“Damn, I guess I’ve got to go,” Beth says, slowly disengaging from Gwen.
Gwen pastes on a smile. “Dance pretty,” she says, trying to be supportive.
“You talk to your father—pick a play. I’ll be back,” Beth promises. “I’d much rather drink with you,” she adds as she passes over her wineglass before scurrying across the room.
Gwen watches her go and sidles back to lean against the wall, out of the fray as couples start lining up to dance. She can see Lady Demeroven and Beth bowing to Montson and his mother. Countess Ashmond’s face seems perpetually set in a frown, but Montson looks delighted to see Beth. Who wouldn’t be?
Gwen swigs the last of her wine and places it down on a side table, slouching into the wall to begin nursing the rest of Beth’s glass. So much for a fun evening.
She watches as Montson brings Beth out onto the floor. They’re an absurd match in height, but with his sharp jaw and her cheekbones, she supposes the children wouldn’t be terrible to look at. They’d at least have some chance at height.
The band begins to play and she follows the couple as they waltz around the room. Beth’s very graceful, and Montson’s no slouch. He’s no great talent either, though, and Gwen sighs, swallowing the last of Beth’s wine. Beth deserves so much more than mediocre Lord Montson. His fortune may be suitably vast, but she’ll be bored to tears. Beth, with her love for Shakespeare, and duets, and chess, and riding, cooped up with his dyspeptic mother up north—what a waste.
The Ashmond lands are something to behold, at least. She remembers stopping once on a trip with Father. He got along with Lord Montson’s grandfather, the late Earl of Ashmond. They hunted while Gwen and Montson roamed around the gardens. She thinks Father and the late earl used to take meals together in town, even. Of course, when Lord Montson’s father took over the seat in parliament, he completely reversed every single one of the late earl’s positions. They never visited the estate again.
It makes Gwen uncomfortable, watching Beth and Montson talking, even laughing. Beth looks for all the world like she’s having a wonderful time. God, but what if she really likes him? What if, to Beth, Lord Montson is a true catch? With only her horrible father as reference, Gwen could understand how Montson might seem more than adequate.
“That’s a shame.”
Gwen jumps as Father slips in beside her. “Announce yourself,” she grumbles. He plucks the empty wineglass from her hand. “And what’s a shame?”
“You said Miss Demeroven’s quite the conversationalist. She’d be bored to death with the Ashmonds.”
“Yes,” Gwen agrees.
“It would be a good match for her though,” he says, leaning back into the wall beside her. “She could do worse.”
“She could do better,” Gwen says tightly, unnerved by the clutch Montson has on Beth’s waist.
She knows rationally that it’s simply that Beth has a tiny figure and Montson is a broad man. But it looks like he wants to possess her—like he could squeeze the life right out of her if he wanted to.
She looks across the room and notices Lady Demeroven watching the pair with a gleam in her eye. She’s sure Beth’s mother will do everything possible to ensure a match. Gwen supposes it’s what any practical mother would do. Even still—
“She’ll be well taken care of,” Father says softly.
“She could be happy instead,” Gwen argues, glancing up to find her father looking across at Lady Demeroven. “Wouldn’t you rather I was happy than secure?”
Father blinks and then meets her gaze. “I’d rather you be both,” he says seriously.
Gwen swallows at the look on his face. “I’ll try,” she says after a moment. He nods and looks back out at the room. “Could you have been happy, with Lady Demeroven?”
Father stills at her lack of tact. She bites her lip and turns her gaze back to the floor. The waltz ends and Montson brings Beth over to their parents, his hand still on the small of her back. Beth glances over her shoulder at Gwen and Gwen takes a step forward, thinking rashly she might join their little circle.
Father’s hand snags her own and pulls her back. Gwen looks up at him and sees more on his face than she’s sure he means to show.
“Happiness is not the only thing that matters,” he says, his voice tight.
“But—” Gwen says, glancing back at Beth.
“Lady Demeroven has a solid head on her shoulders, as did her father. I was no prize at the time.”
“But you are now,” Gwen insists.
Father smiles and pulls her in to wrap his arm around her shoulders as they watch the next round of dancers pair off. “I appreciate that.”
“If she’d just had some faith,” Gwen mutters.
Father shakes his head. Both of them watch as Lady Demeroven laughs at something Lord Montson has said, every movement choreographed and practiced. “Faith doesn’t pay bills,” Father says softly.
