“Nothing,” Beth says, shaking her head as they turn toward the pitch. “Barely spoke at all this morning too. Did your father say anything?”
“Only that she was an old acquaintance. He tried to pretend of no importance, but clearly something happened.”
Beth worries her lip, her arm still snug in Gwen’s. It’s helping with the chill of the air, and Gwen finds their height difference rather charming. Beth fits against her nicely.
“Did your father and mine spend much time together? He had a fair few enemies. Maybe he ran afoul of Lord Havenfort.”
Gwen glances back at her father to make sure he’s out of earshot. He’s glaring so forcefully at the grass he probably wouldn’t notice anyway. No need to scrutinize her when she’s away from male company. Not that he tries that hard otherwise really. He’s rarely had the need.
“He said they didn’t get along, but that’s not unusual with Father. He tends to rub people the wrong way.”
“He seems lovely,” Beth says softly. “And you two get along.”
“We do,” Gwen agrees, noting her new friend’s downcast face. “I’m sure you could join us when we go riding later this week. He’s always happy to have my friends come to visit. You could even stay over if you like. See if you’re really the whist player you say you are.”
Beth glances at her with narrowed eyes. “You doubt me?”
“I just think you haven’t met your match yet.”
Beth laughs. “I look forward to proving you wrong.”
“This weekend?” Gwen suggests, already planning out treats to make with Mrs. Stelm, so she can trounce Beth and stuff her face all at once.
“I’d like that,” Beth says, smiling up at her before glancing back at their parents. “Though I don’t know that Mother would let me spend the night so early in the season. She’s sure we’re about to be flooded with visitors and wants me available first thing in the mornings from now on,” Beth says, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the thought.
“Another time then,” Gwen says easily. Beth nods, her smile slipping. “And I’m sure she’s right. A beautiful girl like you is sure to be overwhelmed with suitors once they get their heads straight,” she adds, smiling as Beth blushes. “In fact, who knows, you might find a suitor today. Run, boys, run!” Gwen calls out as they reach the edge of the pitch.
She hears her father snort behind them but pays him no mind. She doesn’t want to see Lady Demeroven’s reaction, even if Beth is giggling again, her face still a pretty shade of pink.
A gaggle of the ton’s most eligible young men wrestle over the ball on the muddy field, already deep into a game of rugby. It leaves them sweaty, dirty, and high-spirited every time, and Beth and Gwen aren’t the only girls watching. Huddles of pastel- and brightly clad debutantes stand around the field, waving handkerchiefs and giving modest encouragement. Gwen can already see their mothers glaring at her.
She’s always been disruptive, but honestly, the boys seem to enjoy it.
“Go on, Mason, give it a try!” she calls, smirking as Albie glares over at her. He’s sweating like a pig and covered in more mud than anyone else.
“Don’t be mean,” Beth says, nudging her. “He’s trying very hard.”
Gwen laughs. “Don’t worry about Albie. It’s my prerogative as cousin—he doesn’t have sisters. The one next to him though, Lord Brightly, he’s single, first in line to inherit, and not wholly irritating. And he’s looking your way.”
Beth stiffens next to her, her playful blush falling off her face as her smile disappears.
“Not your type?” Gwen asks, glancing over the other assembled gentlemen. “Too stocky?” Beth just remains still next to her. “Too tall?” Beth shakes her head. “Too—”
“It’s his eyes,” Beth says quietly.
Gwen feels herself frown. “His eyes?”
“They’re cold.”
Gwen looks over at Beth, but the woman doesn’t meet her gaze, simply staring across the pitch at the other girls along the far side, all simpering and sweet.
“Men with eyes like that are cruel,” Beth explains.
Chilled by her soft-spoken wisdom, Gwen pulls her closer and Beth relaxes. Gwen tries to shake off the pall and glances back, hiding her smirk as she spots their parents standing two meters apart now, watching the game with disinterest.
She’s about to say that it seems their parents are mortal enemies when she notices her father isn’t actually following the game. He’s looking toward it, but every few seconds his eyes cut sideways to watch Lady Demeroven. And Lady Demeroven’s face is not the stoic pale mask she thought it was.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with your father,” Gwen says.
