Chapter Three
Beth
“I look about twelve,” Beth says.
Mother adjusts the light pink satin and lace gown over her padded and primped underlayers. “Pastels are all the rage this season.”
Beth grimaces and shifts, frowning at her round, rouged cheeks. Mother can swear all she likes, but Beth would much rather look her age. While youth might appeal to men like Lord Psoris, she’s proud of being twenty, not ashamed. Gwen’s twenty-one and she looks just as desirable as she must have at eighteen.
“I want you to dance more this evening,” Mother says as she circles Beth, reaching out here and there to adjust. “We should have had at least a few callers by now.”
“It’s only been a week,” Beth protests, not liking the tightness of her mother’s jaw.
They’ve attended eight teas and garden parties, promenaded every day, made unending morning calls, and been guests at four dinners. It isn’t as if they aren’t trying.
“I had at least five callers my first week in my season,” Mother says as she adjusts the diamond necklace she’s forced Beth to wear tonight.
“Gwen hasn’t had any either,” Beth argues.
Mother snorts. “I’m not surprised.”
“Mother,” Beth scolds, glaring.
“Your friend is a lovely young woman, but she’s got a mouth on her and her reputation among the mothers is abysmal. She got in a shouting match with that Gentry girl.”
“Miss Gentry was making fun of Gwen for not having a mother to teach her proper manners. Gwen should have punched her.”
Mother frowns. Beth hasn’t seen Gwen since the Jelison tea party on Thursday. And even though Gwen shook it off, she knows Miss Gentry must have hurt her feelings. How utterly callous. It’s not as if it’s Gwen’s fault she has no maternal influence. And she’s heaps more intelligent, witty, and charming than the other girls with their proper mothers anyway.
“You’re determined to dislike Gwen,” Beth says as Mother continues to frown.
“I’m not,” Mother says. Beth narrows her eyes at her. “I’m not. She’s a nice young lady, and I don’t mind you being friends with her, but I won’t have you looking at her as an example of how to behave in the season. She’s been out for four years.”
“I know,” Beth says, her anger melting in the face of Mother’s concern. “But I do like her.”
“That’s fine,” Mother says, taking a deep breath. “Just don’t spend all night with her, all right?”
Beth bobs her head. She hadn’t really been planning on it . . . just all the time not spent dancing. But there’s no reason Mother needs to know that. Instead, she should be leveraging this moment of détente. They come along so infrequently.
“You don’t dislike Gwen just because of her father, do you?”
Mother blinks. “What? No.”
“Because I know you don’t think highly of him,” Beth continues, watching as Mother sighs.
“I wish he’d been a better example to your friend, certainly,” she says slowly. “But I don’t blame her. You don’t get to pick your father,” she adds, meeting Beth’s eyes.
Beth nods, refraining from mentioning that Mother did pick her father, and picked poorly. “Still, she’s accomplished and kind. That must say something to Lord Havenfort’s credit, right? As Miss Gentry said, it’s not like she has a mother around.”
Mother purses her lips and Beth waits her out, turning to her mirror to do a last check of her face. She looks ridiculous.
“Perhaps she’s inherited some of Lord Havenfort’s intelligence, but surely you can understand that having a man like that for a father doesn’t give her a good example of how to behave in society. He’s hardly a paragon of propriety.”
“He’s very nice!” Beth argues.
“Nice and respectable are separate things.”
“He sits in the House of Lords,” Beth says.
“The House of Lords hardly cares how many women a man has bedded.”
“It’s not like he’s encouraging Gwen to do that. Gwen’s honor is very safe.”
“I’m sure it is,” Mother says, holding up her hands. “I’m simply saying he’s no example of proper etiquette.”
“How do you know?” Beth insists.
Mother rolls her eyes. “I’ve known Lord Havenfort for a long time. His reputation precedes him.”
“And you think he was like that when he was presented?”
Mother shakes her head. “He was . . . charming. And clearly that charm has gotten him rather far.”
“So you knew him when you were in the market?” Beth presses.
Mother narrows her eyes. “We met in my season. He married his wife at the end of his second, as far as I know. And since her death he’s gotten to know half of London’s women biblically. That charm remains intact. Now, can we drop this?”
Beth sighs, tucking the information away, likely as much as she’ll get her mother to admit tonight. Reluctantly, she spins for last looks.
“I doubt he’s really bedded half of London,” she says in lackluster defense. “It’s not as if he could fall in love with that many women.”
