Chapter Eighteen
Gwen
The Harringtons have embraced extravagance. Flowers seem to burst from every corner of their expansive back gardens. Ribbons and streamers have been artfully draped around the topiaries as well, with beautiful, enormous floral centerpieces on each of the two dozen round tables laid out along the lawn.
Half the ton must be attending and Gwen wishes for the fifth time that she and Father had been able to come up with a viable excuse. Lady Demeroven and Beth declined their last two invitations for dinner, and neither has heard a thing from them since the dreaded meeting with the Ashmonds. Lady Demeroven begged off with a light cold both times, but neither Gwen nor Father quite believes it.
But there’s no way Lady Demeroven would miss this tea and the opportunity to talk up her daughter’s most fortuitous match. For though they haven’t seen the Demerovens, the news that there’s an impending proposal certainly has reached them.
Gwen’s stomach feels permanently knotted. She sucks on her cheek as she looks around the garden, half desperate to speak with Beth, and half determined to avoid her at all costs. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to smile brightly and congratulate her. Not when she knows it dooms them both to a half life without each other.
She’s been trying, she has, to convince herself that a half life is better than none, but the idea still settles sour in her mouth. Father’s been giving her extra attention—chess matches, fencing, even some low-level horse gambling ahead of the Ascot opening next week. But it hasn’t been enough to distract her. She’s horrible company.
And now she has to smile and nod and look at least passably interested as they approach the guests. It’s all she can promise, despite the fact that she and Father really should be ecstatic for the whole event. She feels Father start to pull away and holds fast to his elbow, unable to let go of his quiet steadiness.
“It’ll be fine,” Father murmurs, raising his other hand to squeeze hers in the crook of his arm. “Go and find Albie and Lady Meredith. Focus on them.”
“And watch them make mooning eyes at each other all afternoon until the big event?”
Father snorts. “You could spend the afternoon interrupting any time alone they get instead, wouldn’t that be fun?”
Gwen wrinkles her nose. It should be cruelly entertaining, but it’s not—she’d rather sneak off for her own time alone. The Harrington gardens are expansive and wending. Surely she can find an opportunity to steal Beth away to a quiet corner, at least to talk. Or to see how far she can press her into a hedgerow without damaging her hair.
Father nudges her shoulder and then pulls away, heading for the cluster of fathers once again on the deck. There are two distinct factions today; likely more to do with the MCA. When he hasn’t been trying to goad her into anything childish, it’s all Father’s spoken about for the last week. And she understands the import—would and perhaps will be grateful someday for the ability to seek an end to an unhappy marriage without needing to approach the church—but the politics of it all is fretfully boring.
Gwen allows herself a brief hesitation, teetering there on the edge of the lawn, before she settles her mask into place, all confidence and swagger. Just because her best friend and . . . lover is about to marry the season’s most eligible bachelor doesn’t mean she can’t still walk tall. She’d rather curl up in a ball and sob, but that’s as forbidden here as her relations with Beth.
She strides purposefully through the party, nodding to the happy couples at tables and on picnic blankets, pretending she has somewhere to be while desperately looking for a familiar face. She finally spots Albie and Meredith by the drinks table and hurries their way.
They look nauseatingly happy. Meredith’s a mountain of pale green tulle and lace with a comically large bonnet, but her smile is bright and her cheeks are fetchingly pink. Gwen’s never really noticed before how nice a blush looks on her. Albie is similarly flushed and grinning, looking as happy as she’s ever seen him. It’s almost enough to make her veer off for the gardens, but Albie spots her and waves her their way.
With a forced polite smile, Gwen steps up to join them, gratefully taking the flute of champagne Albie passes her way.
“Lovely party, isn’t it?” Albie offers.
Gwen nods and takes an overlarge sip, trying hard not to look like she’s searching behind them for Beth. “Have you been here preparing?”
“About an hour,” Albie says. “You and Lord Havenfort are fashionably late.”
“My apologies,” Gwen says, giving Albie a look before meeting Meredith’s gaze. “Father got caught up in some politics. It’s a wonderful spread. Your mother should be very proud.”
“Oh, Mother had nothing to do with it,” Meredith says with a laugh. “It was all me and our housekeeper.”
“Then you should be proud,” Gwen insists.
Much as it’s not at all her scene, and she finds the entire notion of planning parties abhorrent, it is a lovely picnic. The gardens are resplendent. Care has been taken, it’s clear.
