Beth nods absently, watching Mother look out the window. It may not have been a roaring success—no moony looks, no simpering or flirtation—but Beth thinks Mother doth protest a bit too much.
***
It’s hot again. The sun beats down on them and even her bonnet can’t quite keep the light from her eyes. Beth has to squint every time she looks up at Lord Montson. And since he won’t stop talking about his racing horses, she’s forced to stare into its brightness over and over.
Beth nods at the right moments, faking a smile, even as she’d like to interrupt to request they take a seat anywhere at all. The grass. On the riverbank. Even right here on the path would be nice. But Lord Montson doesn’t seem to notice. She glances over her shoulder at their mothers, following them at a discreet distance. But the two women look utterly unaffected by the blinding sun and the rising heat, avidly watching the pair of them.
Beth sighs quietly and hums as Lord Montson describes the last race his champion stallion won. She thinks maybe he said its name is Racepoint. Rather on the nose, really.
It’s not that promenading with Lord Montson is wholly unpleasant. Other than his obsession with racehorses, he’s polite and interesting enough. And he seems rather taken with her, all things considered. This is their second promenade this week. Her feet hurt.
Lord Montson chuckles at his own joke, something about divots, and smiles as he glances at her. She wishes she could talk to Gwen. Their evening at the theater seems months ago, even if it was only a few days. In the interim it’s been all trips to the modiste, and the florist, and morning calls to mothers in Lady Ashmond’s circle to get their approvals. No time for purely social calls or friendship or anything fun.
Beth just wants to sit down with Gwen and ask how on earth she’s supposed to survive more of this. Every single interaction Beth has is discussed with her mother ad nauseum. She must think about her laugh and her posture and the stories she can tell. Everything must be enticing and alluring, and God forbid she show any true human emotion or exhaustion. Ladies are nothing but grateful for male attention.
It doesn’t seem to bother Lord Montson either. He’s affable always—the picture of easy countenance and good disposition. Though Beth supposes it probably doesn’t matter much to him. He’ll be earl one day, whether he marries her or not. Beth, on the other hand, has just one shot at being his countess, as Mother has reminded her every single morning this week.
“My apologies, Miss Demeroven. I’ve gone on about my horses for quite a while, haven’t I?”
Beth looks up at Lord Montson, shaken from her broody thoughts. “It’s interesting,” she lies.
He smiles at her. He is a very handsome young man. She wishes it inspired more in her. But though Mother has teased her about her exhaustion, suggesting it’s because she’s up at night daydreaming about Lord Montson, she’s felt nothing but indifference about him since the ball.
Even Mother seems to feel more for Lord Havenfort when they argue than Beth does for Lord Montson on a lovely stroll.
Shouldn’t she be swooning? He’s swoon-worthy, she can tell. But there’s no swoon in her.
“Tell me, what could you discuss for hours?” he asks.
“I’m sure nothing of interest,” Beth says immediately.
“I highly doubt that,” Lord Montson says, giving her an encouraging look. “Young ladies are so accomplished—much more accomplished than I could ever hope to be. After all, I simply own the horses—the jockeys have all the skill. You must have something you enjoy. Please, it’s your turn to go on.”
Beth laughs a little at that. “I quite like chess, I suppose,” she admits.
“You do?”
He looks so surprised. Is that not something young ladies often enjoy? “Mother and I usually play at least one game a day, and duets as well. I’m decent at needlepoint.”
“I’ve never had the dexterity for needlework,” Lord Montson says seriously.
“It would hurt your back,” she says solemnly.
He snorts. “I suppose. What’s your favorite thing you’ve ever done in needlepoint?”
Beth looks across the lake, surprised by the question. Thetrue answer—what she’d tell Gwen—is a profane limerick that had Mother shouting for almost thirty minutes. Of course, Mother then promptly hung it in her drawing room behind the chaise, so she could look at it and laugh without Father knowing.
“I’ve done a few of the view of our gardens,” Beth says instead. “And the forest. I don’t race horses, but I do quite like riding, and I’ve memorized more than one of the trails.”
“I love forests!”
Beth meets his eyes, trying not to laugh at the pink in his cheeks. “I do too.”
“They’re so peaceful,” he says, his voice lower and more serious even as that flush creeps up from his collar too.
“I always wanted a secret tree house,” Beth says, feeling like she owes him some admission as well.
“Really?” Lord Montson asks, his embarrassment fading in light of what seems like genuine interest. He’s a sweet boy.
