And she finds to her surprise it’s the happiest she’s felt in quite some time too. Everything is better with the Havenforts, she decides, laughing as Gwen noisily slurps butter off her crab leg.
Everything is better with Gwen.
Chapter Twelve
Gwen
It’s exquisite torture.
Sitting beside Beth in the darkened theater, bodies pressed together and skirts rustling between them, hands resting demurely in their laps lest they bump together on the armrest. All night it’s been heated glances and suppressed blushes fueled by oysters and champagne and their parents’ delighted laughter.
Somehow, while they’ve been... falling for each other? Their parents have fallen deeper. This is absolutely a date, and it’s going exceedingly well.
Gwen glances over and watches with fascination as Father drops his hand below his seat and Lady Demeroven quickly meets it with her own, their hands clasping out of sight, gloveless and intimate.
Gwen swallows hard and turns her attention back to the stage, even more aware of her extremities. Of how she could so innocently touch Beth’s foot with her own beneath their mountain of skirts.
Of how easily she could slip her hand between them, taking Beth’s own. Or how she could splay her hand on Beth’s knee, hidden in the fabric of her skirts. She takes a chance to sneak alook at Beth and finds her equally flushed, but her eyes are still resolutely settled on the stage. Gwen watches her for as long as she dares before looking back at the performance.
Don Giovanni is serenading, but she can’t focus. She’s restless and a little overwarm, and her father is whispering on her other side. If anyone is watching their private box, the widower and widow Havenfort and Demeroven are certainly getting cozy.
Their daughters, however...
Gwen nearly groans, slouching in her seat. And then she jerks forward, straight-backed again. Beth’s gloveless fingers brush at her knee, glancing against the bend beneath her skirts. Gwen sucks on her cheek, trying to continue looking unaffected even as she holds her breath, slipping off her own gloves. Her heart hammers as she lowers her hand.
Their fingers tangle together instantly, warm and tight and wriggling, and Gwen feels heat rise all the way from her belly button to her scalp. Such a silly, simple, innocent connection feels like a lightning bolt, like frisson, like fire. Beth leans toward her and Gwen slowly shifts to do the same so they’re shoulder to shoulder in their seats, their hands disappeared between them, tangled and gripping.
Time seems to expand and contract at once. The show continues below them, haunting and melodic and epic. But there in their seats, everything is narrowed to their point of connection. Gwen forgets entirely to pay their equally flustered parents any mind, focused only on the feeling of Beth’s hand in hers.
Beth’s wide eyes and flushed chest at dinner soothed herworries, but now, with their fingers threaded together, knuckles knocking, shallow breath rising and falling almost in tandem—Bethwants her back.
Myriad fantasies explode across Gwen’s mind. She could pull Beth from her seat, run to the lavatory. They could crowd behind a pillar and kiss until the show ends. Or better, they could run out of the opera house and never look back at all. Escape to Gwen’s country estate and live in her tree house. Or they could escape all the way to Paris, work menial jobs and live together in a boardinghouse. Two seamstresses unconcerned by society, unnoticed by the rich, living in peace together, lying together every night.
Gwen’s so caught up in her imagination and the stroke of Beth’s thumb along the side of her hand that she nearly misses the end of the performance. People are standing and clapping below them. Her father and Lady Demeroven have separated to stand and clap as well.
But Gwen doesn’t want to let go of Beth, and Beth seems to feel the same, the two of them rising carefully, secretively, still pressed close. They don’t clap, but they smile, hands still hidden between their skirts. They sneak furtive glances throughout the long bows. There’s a world outside and around them that won’t abide even the holding of their hands, but it doesn’t much seem to matter in their little box.
Gwen doesn’t want to think about anyone else—doesn’t want to leave this stolen moment for the practicalities of their actual lives. She wants to savor the feeling of Beth’s palm tight against her own—a quiet, private pleasure. Of course, eventually the applause dies down and they’re forced to separate, forced to turn and smile, following their parents out of the boxand into the press of people exiting the opera house, as if nothing has happened at all.
Gwen at least takes the opportunity to press up against Beth, hand on her hip to keep them both steady as they descend the stairs. Lady Demeroven is chattering to Father about the orchestrations and the vibrato on the actor playing Don Giovanni. Gwen catches Father’s smile, the way his hand glances off the small of Lady Demeroven’s back much in the same way Gwen is using the tumult to touch Beth.
How strange to see it this way—as if they are suddenly alike in this somehow. Sneaking touches and secret smiles. He does look happy. Surely some of it is the drink, and the lingering excitement of securing the votes—his pride and excitement shouldn’t be discounted. She watches the soft look he gives Beth’s mother as they’re jostled about in the atrium, all four of them pressed close and gripping hands to stay together. It’s not quite as romantic now that they’re all claustrophobic and sweaty.
But then they burst outside into the cool early summer air. A gust of wind rustles their dresses and musses Father’s hair before he can get his top hat onto his head. Lady Demeroven eyes him fondly and Gwen takes in their clear relaxation. Father hates crowds as much as Gwen does, but seems to hate them distinctly less with Lady Demeroven underfoot.
Gwen sees a golden opportunity bubble up and gives it no more than a passing thought before opening her mouth. “Father, might Beth stay over tonight? We’ve barely gotten to discuss the opera at all and haven’t seen each other all week.”
Beth goes still beside her, her fingers curling into Gwen’s elbow, gripping hard. But Gwen ignores it—ignores the broaderimplications and the butterflies in her stomach—ignores the impropriety teetering at the edge of her thoroughly rational request.
“Of course, if Lady Demeroven doesn’t mind,” Father says after a moment, turning to smile at Lady Demeroven.
“Beth?” Lady Demeroven asks.
“Please,” Beth says eagerly, stepping closer to Gwen so they can both smile serenely at their parents. “I promise I can be home for breakfast.”
“Oh, why don’t you join us for breakfast instead, Lady Demeroven,” Father says smoothly. “We’ll drop you off at yours and my driver can pick you up in the morning, then perhaps we can all head to the game?”
Right, there’s a cricket match they’ve agreed to attend, together, somehow. After a week of no time at all, suddenly their families are the closest of friends.