“Well, I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for today,” Meredith says, glancing up at Albie, who beams back at her.
Gwen forces an excited smile, unwilling to spoil whatever tension lies between them—whatever anticipation. She doesn’t want her displeasure to show, that she’ll be obligated to stay to the bitter end, with her cousin getting engaged in the middle. No ducking out early.
“Miss Demeroven went for a walk in the topiaries, if you’d like to see her,” Albie says, offering it casually, though she can see some glimmer in his eye. Is it obvious to everyone how attached they’ve become?
“I wouldn’t want to miss anything,” Gwen says slowly. Her whole body nearly vibrates with the urge to throw herself toward the maze of hedges at the back end of the garden.
“I think you’re safe with an hour or so of wandering,” Meredith says with a shrug, glancing up at Albie. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“An hour and a half, even,” Albie hedges. “We’re expecting a few stragglers.”
“Of course,” Gwen says, barely keeping from shaking her head at their obvious delight. “I’ll see you later then.”
“Bye,” Meredith says vaguely, and the two are lost again in each other’s eyes.
Moony lovebirds, the two of them, Gwen grouses as she glances toward the open doors to the solarium. She can just see Lady Demeroven pulling her father aside. He grins at her and ducks his head to listen. Gwen bites at her cheek, unable to watch them so happy when her own insides feel so twisted.
She skirts the large hedgerow until she gets to the back of the garden, where the Harrington property opens up into a maze of green topiaries, flower bushes, and fountains. Hardly appropriate to roam on her own were it evening, but she thinks she can get away with it in daylight, especially if it’s in search of a friend.
Or whatever it is she and Beth are to each other.
She walks down the central row and then pauses at the first fountain, unsure which way to check first. Unsure if she truly wants to find Beth here. For now that she’s alone among the flowers, she’s not confident at all that she’ll be able to keep her cool when she sees Beth, nor that she’ll be able to keep her hands to herself. And while this was exactly her fantasy upon entering the party, she finds the longer she wanders the hedges the more that fantasy turns to knots in her stomach.
By the time she comes around another endless corner and discovers Beth loitering at a dead end, nail between her teeth, Gwen’s broken out in a cold sweat. She stares, watching Beth pace.
Beth is radiant in a pale blue dress with low-capped sleeves and a plunging vee across her collarbones, bareheaded and bare-armed—her bonnet is on the ground a few feet behind her, along with her gloves. The entire effect is wonderfully fetching and pretty and so beautiful it actually hurts. Gwen thinks she could watch Beth for hours—could think about pressing her lips to every inch of her exposed skin—could fantasize about leaning her back against the hedgerow and climbing beneath her skirts to make her moan.
“Oh!”
Gwen startles as Beth jumps, spotting her with a hand to her heart. “Sorry,” Gwen manages.
“You scared me,” Beth says, her voice rough.
Gwen shrugs guiltily and finds her feet moving of their own accord until she’s an arm’s length away. She wants to grab Beth by the waist and pull her in for a kiss, but Beth steps back, worrying her hands together.
Gwen rocks on her heels, balling her own hands into her purple skirts. She watches Beth, notes the way she’s biting at her lip.
“So, how was it?” Gwen asks, wincing the moment the words come out.
“What?”
She sighs. “The—riding with Lord Montson. His grounds are something, aren’t they?” she continues, going for interested and genuine. She can be supportive. She can. What other choice does she have?
“They’re . . . fine,” Beth says. “They’re—a lot.”
“Good view of the city,” Gwen agrees.
“Yes. Nice to be out of it at the least, I suppose,” Beth says with a listless shrug.
“Was it the perfect spot for a proposal?”
Damn it, why is her mouth like this? Beth’s face falls and Gwen falters, trying to find the words to repair it.
“It’s not some trivial little thing,” Beth hisses.
“I know,” Gwen says quickly.
“It’s sacrifices and planning and paperwork,” Beth rattles off. “So much arranging, and discussion.”
Gwen blinks, feeling as though her heart has fallen all the way to her toes. “Did he really ask you already?”
Beth meets her eyes, surprised, and shakes her head. “Not yet.”
“But soon,” Gwen surmises.
“By the end of the weekend,” Beth says, both their voices suddenly low and hushed.
Gwen can distantly hear the party, but it’s nothing to the thud of her pulse against her ears. “That’s before Ascot. I guess you’ll be in his enclosure then, rather than on the grounds with us?”
