Chapter Thirteen
Beth
The Havenfort London home is massive. Gwen’s always spoken about it as this standard, boring manor, but the foyer on its own could fit half of Beth and Mother’s townhouse. The floors are marbled and gleaming, all of the sconces lit and throwing shimmering patterns along the columns that rise up the walls. She’s sure the price of the paintings alone could rival her dowry, just in this room.
“Come on,” Gwen says, laughing as Beth slowly spins on the threshold, oblivious to Lord Havenfort removing his hat and coat beside them. “Let me show you around.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” Lord Havenfort says, and Beth blinks, allowing Gwen to turn her to meet his false-stern expression.
“You don’t stay up too late daydreaming about Lady Demeroven then,” Gwen tosses back.
Beth stifles a gasp at the impertinence. She can’t imagine ever saying anything like that to her father. But Lord Havenfort just chuckles and shakes his head.
“That’s enough of that. Do you have everything Miss Demeroven will need?”
“Of course, more than enough,” Gwen says quickly. “Sleep well.”
“You two try to get any sleep at all,” he counters, and Beth feels a flush rise up her cheeks, thrown back to the reality that she’s probably not just here as a friend.
“Good night, Father,” Gwen says firmly, but there’s a lilting playfulness to her voice.
Beth watches as Lord Havenfort shakes his head and turns on his heel, loping up the stairs with an informality she never saw even once from her father.
“Don’t mind him, sometimes he acts like I’m still about twelve,” Gwen says, turning back to Beth. They’re alone in her cavernous foyer.
“My mother’s the same way, sometimes,” Beth says absently, gripping at Gwen’s hand as she swivels to continue taking in the space. “Some house.”
Gwen laughs and pulls her in, looping her arm through Beth’s to lead her toward the grand winding staircase with its carved banister and shining steps. What would Gwen think of her tiny little home? Beth has been thinking all this time that she and her mother fit into this society they’re presenting her to, but how can they really, when this is Gwen’s house?
How could Mother’s father ever have thought Lord Havenfort wasn’t a suitable match, even without the title?
“Father’s father bought this place almost seventy years ago. It was one of the first homes built along the square,” Gwen rattles off. Beth turns her head, trying to take in each massive portrait and painting. “Father doesn’t like to spend any longer here than he needs to, but as I understand my mother enjoyed being in London more than at our country estate, and his mother was much the same.”
“But it’s so crowded here,” Beth says softly, stumbling as they clear the first landing. The artwork is just so massive.
“Harder to see friends though, when you’re away in the country,” Gwen says with a little shrug. “I’ve never minded, but it could get lonely.”
“I suppose,” Beth agrees, following her up the next flight of stairs. She hadn’t truly appreciated how tall the townhouse was from the outside, preoccupied as she was with the true nature of this visit.
That thought settles heavy in her stomach as they come up on the second landing and Gwen begins to lead her down a long broad hallway full of closed doors and landscapes. This must be her . . . wing.
Gwen’s arm slips from hers and her hand trails down to catch Beth’s fingers, squeezing. They come to a stop at the last door on the hall and Beth wonders if Gwen can hear the slam of her heart.
“This is me,” Gwen says, opening the door.
Beth hesitates there at the threshold, eager to move forward, terrified too. She peers into the room, smiling at the clutter and the few petticoats and sets of gloves scattered all about.
Gwen tugs gently on her arm and Beth shuffles forward with her into the room, staring around as Gwen softly shuts the door behind them. Their beds are so similar—white and piled high with a comforter and blankets and a mass of useless pillows. Gwen’s four-poster curtains are green, while Beth’s are blue, but there’s something comforting in the familiarity.
The rest of her furniture is a pristine white—vanity, armoires, and even a small bookcase stacked high with books and knickknacks. There are pieces of clothing just about everywhere, though Beth can tell someone’s been in by the pile of folded skirts and petticoats sitting out on the armoire.
“It’s messy,” Gwen admits, stepping close, their hands still clasped.
“It’s lovely,” Beth counters. It’s lived in, she thinks, smiling as she turns to meet Gwen’s look.
Gwen’s sucking on her cheek, face a bit pink, and looking about as awkward and unsure as Beth feels. “I can have Mrs. Gilpe set up the guest room if you’d prefer, but you’re—”
She’s not sure why she does it, or from where she gets the gumption, but the door is closed, and they’re alone, and she will absolutely not spend the night—their only night?—sleeping down the hall.
