“These damn skirts,” Beth growls, tugging Gwen in and bumping her hoop off to the left while hers shifts to the right.
Gwen hums in approval and crashes their mouths backtogether. And then they’re lost in the heat of lips and teeth and tongue. In their private sighs and moans. In their mutual frustration of all the layers and the silks and that no, neither of them can get on the ground right now, and there’s not a bench, and, God, did no one think about the poor ladies itching to—
Well of course they didn’t.
They content themselves with ten minutes of fiercely traded kisses until even the heat of each other’s hands can’t distract them from their responsibilities inside.
Gwen steps back first, her lips too plump and bodice askew. “We should get you back to Lord Montson. He’ll have had time to miss you now.”
“Shut up,” Beth says, shaking her head as she rights her own bodice and gingerly touches her hair. “All right?”
“You’re fine. I think you did a number on mine though,” Gwen says, patting at the braid Beth accidentally tugged down from her updo.
“Oh, damn, here, let me,” Beth says, stepping forward just as Mr. Mason appears at the end of their hedgerow.
“I’ve got her. You need to get back.” His eyes flick over them and Beth tries to step into the shadows so he can’t see her flushed cheeks and kiss-raw lips. “You’re more than invigorated enough by the air.”
“Mr.—Albie, it... isn’t,” Beth starts.
“You two made up?” he asks, cutting her off with a knowing look.
Beth glances back at Gwen, who just rolls her eyes. “Um, yes,” she says slowly.
“Good. Gwen can fill me in. Bobby will escort you back to Meredith, who’s waiting to bring you back inside.”
“Thank you, I—” Beth starts, stepping toward him with a final glance back at Gwen—beautiful, disheveled, so kissable Gwen—
“Hurt her again and I won’t be the one hauling you out of the bushes,” he says lowly as she reaches his side.
“I’ll do my best,” Beth says honestly, reaching out to squeeze his arm before hurrying through the maze. Because now that she knows at least Gwen’s cousins approve, there’s even less calling her to return to her fake life.
They just have to survive the next few weeks, convince their parents to marry, and then undergo the scandal. That’s all. Easy.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gwen
It’s a short walk from the Tudor-style Henley-on-Thames locomotive station to Henley bridge, but it takes nearly an hour of pushing and shoving to do it. By the time they’ve hauled halfway across the bridge, Father’s new white linen suit and top hat look a bit dusty, and there’s mud on Gwen’s deep blue gown, the white edging almost invisible beneath the muck.
Gwen stares out at the river, wondering how the sculls will even race with so many other boats littering the water for an up-close view. She thinks it might be nice some year to get here a few days early and have a boat. Wake up at the crack of dawn and just row out. Maybe she and Beth could do that. No one would look twice at them in a little boat.
Not like the scrutiny they’ll face today beside the Steward Enclosure. The royal tent is already packed full when they finally shuffle past. Gwen wonders if she could even see the queen if there were fewer people, tiny woman that she is. If she’s here at all. Hard to tell, honestly.
Instead, they arrive at the third tent along the water, stepping gratefully into the shade and out of the hot summer sun. White linen cloths cover a series of picnic tables, and members of the ton mill about in a crowd that’s still more than claustrophobic enough to make Gwen wince. They may not have as many guests as the royals do, but it’s still a press.
Gwen subtly shunts her father toward the northern edge of their tent, pointing to two suspiciously empty seats at the front where they can gratefully collapse. Gwen plunks down, ignoring that her right arm is fully in the sun. Father sits beside her, loosens his cravat, and rests his hat in his lap with a sigh.
“Finally made it, did you?”
Albie leans around Father to wink at her. Did he reserve their seats? How would he even—
“And that’s further proof that the common folk can’t be trusted. Just look at the blockage there,” a voice booms disparagingly to their right.
Gwen glances over, and low and behold there stands Lord Ashmond, surveying the commoners along the river with disgust. Behind him, Beth and Lady Demeroven sit stone-faced while his wife titters along. Beth looks wonderful in a light pink froth of a gown. She’s fanning herself manically and Lady Demeroven beside her looks ready to melt already.
They might actually pull this off.
Father grunts as Lord Ashmond continues to bloviate about things that should be kept silent, or at worst, muttered under one’s breath. How his entire tent hasn’t already pushed him into the river is anyone’s guess. They’ve clearly been there for an hour longer than anyone in Gwen’s.