She tries to say it lightly, but the hunch of Beth’s shoulders proves her words still carry a bite. She’s trying, she is, but it’s like her chest is cracking in two.
“Probably,” Beth says. “But I can’t—” She pauses, and Gwen watches her knuckles go white from the strain of her fingers together.
“What’s wrong?” Gwen asks, feeling the distress on Beth’s face like a grip on her stomach.
She steps forward, unsure of what she can offer, but wanting to offer something. Beth steps back again and Gwen pauses, watching as she shakes her head.
“Mother’s going to find your father.”
“Oh,” Gwen says, confused. “She found him. Is she feeling much better?” Beth shakes her head again and Gwen takes another step. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Beth says quickly, brought out of whatever state she’s in enough to recognize Gwen’s concern.
“Then what’s the matter?” Gwen asks, her tone as light and airy as she can manage.
Beth’s face only crumples further. “Your father’s gathered support for the Matrimonial Causes Act.”
Gwen blinks. “He has.”
“And he’s had to make some agreements, move some stock options to entice votes,” Beth continues.
“I suppose.” Beth stares at her, looking so forlorn Gwen takes another step toward her. Beth goes to step back yet again, but she’s already up against the hedge. “Beth, what’s happened?”
Beth takes a shuddering breath, and it’s only now that they’re a few feet apart that Gwen can see the tears on her cheeks. “We won’t be able to make our dinner,” Beth says softly.
“Oh, all right,” Gwen replies, reaching out to snag one of her hands, worried now for her cuticles. “Is that all?”
“We won’t be able to reschedule,” Beth says, her chin quivering.
“Is Montson taking you to see his country estate or something?” Gwen asks, trying to smile through it.
Beth shakes her head. “No. No, it’s—” She takes a shaky breath, using her free hand to wipe at her cheeks even as her other clutches at Gwen’s fingers.
“Has something happened? Are you and your mother all right?”
Beth slowly meets her eyes. “If I marry Lord Montson, I can’t see you anymore,” she pushes out in a rush.
Gwen stills, her hand a too-tight vise around Beth’s. It’s like wind is rushing by her ears though the day is thoroughly lovely around them. “What?” she asks, inelegant and overloud.
“The deals your father’s made, the stocks he’s had picked up—he apparently bought Lord Ashmond out of a huge investment and he’s livid. His one condition on the marriage is that we break contact with you and your father.”
Gwen blinks at her. She hears the words, but they don’t make sense, sloshing around in her head. “You . . . to marry Montson, his father is insisting you promise not to see me anymore?”
“And Mother can’t see your father either,” Beth says quickly.
“That’s absurd,” Gwen says firmly. “Montson doesn’t care.”
Beth lets out a startled laugh. “Of course Montson doesn’t care,” she says, her words hard. “But his father does. And we’d be living with them. We won’t—if I don’t say yes, we won’t have anywhere to live,” Beth says, voice turning brittle. “I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice.”
Gwen just stares at her, trying to comprehend it—this ridiculous, petty demand. How can it matter who they see, how can it jeopardize a match simply to spend time together?
Beth’s hand grips at hers and Gwen finds her footing, meeting Beth’s eyes as her own fill. “So that’s it?”
“I wanted to come to dinner,” Beth says desperately. “I wanted to come to dinner, and stay the night, and tell you alone—to have—” She tugs hard on Gwen’s arm.
Gwen stumbles forward, breath hitching. Beth wraps her arms around her, their skirts bumping, awkward and full of angles. She stiffens, thoughts whirring, her body warring between outrage and heartbreak. But Beth holds on tight, shivering into her.
“I wanted one more night,” Beth whispers into her neck.
Heartbreak wins and Gwen wraps her arms around Beth, turning her cheek into the side of Beth’s face, staring at the leaves of the hedge, almost too close to see distinctly. Or maybe that’s the tears in her eyes.
She thought she’d at least get to keep half of Beth—all this time convincing herself that she could live that phantom life, sneaking happiness in snippets and snatches. That they could live together among the hedgerows, secret and illicit. Never what they should have had, but so much more than nothing. And now—
There’s nothing she can offer that would stop this match. Their only solution has been struck down by the earl. Their parents won’t marry, so that Beth can. And Beth has to marry Montson. She has to be married by season’s end.
Gwen’s been living in a fantasy—clinging to a childish, stubborn belief that they could outplay the odds, could create a fairy-tale ending.