Instead, she leans in and presses her mouth clumsily to Gwen’s, using her free hand to cup her cheek and pull her in. Gwen startles, but recovers almost instantly, deepening their kiss and releasing her hand to take Beth by the hips and pull her closer so they’re pressed up against each other, a clash of lace and tulle and hoops at awkward angles.
Beth smiles against her mouth and turns them, backing Gwen into the door. Gwen laughs and Beth grins, arching onto her toes to apply a little pressure. It’s not a wine barrel, but it will have to do for retribution, even if since Beth’s the shorter of the two it’s not quite so domineering, especially with all the skirts between them.
Gwen allows it anyway, sighing as Beth breaks from her mouth to lave kisses down her jaw and throat, like Gwen did days ago to her. She’s soft and warm against Beth’s lips, her perfume pervading her senses. Beth skates her lips around to the other side and moves up to nibble on Gwen’s ear. She’s been thinking of it all week when she lies in bed—the feeling, the sounds, the press of hands and lips and teeth.
“So you don’t want the guest room, then?” Gwen asks, breathless.
Beth pulls back to meet her gaze. “Did you invite me over to put me in the guest room?” Beth asks, surprised by the strength of her voice. Her whole body feels like melted chocolate.
“Not on your life,” Gwen says, yanking at her hips to pull her close before she pushes them both further into the room. “There’s more than enough bed for both of us.”
“Good,” Beth says, tugging her down with the hands she has cradled around Gwen’s jaw until they’re kissing again in the middle of the room. It’s heady and splendorous and the longer they kiss the better it gets, like they’re both learning and advancing and chasing the same inexorable pleasure.
“God, get this off of me,” Gwen mumbles into her mouth.
Beth pulls back, laughing and stunned. Gwen’s lips are plumped and red, her cheeks flushed, blond hair falling from her elegant updo to frame her face in whisps. She looks beautiful and a bit debauched, and Beth finds her hesitance sliding away altogether. Gwen is letting Beth see her this way—make her this way. Everything beyond this room tonight no longer matters. It’s just them together, and Gwen’s right, the skirts absolutely must go.
“Spin,” Beth says, smiling as Gwen grins at her.
She turns in Beth’s arms and Beth tries to make quick work of undoing her eyelets, but her hands are shaking. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. This is Gwen, beautiful, funny, kind Gwen. She needn’t be nervous. But damn, these things are small.
“Jesus,” she mutters as she fumbles at another clasp.
Gwen snorts. “Do you need more light?”
“I’m perfectly capable,” Beth says, managing two eyelets in quick succession before getting stuck on the third. “How much do you like this dress?”
“Do not rip it,” Gwen says on a laugh, her body quaking beneath Beth’s hands. “Honestly.”
“Fine,” Beth says, bending down to peer at the clasp and work it until she’s able to separate the hook from the seat and make her way to the end of Gwen’s bodice. “Success,” she crows, helping Gwen slip her arms from the capped sleeves and then lift the bodice and skirt up and away from her hoop, petticoat, and corset. Gwen tosses them toward the vanity, where they land in a heap. They both giggle.
“Your turn,” Gwen says, reaching out to take Beth gently by the hips and spin her so she can work her way down the row of buttons at Beth’s back.
Beth shudders as Gwen’s fingers trip along her spine, deft and quick. She’d be embarrassed by her own fumbling fingers if Gwen’s fingertips against her skin didn’t send little zips and tingles flitting across her body.
“I love buttons,” Gwen murmurs as she undoes the bottom one and then slides her hands beneath the back of the bodice, wrapping around Beth’s middle and pulling her back into Gwen’s chest. She plants a wet, languid kiss to Beth’s neck, sucking gently on her pulse.
Beth moans, eyes opening wide to take in the picture they make in the vanity mirror: Gwen in her underthings, wrapped around Beth as her dress slowly falls off her stays. Beth works her arms from her sleeves so she can wrap her hands around Gwen’s arms, leaning back into her and meeting Gwen’s eyes in the mirror.
They stare at each other, curled close, cheeks and chests flushed, hair in ruins already, mouths rubbed raw, smiles on both of their faces. She wants to sear this moment into her mind forever.
“Off,” Gwen whispers, regretfully stepping back to gather Beth’s skirt.
Beth raises her arms, shivering as the satin glides up and over her head, brushing against every heightened nerve ending. Gwen tosses Beth’s dress with equal glee so it lands atop her own. Beth grins, moving immediately to wrap her arms around Gwen’s waist and undo her petticoat and hoop. Gwen does the same. They share a few delighted minutes of breathless kisses and tugging strings, petticoats tossed over their shoulders.