Mother smiles, laughing a little as she reaches out to fix a lock of Beth’s hair. “I adore that you think that,” she says gently. “And I adore you. I want you to have fun tonight. Just remember why we’re here, all right?” Beth opens her mouth to defend her friend. “All right?”
“Yes,” Beth says, shoulders sagging. “All right.”
* * *
This ball is, absurdly, larger even than the last. The Kleisted ballroom could easily fit most of their London townhouse inside its cavernous three-story hall. Garlands of every type of flower imaginable line the walls, and Beth finds the entire effect dizzying as she tries to take it all in.
It’s already very warm, and the press of bodies feels close despite the early hour. She feels even more ridiculous in her pink skirts and girlish makeup now. Mother wasn’t wrong—many of the debs look softer tonight—but given how anxious her stomach feels in the face of all these people, she’d rather look her age and be able to glare them all down.
No amount of frowning can dampen the girlish charm pancaked onto her face tonight.
“I should begin scheduling our visits for next week,” Mother says.
Beth sighs, glancing over at the society mothers. Always someone else to talk to, someone else’s feelings to settle.
“You’re beautiful, and smart, and any of them would be lucky to have you,” Mother says, squeezing her arm.
That’s the problem, Beth thinks, even as she lets Mother go with a false smile. Any of them might feel lucky to have her. But she doubts she’ll feel as lucky in return to be had.
Beth stands at the edge of the room, her chest tight and breathing shallow. But she can do this. She’s not about to let a lot of flowers and people cower her.
She starts to walk through the gathered crowd, keeping a wide eye for Lord Psoris, determined only to interact with young men she at least finds palatable this evening, if nothing else, when someone grabs her arm.
She turns, startled, and then relaxes as Gwen grins down at her. “You’re finally here!” Gwen says excitedly.
Beth nods, a smile stretching across her face in response.
Gwen squeezes her arm. “Food?”
“You’re a godsend,” Beth says honestly.
Gwen laughs and tugs her across the room. Beth notices the looks they’re getting now—the way mothers slightly sneer in their direction. Perhaps her mother wasn’t totally wrong. It does seem Gwen has a reputation.
But when they reach the refreshments and Gwen passes her a glass of wine and a small quiche bite, Beth realizes her chest is no longer pulsing with anxiety. It hardly seems worth the upset to let go of her friend simply to appease a few mothers.
“Some house, huh?” Gwen asks, leading Beth over toward a less populated place along the entryway wall.
“It’s amazing,” Beth says, relaxing fully when her hoop brushes the wall, truly out of the fray. “Have you been here before?”
“They throw a few balls a season,” Gwen says. “Have you been invited to the Yokely ball yet? They have the most amazing gardens, which is the only downside to this one.”
“I don’t think we have,” Beth says, trying to recall the laundry list of events Mother has mentioned they’ll attend. “Have I met the Yokelys?”
“They were at the Jelisons’ tea party,” Gwen says, not a lick of a frown on her face at the mention. “Lord Yokely is a portly man and his wife has a very pinched face.”
“Oh! And the daughter is Lady Caroline?”
“Yes. The one with the nasal voice,” Gwen says with a little grin.
“She was nice,” Beth says, laughing as Gwen rolls her eyes. “She was.”
“She’s fine. Probably going to marry the Jackland heir.”
“Really?”
“They’ve already been on two outings, just this week,” Gwen says, shrugging as Beth gapes at her. “Some girls get lucky.”
Beth bites at her lip. She’s not had even one caller, and Lady Caroline is already courting?
“There’s no competing with the Yokely fortune. I’m sure her dowry is immense,” Gwen says, and Beth meets her eyes, trying to force her worry off her face.
“Right,” she says, taking a sip of her wine to calm down.
“Don’t worry. They just haven’t had time to see how wonderful you are yet.”
Beth blushes and takes another sip, trying to take Gwen’s words to heart. She doesn’t want to seem concerned about this, not with Gwen, who certainly hasn’t danced with or been approached by anyone other than her cousins all week, and that was just so they could snipe at each other for sport.
“It’s fine, I’m not—”
“Oh, here’s one now. Damn, it’s Freddie Highsmith, what a hawbuck.”
Beth swallows hard as a tall, handsome young man with a strong jaw and thick brown eyebrows heads in their direction. Gwen slumps beside her, but Beth notices Mother across the room grinning. Beth thinks he’s the son of an earl, if she’s remembering correctly.
“Good evening, ladies,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Good to see you again, Lady Gwen.”
“You too,” Gwen says, dipping in a half-hearted curtsy.
Beth ignores her and gives the young man a formal curtsy of her own.
“And who is your friend?”
