth demands. “How can you be jealous when you’re not trying?”
Gwen scowls and stalks forward. Beth stumbles back, surprised. Her hoop hits the stack of wine barrels. But Gwen doesn’t stop. She comes right up against her, their stiff corsets nudging together, skirts pushing to either side, breath mingling between them. Her hands bracket Beth’s waist, squeezing tight enough Beth can feel it beneath all the layers between them.
“I’m not jealous of your beau,” Gwen mutters.
And then her lips crash onto Beth’s. Beth gasps against her mouth, frozen in shock. Her mind goes totally blank.
Gwen, kissing, wine, jealous—oh. Oh.
Gwen goes to pull back but Beth’s hands shoot out, quite of their own accord, clutching at her waist, anchoring Gwen against her. Beth rises on her toes, pressing their lips back together, the warm, soft pleasure of it trickling through her. This is what it’s supposed to be. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. Swoony and bright and everything.
Gwen sighs against her lips and Beth parts her own, sucking on Gwen’s bottom lip. Gwen hums and Beth’s whole body tingles. Gwen’s waist between her hands, Gwen’s chest pushing up against her, pressing Beth into the barrels behind her—it’s overwhelming and wonderful and so much, so much. Gwen moans softly, dragging her hands up to cup Beth’s jaw, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and Beth goes willingly.
It’s like being lit on fire and doused with cold water all at once. Goose bumps rise on her arms and shoulders. Heat blossoms through her chest and down her belly. She tugs Gwen closer, leaning back to take more of her weight, wanting more than they can have with these stupid dresses between them.
Gwen breaks from her mouth, both of them heaving in air. She trails languid kisses down Beth’s jaw. Beth pants, looking up at the ceiling, the aging wooden beams barely visible in the dim light. It’s just the two of them here, secret against the world. She squeaks when Gwen nibbles on her earlobe, the sound hanging around them.
She didn’t know anything could feel like this. Hot and soft and hard and fierce and beautiful. She wants to stay like this forever, her hands twisted into Gwen’s skirts, Gwen’s stroking at her collarbones.
She groans, turning her head to capture Gwen’s lips again, sucking on her bottom lip before she slicks her tongue across it. They both shudder as Gwen meets her, tongues and teeth and open-mouthed kisses that are all hands and neck and sweet and raw—
Laughter penetrates their bubble and Gwen rears back, turning her head to stare at the stairs up to the lawn. Beth clutches at Gwen’s skirts, unwilling to be parted from her even with the threat of discovery looming around them. She’d let the whole world watch for another minute pressed against these aging barrels with Gwen’s lips on hers.
But no one comes down. Gwen slowly looks back at her and they stare at each other. Her hands are still on Beth’s jaw, both of them flushed and breathing heavily.
Beth struggles to find the words—more, please, soon—can’t explain how desperately, how ardently she wants to stay like this forever. What’s never made sense before—how everything has crystalized into this moment—how they should run away right now, forget the balls and boating and parties and just lie beneath trees in the woods like this forever and always.
“Your mother is probably looking for you.”
Beth blinks, startled. Gwen’s hands fall from her face. Beth grips her tighter, refusing to let go even as Gwen tries to step away. “She’s with your father. I’m sure they don’t care.”
“You should prepare for tomorrow, pick out your dress, don’t want to get blown off the boat.”
“Gwen,” Beth beseeches, but Gwen shakes her head, gently prying Beth’s hands from her waist and stepping back.
“Have fun,” she says, and even in the low light, Beth can see the anguish on her face. She turns and hurries out of the cellar, leaving Beth splayed there against the barrels.
* * *
Beth stares out at the choppy gray water beside the boathouse where they’ve retreated to take tea and get out of the misting rain. It’s fittingly gloomy outside. Matches the catch in her chest and the gripe in her gut and the knotted ache at the base of her skull.
“Are you all right?” Lord Montson asks as she pours herself a fourth cup of tea while Mother and Lady Ashmond continue their never-ending discussion of proper tablecloths for dinner events.
“I didn’t sleep well,” Beth admits before taking a scalding sip.
The heat of it makes her push her tongue to the roof of her mouth, which careens her back to her kiss with Gwen yesterday—the press of her hands, the slick of her mouth, the clenching pleasure of—
“I hope sailing was invigorating at least.”
Beth forces a smile around the rim of her cup. “Very,” she admits.
The cold sea breeze and horrible weather were certainly a distraction, though not the kind she’s sure he was hoping they would be. The press of Lord Montson against her back as they steered the ship did nothing for her. Nothing like the jolt she felt holding Gwen, being held.