Beth grunts triumphantly as she manages to release Gwen’s hoop first, grinning against her lips as it clatters to the floor. Not to be outdone, Gwen’s fingers make fast work of Beth’s and it follows with a whump, the two of them left standing in the innermost circles of their hoop cages, arms around each other even as their hips remain two feet apart.
They separate and stand straight, taking each other in for the first time. It’s just them in their drawers, chemises, and stays, and Beth feels a change in the air. Gwen holds out a hand and together they step out of their hoops and shuffle close to the bed. Gwen leans in and sips a gentle kiss from Beth’s lips, her fingers slowly undoing the clasps of Beth’s corset.
Beth shivers at each small jerk, the playfulness of the past few minutes dropping away to the import of this moment. Gwen reaches the last clasp and gently peels the corset from Beth’s chemise, tossing it onto their pile of skirts. She deepens the kiss, hands immediately starting to wend around Beth’s waist. But Beth’s desperate to keep them at the same level, petticoat for petticoat, stay for stay. She sucks on Gwen’s bottom lip as she roughly tugs open the front clasps on Gwen’s corset, smiling at Gwen’s startled gasp and laugh.
She didn’t know women could be rough together, could be playful together, could be heated and wanting and clutching together until Gwen kissed her at the party. And now, now she’s about to know all the other things they could do together. Where she was content to sip kisses and tug at skirts minutes ago, now she wants them both together on Gwen’s absurdly plush bed. She wants to know what Gwen tastes like everywhere.
The thought startles her as she throws Gwen’s corset behind her. She pulls back and they stare at each other, heady, both of them in their thin chemises and drawers, nothing else between them but two layers of cloth. They teeter there, something crackling between them, and then there’s a knock on the door.
It splits the silence like a gunshot and they wrench apart, stumbling over their skirts. By the time the door opens, Beth’s across the room and Gwen’s leaning against the armoire by the door. They’re the picture of suspicion and the tall, imposing woman who steps into the room with a heating pan and a pitcher of water looks between them with raised eyebrows.
“For the night,” she says simply, handing Gwen the pitcher before striding to the bed to place the pan beneath the comforter. She turns and surveys the mess of their dresses and hoops and clicks her tongue. “You might think of hanging those so they don’t wrinkle and you don’t trip to your death overnight,” she offers before exchanging a look with Gwen and leaving the room.
The door shuts with a firm snick behind her and Gwen and Beth stare at each other. Gwen clutches at the water pitcher, her cheeks stained bright red, while Beth fiddles with her chemise. Could the housekeeper tell? Is it normal to enter and find skirts all over the room, or will this stand out as strange, make people ask questions?
Gwen slowly puts the pitcher on the bedside table and then plops down onto the edge of her bed, looking out at the shambles they’ve made of the room. Beth takes a shallow breath, suddenly desperate for a way to distract herself from her racing thoughts.
She hurries forward and begins gathering up their dresses, spinning with both in her arms for somewhere to hang them. Gwen snorts and stands, guiding her toward the armoire and opening it to hand her two hangers. Together they wrestle the delicate dresses into the armoire and then turn to the rest of their discarded skirts.
They move as a team, sorting their hoops into organized piles by the armoire and picking up petticoats. They lay them over the vanity chair. Such a simple action, but Beth feels like it speaks volumes, their underthings there, together, atop each other.
They stand staring at the pile of their skirts. Beth can feel the brush of Gwen’s chemise against her own, close but not close enough. But where she felt confident a few minutes ago, the appearance of the housekeeper has swallowed up her nerve and she doesn’t know how to return to their little bubble—to banish thoughts of what the housekeeper might think, or Lord Havenfort, or Mother for that matter.
“You’re shivering.”
Beth shudders as Gwen’s hand glides down her back. “Oh,” she says, blinking at her own stupidity.
Gwen merely smiles, guiding her toward the far side of the bed and throwing back the covers. She turns Beth and nudges at her until she sits down. Beth laughs as Gwen pulls the covers over her, tucking her up tight, before scampering around the bed to crawl in on the opposite side.
And then it’s not so funny, both of them there beneath the covers, warmed by the heating pan, nothing but their chemises and the mounds of feathered down to separate them. Beth lies still for a moment, unsure and wanting and nervous, and then Gwen’s hand reaches out to take hers, squeezing. With the press of her fingers Beth feels the surety she felt in the wine cellar, the desperate yearning to follow Gwen and pounce on her—to chase her into the garden and press her into the hedgerows.
And with nothing else to do, and no more graceful ideas, Beth gathers her courage and does just that.