But it’s not to be. Like a knife to the heart, Gwen has to let her go. She loves her too much to hold on, to damn her to the mercy of friends and family. And even if she could—if she could twist destitution into romance, Lady Demeroven would never allow it. Beth will marry Lord Montson.
“I can’t,” Beth murmurs into her neck.
Gwen sucks in a breath, turning to press her lips to Beth’s slightly sweaty head. “He’ll—” She pauses, dragging the words up her throat. “He’ll be good to you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll have money, and time, and children,” Gwen continues, staring blankly at the fuzzy leaves.
“He won’t be you,” Beth says, lips against her skin.
Gwen shudders and pulls back, wanting one moment to savor, one moment to remember. “We’ll write letters,” she says.
“Stop comforting me,” Beth exclaims and Gwen blinks.
“What?”
“You should be yelling,” Beth says, voice stuffed but eyes blazing. “You should be angry.”
“Of course I’m angry,” Gwen says, able to feel her rage beneath the brimming sadness. “But what do you want me to do? Go punch Montson or his father?” Beth snorts wetly. “Run away and be a seamstress?”
“You can’t sew,” Beth reminds her.
“You want me to be mad? Want me to yell at you? Want me to tell you you can’t, and that I hate you? Is that how you want this to go?”
“No,” Beth says roughly.
“Then what?”
She stumbles as Beth surges forward, taking Gwen’s face in her hands to drag her down into a searing kiss. Gwen gasps, her body going slack in shock, before instinct takes over and she’s gripping back. Beth spins them and pushes her into the hedges, just as Gwen dreamed of doing to her. She clutches at Beth’s waist, drinking from her lips, their breath in hot pulses between them as they kiss. Heady and illicit and forever forever forever.
Just as she begins to think maybe they could stay like this, in a liminal, timeless eternity, there’s a cough that seems to echo through the hedges. Beth jerks away from her, stumbling backward, both of their eyes wide and horrified—if anyone saw—
“We must be going now.”
Gwen wilts in relief when she spots Father standing at the mouth of the dead end. He looks utterly reserved and unruffled at finding his daughter pressed up against the leaves by her lover, his first love’s daughter.
“Right,” Gwen manages, standing up tall and smoothing out her skirts. Beth blushes and wipes at her face, bending quickly to grab her bonnet. “Miss Demeroven.”
She dips in a clumsy curtsy, can’t think of anything else to do or say—any true way to say goodbye.
Beth stares back at her, anguished, before stooping in her own curtsy as she wipes at her eyes.
“Lady Gwen.”
They stand for a moment, just staring at each other. Gwen tries to memorize how the sunlight hits her face, sparkling against the tears she’s missed. How Beth’s breath still hitches after their kisses—the pink in her cheeks and the flush on her neck. She’ll remember her this way, lightly debauched and tearful after a blissful, horrid, beautiful goodbye.
Father coughs discreetly again and Gwen tears her gaze from Beth to turn on her heel and walk as calmly as she can to her father’s waiting arm. She doesn’t hear Beth move behind them and Gwen lets Father lead her from the hedgerow. But he doesn’t take them back to the party yet, winding them instead deeper into the far side of the maze.
Gwen sniffles gratefully and Father tugs her to a gentle stop halfway down another dead end. He takes out his handkerchief and cups her cheek to wipe her tears. Gwen meets his eyes, finding nothing but a twin sadness and understanding staring back at her.
“Break your heart, don’t they, the Demerovens?”
Gwen nods, shattered. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, sweetheart, me too,” he says, pulling her in for a hard hug. She buries her face in his chest, taking solace in his arms for a few long minutes.
If she cannot have her happiness, at least they are grief-stricken together.
“Ready to watch Albie get engaged?”
Gwen groans and shakes her head, even as she knows she has to stay. Has to gather herself and paste on the first of what will be many an empty smile. Albie has stood by her through thick and thin; she must put away her heartache to be happy in the face of his joy.
“If it helps, Lady Demeroven is going to collect Miss Demeroven and go home. I left her a few rows back and told her to wait for Miss Demeroven to come to her while I found you.”
Gwen pulls back to look up at him. “Does it ever stop?”
“The heartache?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
He smiles so sadly she thinks she could fall back to pieces. “No. But we’ll find you someone someday who will take some of the pain. And at least you had this much.”
Gwen forces herself to nod, like this much is even halfway to enough. At least she had this, that’s what she’ll have to tell herself for the rest of her life. At least she had one brief moment of love and joy and affection before a life without.