Chapter Eleven
Beth
Sitting beside Gwen in the opulent carriage is shockingly nerve-wracking. Their parents are all chatter, Mother trying to tease out their dinner reservations and getting increasingly competitive as Lord Havenfort refuses her at every guess. Lord Havenfort looks pleased as punch, obviously taken with Mother’s gorgeous gown, and hair, and besotted face.
Were Beth not excruciatingly aware of every minute movement from Gwen beside her, she’d be very excited that their parents seem so happy. That Mother even accepted the invitation was monumental on its own, but now she’s here and acting so girlish. Beth should be doing high kicks. But she can barely focus.
Gwen shifts in her deep navy skirt, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and Beth feels the resulting wobble of her hoop like an earthquake. She risks a glance at Gwen, but Gwen’s staring out the window, lip between her teeth. Beth picks at her gloves, wrapping her own hands into her lap to stall the impulse to adjust the lay of Gwen’s skirts.
It’s been days since they’ve seen each other, and she can’t even push a hello out of her mouth without feeling like every confused, hopeful, desperate thought she’s ever had will come tumbling out at once. She feels silly, and overheated, and anxious like she hasn’t been since the first ball of the season. Worse, actually.
Because it’s Gwen. She kissed Gwen. Well, Gwen kissed her, and she kissed back, and then Gwen ran away and the whole world has turned upside down and now she’s just sitting there—
The carriage comes to a halt and Lord Havenfort promptly hops out and extends a hand back to Mother, who eagerly climbs out behind him. Beth thinks maybe he finally said where they were, but truth be told everything sounds a little like buzzing to her ears right now.
“You next.”
Beth nearly jumps out of her seat, startled as she meets Gwen’s amused expression. “Oh,” she says dazedly, following Gwen’s nod toward Lord Havenfort’s waiting hand. “Right.”
She takes his extended palm with numb fingers and climbs out of the carriage, staring up at the whitewashed walls of Wilton’s, which calls itself the premier oyster bar in London.
She’s never had an oyster before.
“This is the best seafood establishment in all of London,” Lord Havenfort tells them while he ushers their group toward the entrance.
Beth feels her pulse accelerate as Gwen’s hand brushes the small of her back to gently push her inside after her mother. The contact sends shivers up Beth’s spine. She hopes Gwen can’t tell.
The walls are lined with green velvet booths divided by white-linen-clothed tables with candles flickering at the center. There’s a broad oak bar along one wall, and servers in full uniform wander among the tables, dispensing plates of fish and crustaceans.
It smells like the ocean—close, salty, and a little sweet.
“Lord Havenfort, of course, right this way,” the host says, guiding them toward the back corner where the largest booth has been reserved.
Beth tenses, watching her mother and Lord Havenfort enter the booth on the same side, leaving Beth and Gwen to settle opposite. Their skirts press together again, shoulders touching. It sends a current up and down her arm, and Beth hopes no one can see her flaming cheeks in the flickering candlelight.
“I brought your mother to Wilton’s twenty-two years ago,” Lord Havenfort says, and it takes Beth a moment to realize he’s speaking to her.
“Really?” Beth wonders, trying to focus enough to enjoy the thought—trying to keep her head on straight enough to realize this is a date. He brought them here because it’s special to her mother.
“It was just a stand back then,” Mother adds, her face lit up at the memory. Beth hasn’t seen her look this lively in such a long time. “We ducked out of, what was it, dance lessons?”
“Badminton, maybe?” Lord Havenfort wonders. “Something organized. I convinced her to take a carriage with me to Great Ryder Street and we wandered up and down the shops. We got oysters here—”
“And then ice cream and pastries down the way. Do you think it’s still there?”
“Gephino’s, was it?” Lord Havenfort asks, and Beth watches as they lean their heads in, naming old restaurants back and forth.
“Maybe we should duck out of our next tea,” Gwen mutters, her voice close to Beth’s ear, and Beth starts violently, bumping their skirts together.
Gwen winces as Beth finds enough fortitude to meet her eyes, to act like she’s not thoroughly undone just by sitting next to her. “We should,” she agrees, her voice tight and high. “I doubt we could just hire a coach though.”