“This is the Honorable Elizabeth Demeroven,” Gwen says, her voice much colder than it was a few minutes ago. “Miss Demeroven, this is Lord Clyson.”
“Daughter of the late Viscount Demeroven, I presume? My father was very sad to hear of his passing. A pleasure to meet you,” Lord Clyson says, taking Beth’s hand to give it an exaggerated kiss.
“A pleasure to meet you as well,” Beth says even as Gwen sighs in her periphery.
“I wondered if I might have the honor of your first dance,” Lord Clyson says, smiling at her. His face is pleasant enough to look at, and maybe only a few years older than her own.
“We were actually just—”
“I’d be delighted,” Beth says, cutting Gwen off.
“Wonderful,” Lord Clyson says, plucking the drink from her hand to give it to Gwen, who takes it with a frown.
That’s a bit rude, of both of them, Beth thinks as she offers Gwen a weak smile. She lets Lord Clyson take her arm to lead her to the floor. They join the cluster of other couples setting up for the opening waltz.
Beth fights her anxiety as they square off, listening to the sounds of conversation around them and the last warming tones from the small orchestra settled on a large musicians’ balcony. To have the money for architecture purely for music—
“How are you enjoying London?” Lord Clyson asks after they bow and curtsy.
His right hand comes to rest on her waist and his left fingers curl around her own. Beth fights the urge to fidget. It takes her a moment to get her words to work and keep her feet moving at the same time.
“It’s lovely,” Beth lies. She’d much rather be asleep in her bed in the country right now. But then she supposes she’d still be alone, and wouldn’t have met Gwen.
Gwen, who’s frowning at them as they dance.
“It is such a treat to be here each year. I get ever so bored at our country estate, you know? Though I am excited for the open season.”
“You like to hunt?” Beth asks, trying to focus on what he has to say. His is a pretty enough face, but that can’t be all. They’d need to connect on an intellectual level for it to be a potential match.
“I’m an excellent shot,” he says.
“Pistols or bow and arrow?” She’s a rather good shot with a bow herself. She used to win competitions when she was a little girl.
“Pistols, of course. Bow and arrow? Bit archaic, don’t you think?”
Beth forces herself to move past it. “What else do you like to do in the country? I miss riding. The trails by our lands are marvelous.”
Lord Clyson gives her what she assumes is an indulgent look. “I prefer to bet on horses rather than ride them through leisurely woodland trails, though riding is a lovely way to court.”
Beth would shy away if she could. His look has turned a bit predatory, and all he’s managed to do thus far is insult her interests. He could still grow on her, she supposes. She likes horse racing well enough. She’s hoping she and Gwen can convince their parents to picnic together at Ascot.
“And what do you like to do, other than go for your rides?” Lord Clyson asks, and there’s just something to how he says your rides that makes Beth think he’s trying to toy with her.
“I read, and I enjoy needlepoint if I can sit outside. The weather here is rather dreary.”
“It’ll get better as the season progresses. I understand this is your first?”
“It is,” Beth says, glancing back toward Gwen, who’s practically glowering now. “It’s been an adjustment.”
“I see your friend is watching out for you. She’s certainly got the experience,” Lord Clyson says, following her gaze.
“She’s lovely,” Beth says firmly. She may take that kind of talk from her mother, but she won’t stand for this man to slander her friend.
“Yes. She has her father’s looks.”
Beth frowns, not sure if he means it as a compliment. Either way, it rings hollow and callous. “She’s equally charming.”
“And does that kind of charm work on you?” Lord Clyson asks, his hand tightening on her waist. “I’d love to take you for a walk in the gardens later. They’re small, but rather overgrown.”
His grip on her waist and hand is painful now and Beth almost sags in relief when the waltz comes to an end. “No, thank you,” she says as politely as she can manage. “I’d rather stay inside, and I’m thirsty, if you’ll excuse me,” she says, trying to pull away.
Lord Clyson resists for a second before letting go of her with a shake of his head. “Figures. Don’t know why I thought one of Lady Gwen’s friends would be a nice girl.”
Beth holds up her chin. “Don’t know why I thought a viscount might have more manners.”
She turns, shocked by her own poise, and walks calmly off the floor, leaving the lout standing there alone.
She returns to Gwen and takes back her wineglass, fighting against letting any of her discomfort show. What a conceited, possessive, sniveling little man.
“Arse?”
“Arse,” Beth agrees, taking a large swallow of her wine.
“I tried to warn you,” Gwen says mildly.
