But then again, she had no idea until yesterday that the affection she feels for Gwen translates to such... ardor. That the tingle of their hands touching or her admiration of Gwen’s face was anything more than natural observation.
But now—now thinking about her smile, her touch, her laugh—it sends butterflies fluttering against her stomach. How could she have misunderstood herself so badly? Has she always felt this way—always wished to kiss her friends, always wished for their touch, their affection, their passion?
No, she thinks. She hasn’t felt anything like this before. It’s wonderful and devastating and all-consuming. Like Gwen lit a spark that didn’t exist until yesterday, until their lips touched and the possibility of more presented itself like an explosion. An explosion that cannot be undone.
There’s no going back from that moment. What she feels for Gwen she will never feel for anyone else. It is singular, and beautiful, and she wants more of it. More of Gwen’s hands and her lips and her time and her affection and—
She glances at Lord Montson, speaking passionately now about hops, and those excited butterfly wings develop razors, lodging at the top of her stomach in a burning ache not likely to disappear anytime soon.
There’s a future being built for her here, filled with luxury and security and Lord Montson. It’s the best promise of stability and protection a woman can hope for. She knows well it’s no guarantee of kindness, but at least until his death, she’d be provided for. It’s a future that’s as stable and solid and expected as it can be. A future that should be her singular focus.
A future that is the whole reason she met Gwen in the first place.
She’s here for the season, and this season only—make a match, get a husband, live happily ever after. Her mother is counting on her, Miss Wilson is counting on her. A match with the Ashmond heir, that’s the goal.
But how is she to settle that in her head, when she feels nothing for Lord Montson and everything everything everything for Gwen?
Chapter Ten
Gwen
Gwen sits at the pianoforte, slumped and listless. She forces herself through her scales, making intentional mistakes. But it doesn’t help. It’s been two days since she’s seen Beth and it feels like she could crawl right out of her skin.
She knows she should regret it. The position she’s put them both in, the impropriety, the sin of it—but all she wants is to be back in that dim, dusty cellar pressed against her best friend, devouring her mouth like it’s the end of the world.
Gwen groans and lets her head drop to rest against the fallboard. There was part of her that really thought if she just got it out of her system, that would be the end of it. The end of the confusing thoughts, and yearnings, melancholy, and frustration. Instead, she’s made matters ten times worse. And now she’ll have to watch Beth marry Lord Montson knowing—
Knowing what? Knowing what it’s like to have something she can never have? Knowing how it feels to hold someone she actually cares about? Knowing what it’s like to be in love?
Is she? In love?
Gwen rolls herself back up, staring blankly out the windowat the steady misting drizzle. Is what she’s feeling love? This all-consuming thought? The heated tickle across her skin when she thinks of their kiss? The thought of Beth’s smile bringing one to Gwen’s face? Is that love?
Would a man think himself in love after one kiss? Surely she can’t have fallen so hard so quickly, much less for a woman she’s only known for two months.
But the butterflies in her stomach tell a different story. They may have only known each other for months, but Gwen’s never felt so close to anyone before, man or woman. The day doesn’t seem as bright without Beth in it.
But Beth might not feel the same way. She was so caught up in the heat and press and flesh of it all, maybe she imagined Beth gripping at her hips, pulling her closer. Maybe Beth was repulsed and too surprised to pull away. What if Beth doesn’t feel like this? What if she’s just waiting for the next tea party to politely brush Gwen off?
Gwen sucks on her cheek, worrying a sore into her bottom lip. What if Beth doesn’t feel the same way? What then?
And somehow, both worse and better, what if she does?
“There you are.”
Gwen nearly jumps off the bench, a hand to her heart as Father strides into the room, his cheeks flushed and hair damp. He wasn’t supposed to be home until late afternoon—some meeting of parliamentarians at the club.
Gwen blinks, noticing the time on the clock over the mantel. It’s nearly five already. Has she really just been sitting here in a strop all afternoon?
“Go up to your room and put on a gown,” Father says.
Gwen stares, feeling like his words are traveling through fog. “What?”
“Go and get dressed. I’m taking you, Miss Demeroven, and Lady Demeroven to the opera to celebrate.”
Gwen’s stomach drops. “Celebrate what?”
“We’re going to pass the Matrimonial Causes Act,” Father says, his grin nearly splitting his face.
