Beth blinks, startled. Gwen’s hands fall from her face. Bethgrips her tighter, refusing to let go even as Gwen tries to step away. “She’s with your father. I’m sure they don’t care.”
“You should prepare for tomorrow, pick out your dress, don’t want to get blown off the boat.”
“Gwen,” Beth beseeches, but Gwen shakes her head, gently prying Beth’s hands from her waist and stepping back.
“Have fun,” she says, and even in the low light, Beth can see the anguish on her face. She turns and hurries out of the cellar, leaving Beth splayed there against the barrels.
***
Beth stares out at the choppy gray water beside the boathouse where they’ve retreated to take tea and get out of the misting rain. It’s fittingly gloomy outside. Matches the catch in her chest and the gripe in her gut and the knotted ache at the base of her skull.
“Are you all right?” Lord Montson asks as she pours herself a fourth cup of tea while Mother and Lady Ashmond continue their never-ending discussion of proper tablecloths for dinner events.
“I didn’t sleep well,” Beth admits before taking a scalding sip.
The heat of it makes her push her tongue to the roof of her mouth, which careens her back to her kiss with Gwen yesterday—the press of her hands, the slick of her mouth, the clenching pleasure of—
“I hope sailing was invigorating at least.”
Beth forces a smile around the rim of her cup. “Very,” she admits.
The cold sea breeze and horrible weather were certainly a distraction, though not the kind she’s sure he was hoping theywould be. The press of Lord Montson against her back as they steered the ship did nothing for her. Nothing like the jolt she felt holding Gwen, being held.
“Is everything all right?” he asks again.
Beth forces herself to shake off the exhaustion and melancholy. She’s here to be a lively, enticing partner. She’ll have more than enough time awake alone tonight to replay her kiss, to mull her confused emotions, to plan exactly how she can next get Gwen alone.
“I think I simply had too much champagne yesterday in the heat,” Beth says, attempting to look self-deprecating.
Lord Montson nods sagely. “I know that feeling well. The trick is to drink as much water as you do champagne.”
Beth doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a close thing. How inspired. Whyever didn’t she think of that?
Perhaps because she was so shocked and flabbergasted and utterly intoxicated that she threw back four glasses after Gwen ran off. Mr. Mason and Meredith let her sit there, stunned, on their picnic blanket until Mother was ready to take her leave. She talked all the way home about her conversations with Lord Havenfort around the upcoming season events. Then it was what she’d learned from the other mothers about the Ashmonds, and all the excellent courtship activities they’d suggested.
Mother didn’t notice that Beth barely spoke all night. Didn’t think a thing of her retiring early. Didn’t see her sitting on her window seat until it was nearly light again, reliving the kisses, wondering what happens now. Wondering how to do it again. Wondering what kind of life she could lead that would give her Gwen.
“My father swears by a large piece of steak,” Lord Montsoncontinues, and Beth strains to give him even half of her attention. “Butter basted, of course.”
“Of course, for the fats, I assume?” Beth asks in a shockingly calm voice given the tap dance of her pulse.
“Naturally. Mother often simply has another drink with breakfast,” he adds, leaning close into her space to whisper it to her.
Beth notices Mother smiling at them, obviously thinking he’s whispering sweet nothings. But his breath against her neck inspires no such curl of desire in her belly, no tingle in her toes, no lightheaded rush.
“Perhaps that’s the best way,” Beth decides, smiling as Lord Montson pulls back, looking amused. “Simply remain lightly intoxicated always. You’d be very merry.”
“But dead rather young, I think,” he says with a laugh. “You might experiment with less sweet drink. Wine or beer.”
Beth nods in false thanks. Both get her far more drunk more quicky, too easy to swallow. Too easy to just keep drinking and drinking, like her father used to do. Drinking to excess therefore isn’t usually her style, unless she’s just been kissed silly, apparently. She’s seen what it can do to a person.
But she knows most men aren’t so careful. “What’s your poison of choice?” she asks, hoping to entice Lord Montson into one of his longer monologues so she can turn off her brain again and simply keep track of the rain sliding down the windows.
Lord Montson delivers, allowing Beth to sink back into a light stupor. What future could she and Gwen possibly hope to have? There’s no mechanism for them to own property separately, hardly more than that together, and not enough money between them to make any kind of go of it.
They could be infrequent companions, like the women who sometimes visited her mother on country trips. Beth stills as Lord Montson prattles on about the distinctions of various whisky labels. Mother and her friends never—
No, no, she would have known, wouldn’t she? She would have been able to tell.