“Is everything all right?” he asks again.
Beth forces herself to shake off the exhaustion and melancholy. She’s here to be a lively, enticing partner. She’ll have more than enough time awake alone tonight to replay her kiss, to mull her confused emotions, to plan exactly how she can next get Gwen alone.
“I think I simply had too much champagne yesterday in the heat,” Beth says, attempting to look self-deprecating.
Lord Montson nods sagely. “I know that feeling well. The trick is to drink as much water as you do champagne.”
Beth doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a close thing. How inspired. Whyever didn’t she think of that?
Perhaps because she was so shocked and flabbergasted and utterly intoxicated that she threw back four glasses after Gwen ran off. Mr. Mason and Meredith let her sit there, stunned, on their picnic blanket until Mother was ready to take her leave. She talked all the way home about her conversations with Lord Havenfort around the upcoming season events. Then it was what she’d learned from the other mothers about the Ashmonds, and all the excellent courtship activities they’d suggested.
Mother didn’t notice that Beth barely spoke all night. Didn’t think a thing of her retiring early. Didn’t see her sitting on her window seat until it was nearly light again, reliving the kisses, wondering what happens now. Wondering how to do it again. Wondering what kind of life she could lead that would give her Gwen.
“My father swears by a large piece of steak,” Lord Montson continues, and Beth strains to give him even half of her attention. “Butter basted, of course.”
“Of course, for the fats, I assume?” Beth asks in a shockingly calm voice given the tap dance of her pulse.
“Naturally. Mother often simply has another drink with breakfast,” he adds, leaning close into her space to whisper it to her.
Beth notices Mother smiling at them, obviously thinking he’s whispering sweet nothings. But his breath against her neck inspires no such curl of desire in her belly, no tingle in her toes, no lightheaded rush.
“Perhaps that’s the best way,” Beth decides, smiling as Lord Montson pulls back, looking amused. “Simply remain lightly intoxicated always. You’d be very merry.”
“But dead rather young, I think,” he says with a laugh. “You might experiment with less sweet drink. Wine or beer.”
Beth nods in false thanks. Both get her far more drunk more quicky, too easy to swallow. Too easy to just keep drinking and drinking, like her father used to do. Drinking to excess therefore isn’t usually her style, unless she’s just been kissed silly, apparently. She’s seen what it can do to a person.
But she knows most men aren’t so careful. “What’s your poison of choice?” she asks, hoping to entice Lord Montson into one of his longer monologues so she can turn off her brain again and simply keep track of the rain sliding down the windows.
Lord Montson delivers, allowing Beth to sink back into a light stupor. What future could she and Gwen possibly hope to have? There’s no mechanism for them to own property separately, hardly more than that together, and not enough money between them to make any kind of go of it.
They could be infrequent companions, like the women who sometimes visited her mother on country trips. Beth stills as Lord Montson prattles on about the distinctions of various whisky labels. Mother and her friends never—
No, no, she would have known, wouldn’t she? She would have been able to tell.
But then again, she had no idea until yesterday that the affection she feels for Gwen translates to such . . . ardor. That the tingle of their hands touching or her admiration of Gwen’s face was anything more than natural observation.
But now—now thinking about her smile, her touch, her laugh—it sends butterflies fluttering against her stomach. How could she have misunderstood herself so badly? Has she always felt this way—always wished to kiss her friends, always wished for their touch, their affection, their passion?
No, she thinks. She hasn’t felt anything like this before. It’s wonderful and devastating and all-consuming. Like Gwen lit a spark that didn’t exist until yesterday, until their lips touched and the possibility of more presented itself like an explosion. An explosion that cannot be undone.
There’s no going back from that moment. What she feels for Gwen she will never feel for anyone else. It is singular, and beautiful, and she wants more of it. More of Gwen’s hands and her lips and her time and her affection and—
She glances at Lord Montson, speaking passionately now about hops, and those excited butterfly wings develop razors, lodging at the top of her stomach in a burning ache not likely to disappear anytime soon.
There’s a future being built for her here, filled with luxury and security and Lord Montson. It’s the best promise of stability and protection a woman can hope for. She knows well it’s no guarantee of kindness, but at least until his death, she’d be provided for. It’s a future that’s as stable and solid and expected as it can be. A future that should be her singular focus.
A future that is the whole reason she met Gwen in the first place.
She’s here for the season, and this season only—make a match, get a husband, live happily ever after. Her mother is counting on her, Miss Wilson is counting on her. A match with the Ashmond heir, that’s the goal.
But how is she to settle that in her head, when she feels nothing for Lord Montson and everything everything everything for Gwen?