“Whatever’s going on between you and Miss Demeroven, you need to buck up. You’re attracting attention,” Meredith says firmly, all that bubbly gentleness gone from her voice. “Bobby’s going to ask you to dance in a few minutes, and then we’ll get you another drink, and you won’t have to do anything but look vacant, all right?”
Albie appears at Meredith’s side and Gwen deflates. “Yes, all right.”
“And then you’re going to eat something, and then you can have another drink,” Albie says quietly, leaning in to meet her eyes. “It’ll be fine, Gwennie. Try and enjoy yourself.”
“You enjoy yourself,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes as he laughs and Bobby appears at her elbow.
“Bottoms up,” he says, swigging back his own glass of champagne.
He’s becoming a handsome kid. There’s the shadow of a full beard on his face and he’s coming into his cheekbones. He’s still a bit gangly and awkward, but he’s far more confident tonight than he was at the start of the season. Seen a few things, flirted with a few women; he’s growing up.
“You’re not terrible at this,” she decides thirty minutes later as they sway through their fourth dance.
“You’re horrid,” Bobby says without remorse. “But Albie says you’re sad, so I’ll let it slide.”
Gwen glances back at Albie and Meredith, twirling slowly a few couples away. He wouldn’t have told Bobby why she’s sad—not the real reason. She’s not entirely sure Albie really understands, though she thinks he might. He told her once theboys at Eton sometimes snuck off to the bushes and didn’t seem as repulsed as most people would.
What anyone does in the privacy of a bedroom, or shrubbery, should be their business she thinks. Even so, she’s not sure she wants this gawky young man to know she’s been rolling in the sheets with Miss Demeroven, the belle of the ball being spun around now by Lord Ashmond. She keeps wincing, like he’s stepping on her toes.
Gwen yearns to go save her—pull her away like she did months ago at the first ball—play the dashing stranger. But Beth isn’t hers to save anymore, and her toes will just have to get used to being stepped upon. She’s in for a life of it.
“I could use another drink, couldn’t you?” Gwen asks.
Bobby glances over at Albie, who’s thoroughly wrapped up in Meredith, gazing soppily into her eyes. Disgusting, the two of them. Bobby looks back at her and gives her a sneaky grin.
“I’m thinking something harder than champagne.”
“You’re on, little Mason.”
Bobby takes her hand to lead her off the floor and over to the drinks station. And though Meredith and Albie seem intent on keeping her demure and acceptable to the ton, Bobby has no such hesitations. He grabs a bottle of scotch and two glasses and leads her over to one of the small tables by the large narrow windows that look out on the lawn.
And there they stay, knocking back swigs and giggling, exchanging courting horror stories. It seems Bobby is as miserable as she is, and she wonders why she’s never bothered to give him the time of day before. She loves Albie, but he’s no longer her partner in misery. He’s a success, now. Worse, he’s Meredith’s. Won’t have time for her for much longer at all.
Bobby will have to make a fitting substitute.
“I’d rather recite the whole Bible in Latin than attend another tea,” he says, hiccoughing a bit.
Gwen snorts. “I’d rather prick myself with a hundred embroidery needles than sit through another picnic.”
“I’d rather run over hot coals than promenade,” he counters.
She grins. “I’d rather wear eight petticoats than watch another cricket match.”
“Really? I enjoy the sporting events at least. Will you be at Ascot?”
“Of course,” Gwen says, raising a hand to wipe her sweating brow. “You’ll attend with Albie, won’t you? Father’s got us all tickets for the main stands.”
“Excellent,” Bobby says, his cheeks dangerously red. “Albie says you’re a betting woman.”
“You want to wager, Mason? Because we can wager. I’ve a dowry no one’s using.”
Bobby laughs a little too loudly, attracting stares from the back half of the room. Gwen shrugs and takes another swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol against the back of her throat and the warmth spreading up her chest. Who cares what the mothers think. She’s relaxed for the first time all evening.
“There you are!” Father exclaims loudly, stepping up to their table, his own cheeks rather red, smile broad and friendly, glass empty. “Bobby, how are you?”
Bobby blinks up at him. Even though Bobby’s lanky, he’s got nothing on Father’s height, and especially when inebriated and lilting, Father makes quite an impression.
“I’m well, sir,” he says as Father reaches for the bottle and pours himself a sample. “And yourself?”
