“Perfect,” Lady Demeroven says, allowing Father to escort them toward the street, where their carriage waits among a sea of others.
Beth and Gwen trail behind, arms curled tight together. Gwen glances at Beth, who meets her gaze and then skids her eyes away, a blush climbing her cheeks. There’s nothing innocent about the invitation, is there? She can hardly believe Father’s allowed it.
Then again, perhaps he doesn’t truly mind. What is affection between female friends, to him? Especially between two friends who can never be more than that—never more than passing companions.
But Gwen won’t think on it tonight. Tonight is like an evening out of time, ethereal and fleeting. Magic seems to float on the air as they pile into the carriage, Father and Lady Demeroven pressed close on one bench, Gwen and Beth on the other. They’re all pink cheeks and giggles, even Father.
What a strange collection they make. But Gwen sinks into the camaraderie as best she can, gripping at Beth’s hand beneath their skirts. They chat with their parents about the opera. Well, their parents chat. Gwen notices Beth has as little to say about the quality of the production as she does.
Somehow, though she knows Father and Lady Demeroven had their own exchange of subtle caresses, they were still able to pay attention. Perhaps it comes with age, or practice, or they’re better liars than she or Beth will ever be. She doesn’t remember if the main soprano had a vibrato or not. It could all have been utter drivel, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
Then they’re at the Demeroven house, and Father hops down to take Lady Demeroven to the door, leaving Beth and Gwen alone in the quiet, dark, close carriage.
Gwen breathes around a rush of nerves while they both peer out the window. Is her Father going tokissLady Demeroven?
“Tonight went well, didn’t it?”
Beth’s voice is like a shock to Gwen’s system in the quiet of the cabin. She swallows around her suddenly dry throat and manages a nod. “Good show, whatever you did to your mother.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Beth says, glancing back at her.
All other thoughts die on her tongue as their eyes meet. Gwen hesitates a moment before bringing her other hand up to brush at Beth’s cheek. They stare at each other, coming closer, pulled like magnets, and then the carriage door jerks open.
They split apart, their hands separating to fiddle anxiously with their skirts as Father climbs back into the carriage. Gwen barely notices there’s lip stain on his cheek as he smiles at them. She attempts to look unruffled, at ease, casual.
She’s invited Beth to spend the night. Oh, God, but what does thatmean?
Chapter Thirteen
Beth
The Havenfort London home is massive. Gwen’s always spoken about it as this standard, boring manor, but the foyer on its own could fit half of Beth and Mother’s townhouse. The floors are marbled and gleaming, all of the sconces lit and throwing shimmering patterns along the columns that rise up the walls. She’s sure the price of the paintings alone could rival her dowry, just in this room.
“Come on,” Gwen says, laughing as Beth slowly spins on the threshold, oblivious to Lord Havenfort removing his hat and coat beside them. “Let me show you around.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” Lord Havenfort says, and Beth blinks, allowing Gwen to turn her to meet his false-stern expression.
“You don’t stay up too late daydreaming about Lady Demeroven then,” Gwen tosses back.
Beth stifles a gasp at the impertinence. She can’t imagine ever saying anything like that to her father. But Lord Havenfort just chuckles and shakes his head.
“That’s enough of that. Do you have everything Miss Demeroven will need?”
“Of course, more than enough,” Gwen says quickly. “Sleep well.”
“You two try to get any sleep at all,” he counters, and Beth feels a flush rise up her cheeks, thrown back to the reality that she’s probably not just here as a friend.
“Good night, Father,” Gwen says firmly, but there’s a lilting playfulness to her voice.
Beth watches as Lord Havenfort shakes his head and turns on his heel, loping up the stairs with an informality she never saw even once from her father.
“Don’t mind him, sometimes he acts like I’m still about twelve,” Gwen says, turning back to Beth. They’re alone in her cavernous foyer.
“My mother’s the same way, sometimes,” Beth says absently, gripping at Gwen’s hand as she swivels to continue taking in the space. “Some house.”
Gwen laughs and pulls her in, looping her arm through Beth’s to lead her toward the grand winding staircase with its carved banister and shining steps. What would Gwen think of her tiny little home? Beth has been thinking all this time that she and her mother fit into this society they’re presenting her to, but how can they really, when this is Gwen’s house?
How could Mother’s father ever have thought Lord Havenfort wasn’t a suitable match, even without the title?
