“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 moneyfor 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.”
Chapter Four
Gwen
“Come on!” Gwen whines, standing in the foyer in her best pastel green dress, bonnet, and lace shawl. “We’re going to be late!”
Father walks slowly down the stairs, messing with his cravat and looking distinctly uninterested. “I hate these things.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be damp and warm and full of boring stuffed shirts.”
“You need to fix yours,” Gwen says, stepping up to him to straighten his vest beneath his frock coat. “You’re wearing your good cufflinks? We’ll be playing croquet, are you presentable under this?”
“Why will I be playing croquet? And yes, of course, I’m not a heathen.”
Gwen frowns, looking him over. He looks decent—hair nicely coifed, shoes shined, coat pressed. Very handsome. Certainly handsome enough to turn Lady Demeroven’s head.
“Shouldn’t we be assessing you?” he asks, amused as she walks around him.
“Mrs. Stelm already did. What do you know of the current fashions, anyway?”
“I know that you never wear anything this bright unless she makes you.”
“It’s a garden party—I should look festive.” That she’s dressed well and plans to behave herself as a ploy to lure in Lady Demeroven doesn’t matter. “I’m not a heathen either.”
“No, but you’re far too excited about this. You hate the Kingsmans.”
“No, you hate the Kingsmans. I like Eloise,” Gwen says as Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm come down the stairs.
“You should have left already,” Mrs. Gilpe says.
“Father took ages getting pretty.”
“Told you she’d be done first,” Mrs. Stelm says.