“We’d have to convince Albie—dreadfully inconvenient, really,” Gwen agrees, her words a little halting. “He’ll never leave Meredith.”
“Meredith might be game,” Beth says, picturing the four of them ditching their high tea, in all their finery, to walk around the fish markets and buy street food. “It could be fun.”
“It really could be,” Gwen agrees, her smile tentative. “I’d buy you gelato.”
Beth feels some of her hesitation melt away. This is easy—familiar—planning hijinks with Gwen. Even with all the . . . kissing, they’re still friends. At the very least, whatever else, they’re still friends.
And something as simple as browsing a fish market sounds so fun because Gwen would be there. She makes everything fun. Everything is better with Gwen, from the kissing to sitting here listening to their parents bicker.
Her mother laughs loudly and Lord Havenfort playfully shushes her, chuckling. Not so much bickering as . . . flirting? It seems it’s a family trait, making the mundane into fun.
“Comport yourselves,” Gwen chides, laughing.
Her father gives her a false scowl and Mother straightens up, wiping at her eyes. Beth doesn’t even know what they were laughing at. She’s about to ask when a man in a green velvet waistcoat arrives at their table. He has a large mustache and a mop of curly brown hair, both of which only complement his beaming smile. His jacket matches the booths.
“Mr. Wilton,” Lord Havenfort says, attempting to stand and nearly falling over as his feet get caught in Gwen’s and Mother’s skirts.
“Sit down, sit down,” the man says. Lord Havenfort plops back into place and Beth hides a laugh. “It’s been too long.”
“It has,” Lord Havenfort agrees. “Do you remember—”
“But of course!” Mr. Wilton says, beaming over at Mother. “Miss Paulson.”
Mother smiles. “Lady Demeroven, now. It’s good to see you.”
Mr. Wilton frowns briefly over at Lord Havenfort before giving Mother a gracious bow. “A pleasure to see you again, my lady. Well, I imagine this calls for the chef’s special,” he says, looking back at Lord Havenfort.
“And that would be—”
“Everything!” Mr. Wilton says gleefully. “For you, Lord Havenfort, we do the whole menu. I hope you ladies are hungry,” he adds, bowing lightly to Beth and Gwen before he disappears back into what must be the kitchens.
“You’re in for a treat,” Lord Havenfort says.
“Everything, Dashiell, really,” Mother says and Lord Havenfort laughs.
“Not up to the challenge?”
Mother demurs for a moment before glancing at Beth. “What do you think, darling, can we eat these two under the table?”
Beth gapes at her mother for a beat before the challenge in her eyes and Gwen’s snickering get the best of her. “Oh, absolutely.”
“We might think to plan enough time to walk to the opera,” Gwen suggests, laughing as Lord Havenfort reaches out to squeeze her shoulder.
“You are my daughter.”
Another waiter comes over with glasses of sparkling champagne. He dutifully passes them around, his eyes lingering on Gwen. Beth feels her gut clench, a fast, hot roll of jealousy surging through her.
She blinks as he turns and walks away, no one at her table any the wiser. Lord Havenfort raises his glass. She follows suit with Gwen and Mother, utterly baffled by the extreme range of emotions she’s felt in just the past thirty minutes. She’s never been this upended before. Thinking about Gwen now is utter emotional chaos and butterflies and—
“To the health and safety of women everywhere, and the good health, happiness, and cheer of the three beautiful women I have with me tonight,” Lord Havenfort says.
Beth raises her glass and then takes a sip, letting the fizz of the bubbles against her palate attempt to ground her back to earth. Her mother is making eyes at Lord Havenfort and he’s turning his head to mumble in her ear, like they’re—
“Going rather well, isn’t it?” Gwen whispers.
Her breath against Beth’s ear makes her shiver. “Yes,” she manages.
This is what they’ve wanted, and it’s—it’s like it’s working.
She puts her glass down shakily. Gwen seems to relax beside her, her hand landing on the bench seat between them. Beth can feel the delicate weight of it against her skirts—the lightest pull of fabric. She could so easily reach down and touch Gwen’s hand—hold it, even, and who would know?