Beth sighs and glances up at her. “You did. Thank you. I just thought—”
“I get it,” Gwen says, waving her off. “We’ll find you a good husband.”
Beth takes another swallow, letting the wine warm away her discomfort. “Don’t bother. If they’re all like him, I’m not interested.”
“They’re not all like Clyson.”
“Then why aren’t you out there, dancing with them?” Beth asks, surprised by the bite in her voice. It’s just that she thought the younger ones would be better, not their own horrible shades of awful.
Gwen gently takes the wine from her hand and places it on a side table before stepping closer and wrapping an arm around her waist. Beth forces herself to take a deep breath. Where Lord Clyson’s grip was possessive, Gwen’s touch is calming and lovely, and she lets her shoulders come down.
“Just because I think they’re all arses doesn’t mean you have to, and some of them are nice.”
“‘Nice’ doesn’t seem good enough to marry.”
Gwen blows out a breath and Beth wilts. She doesn’t mean to be a downer, but she thought—what did she think, she’d meet a pretty boy and suddenly she’d want to be married for the first time in her life?
“You’re right. Most of them are horrible, and even marrying the nice ones is still giving up a hell of a lot.”
“My mother always seemed so unhappy,” Beth admits, noting how her mother laughs across the floor, looking free and confident. Something she never seemed at home. “I’d rather be single and penniless than stuck in a marriage like that.”
Gwen sighs. “Agreed. Though penniless looks different when you’re really in it.”
“I know,” Beth says shortly.
Gwen squeezes her waist. “I don’t want to be married any more than you do. Stuck with some boring man the rest of my life?”
“Would it be worse being stuck with your father your whole life?” Beth wonders.
At least Gwen has the choice to remain unwed. She’ll have somewhere to live when the season’s over.
“Oh, Father’s hardly boring. He’s fun, and funny, and I enjoy our house. You would too. I’m telling you, you should come stay sometime. You can’t have my father—” Beth giggles, wrinkling her nose. Gwen grins, squeezing her hip. “But he could convince you some men are worth it.”
Beth rolls her eyes, laughing as Gwen snickers. “Sure.”
They stand for a moment, watching the dancing. It is pretty, even if it’s the core of a ritual she wants no part in. Gwen nudges Beth and she follows her gaze, noticing Lord Havenfort standing across from them, his eyes tracking her mother as she dances with one of the elderly members of the House of Lords.
Lord Havenfort is full-on glaring at them. And when Mother spots him over the Lord’s shoulder, she blushes and turns her look away.
Gwen stiffens beside her.
“What?”
“. . . Nothing,” Gwen says, shaking her head.
“What?” Beth insists, noting the calculating look in her eye and her rigid posture.
“It’s stupid.”
“Tell me, I could use a laugh,” Beth presses.
Gwen sighs and looks back at her. “This is going to sound ludicrous,” she cautions.
“Hit me.”
“What if we got them together instead?”
Beth stares at her. “What?”
“Our parents. Clearly there’s history there. Your mother is available, my father is available. He’d be very good to her, and kind, and clearly he already likes her.”
Beth gapes at her new friend. Get their parents—“My mother hates him!”
“Does she?” Gwen asks. “She won’t meet his eyes, but that doesn’t look like hate to me,” she says, jutting her chin so Beth looks across the floor to see her mother glowering at a young debutante who’s making eyes at Lord Havenfort.
Beth bites at her lip. She doesn’t think she could watch her mother in another bad marriage.
“He would be a wonderful husband,” Gwen insists.
“Even though he’s a rake?” Beth asks, wincing as Gwen raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“He’s lonely,” Gwen says. “And he can cure that loneliness in ways women can’t. But he’s an absolute gentleman, and I think for the right woman, he’d be an excellent husband.”
Beth hesitates. It’s intriguing, but—“We only have this season. Mother can’t afford to present me again. I wouldn’t want this to get in the way.”
“If your mother married my father, we have enough money for you to attend ten seasons,” Gwen says immediately. “But if your mother married my father, you wouldn’t even have to. They could have an heir.”
Beth fidgets. Her mother, with child again? With an heir? She’d never have to marry if Mother had a son that could inherit. She could become the old spinster aunt she’s always wanted to be.
No more balls. No more morning calls. No more leering men and grabbing hands and invitations for untoward trysts in the gardens.
“Come on. I don’t want to get married. You don’t want to get married. They’re so clearly in love with each other, it only makes sense,” Gwen says, clutching at her waist.
If it could get her out of an unhappy marriage and in return make her mother happy . . .
“Okay,” Beth says, nodding as Gwen grins. “I’m in.”