“You could try making other friends. Brooding is only going to give you wrinkles.”
“I don’t need otherfriends,” Beth returns, scowling as Mother rolls her eyes.
Gwen isn’t her friend. She’s so much more than that, and to hear Mother dismiss her pain like it’s something as mundane as a season alliance—
“How did you do this?” Beth asks, frustration pouring out of her.
“Do what?” Mother asks.
“Live like it wasn’t crushing you to death.”
“It is rather pressed in here, isn’t it?”
Beth jumps, turning to face Lord Montson as he grins down at her. “Oh, well, I—”
“Here,” he says gamely, stepping a scooch in front of her, so his leg presses lightly into the bell of her skirt. It pushes her skirt back, shifting the front close to her legs and forcing the back out behind her, creating just a modicum of space.
Lord Montson winks. Mother smiles at him, but Beth catchesthe warning in her eyes. They’ll continue their argument later, when the doors are closed.
In the meantime, she’ll smile and curtsy and encourage the misunderstanding. It does feel less congested now, which is... something.
“Thank you,” she says honestly.
“See, partnership comes in many forms,” Mother says, smiling at Lord Montson even though Beth hears the bite in her words. “How have your bets been taken, dear?”
“Oh, well, well,” he says easily. “We’re rooting for Skirmisher,” he tells Beth, as if she couldn’t possibly have an opinion.
She doesn’t, but it still raises her hackles. Mother narrows her eyes as Lord Montson leans around them to look at the starting line, and Beth nods. She won’t take that one out on Lord Montson; it would be beyond petty. Still.
Biting her tongue, Beth turns back to the track. The horses and jockeys are finally lined up. She watches as the starting gun is loaded, and with a great bang, they’re off. Cacophonous screams and cheers fill the air, and Beth’s too preoccupied with trying to keep herself from being crushed against the railing to care much about which horse is winning. It’s absurd, especially given that even though they’re the best racehorses in the country, it still takes close to a minute for them to reappear around the track for any meaningful view.
She would try and squint across the inner lawn to the opposite side of the track, but every time she does she gets distracted, watching the way Gwen is clutching at Meredith. Absurd possessive jealousy rises in her chest, even knowing full well that Meredith is happily promised to Mr. Mason. But she’s felt thosehands on her, inside her, and the thought of Gwen’s fingers on another woman’s arm . . .
It’s like she’s doing it to spite Beth. Pretending all day she hasn’t noticed they’re right across from each other, waving her free, merry life in Beth’s face. Like Bethwantedthis and deserves to be tortured for the choices she’s had to make. Like seeing Gwen so happy and carefree isn’t ripping Beth apart inside minute by minute.
Like it’s Beth’s fault and Gwen alone has the right to be angry.
And maybe she does. This isn’t Gwen’s fault; the rage in Beth’s heart, the fire in her lungs, the desperate twist in her gut have nowhere to go. If she could talk herself into hating Gwen, she would. But she can’t.
And much as it’s tearing into her heart, it gives her a sick satisfaction that at least if Gwen is punishing her this way, it means she’s still thinking about Beth.
Lord Montson whoops and Beth realizes she’s spent the whole race staring at Gwen. Skirmisher’s the winner. They won.
How utterly meaningless.
Hands wrap around her waist and she squeals in surprise as Lord Montson lifts her up. He takes her shock for joy and then all of a sudden, he’s kissing her, right there in the royal lawn enclosure.
It’s rough, and hard, and he releases her just as quickly, leaving her breathless with shock and the coarse press of his shadowed beard against her cheeks. His lips are chapped. He puts her down and turns without a word to cavort with his friends. She’s been kissed in broad daylight, and no one here seems to care.
All the talk of appearances, of decorum, and it doesn’t matter. She’s no more than something to kiss when things go well. Not good enough even for conversation.
“Well, he’ll have the funds for an extravagant honeymoon,” Mother says, and Beth slowly turns to find her bracing herself on the railing, her knuckles white.
“Perhaps we should have placed our own bet, doubled my dowry,” Beth says dryly.
Mother laughs, glancing at Beth for a brief moment like they’re home alone in the parlor. “Next year.”
“And then what?” Beth wonders.