She thinks Gwen would like that too—thinks about all the times they’ve held hands in the past weeks—of the way it always made her feel safe and just a bit tingly and she never put it together. She could feel like that now if she just—
Mr. Wilton appears from the kitchen with a frankly enormous platter, placing it down onto their table with a flourish. All thoughts of illicit touches fly out of Beth’s head as she stares down at the excessive spread. Crab and shrimp and toast points. Tureens of sauce. Skewers of cheese. And what must be oysters there all around the edges, swimming in butters and sauces and brines.
Mr. Wilton spends a few minutes explaining each dish, but Beth can’t quite keep up. They’ve been eating mostly vegetables and soup with lean meats, and now here’s a platter of abundance just for them. She’s salivating.
“Beth?” Gwen asks.
Beth blinks. Mr. Wilton has left them and Lord Havenfort and Mother are already taking their first samples.
“I . . . don’t know what to try first,” Beth admits softly, overwhelmed by all of it.
Gwen smiles. “Oysters first, then we’ll do crab. Ooh, gosh, Father, did he say that was caviar?”
“It is,” Lord Havenfort says around a mouthful of something. Mother whacks him and Beth laughs, coming back to herself.
“Which kind is best?” she asks Gwen, gesturing to the oysters.
“Try the garlic butter first,” Gwen says, reaching out to daintily pluck one of the dripping oysters, offering it to Beth.
Their fingers brush as Gwen passes her the oyster and Beth nearly fumbles it into her lap, her cheeks flaming. But Gwen only smiles, reaching out for her own oyster, and Beth forces herself to focus. She needs to observe, since she doesn’t know how to eat it. Do they really just—
She swallows hard as Gwen slurps her oyster from its shell, tipping her head back to get the rest of the sauce. The bob of her throat and the line of her neck and the way her tongue snakes out to rim her lips—dear God, that was perhaps the most arousing thing Beth’s ever seen.
“Go on,” Gwen says, laughing softly.
Beth shakes herself and tries to sip her oyster as gracefully as Gwen managed. It’s a bright pop of salt and brine and the tang of the garlic. Slightly slimy but pleasant all at once, it bursts in her mouth and glides down her throat. She hums, delighted.
She opens her eyes and finds Gwen staring at her, flushed, eyes wide. Beth smiles, surprised. It sends a surge of something through her to know Gwen’s as undone by all of this as she is.
It wasn’t an aberration, a champagne-fueled mistake. Gwen wants her, just as much as Beth wants her back.
Her mother groans and Beth drags her gaze away from Gwen to find Lord Havenfort feeding her mother an oyster, both of them looking rather heated.
Is this some kind of illicit adult pleasure she’s never heard of before—feeding oysters to a—what, exactly? What are they all to each other now?
“Good?” Gwen asks, her voice tight and low.
“Ye-es,” Beth says, blinking and looking away from their parents. It feels like she’s intruding somehow.
And yet, she suddenly, desperately wants to feed Gwen an oyster. It’s improper for Lord Havenfort to do it for her mother; it would be beyond scandalous for Beth to do that with Gwen. But she wants to.
She wants to spoil and savor and touch and kiss and dote on Gwen the way she sees Lord Havenfort doing for her mother. She wants to be with Gwen, in all ways. Slurping oysters, and exchanging kisses, and going on walks, and reading quietly in the library. Just—living with her.
The thought is big and bright and broad and Beth reaches out mechanically for another oyster, wanting the sensation of it to wash away the burning desire to haul Gwen into the back and kiss her senseless.
It sort of works. The salty brine chased by a horseradish reduction certainly brings her back to the current moment. And then she and Gwen are tasting all the options. She’s trying caviar for the first time, in its bursting brine with smooth goat cheese on a toast point. She’s cracking crab clumsily while Mother, Lord Havenfort, and Gwen seem to do it with poise. But she doesn’t care. She’s swimming in butter and laughter and lust, and if she could stay right here forever, she just might.
Her mother giggles at something Lord Havenfort whispers in her ear. The four of them clustered around oysters is the happiest she’s seen her mother in—long enough it would be sad to consider too closely.
And she finds to her surprise it’s the happiest she’s felt in quite some time too. Everything is better with the Havenforts, she decides, laughing as Gwen noisily slurps butter off her crab leg.
Everything is better with Gwen.