Don't Want You Like a Best Friend (Mischief & Matchmaking, #1)

by Emma R. Alban

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.

Lord Montson’s consumed with talk of betting beside her. She tried to join in, at the start, but one look from her mother and another from Lord Ashmond quelled any interest in inserting herself into Lord Montson’s conversations.

“I’m sure there’s a young lad here who would find her charming. A man could do with a wife who enjoys a good sport.”

Beth glances at the couple and finds the woman glaring down into her wine.

And though the ton might look down their noses at anyone who didn’t manage an invitation to the royal lawn enclosure, Beth thinks those on the other side made the better choice.

“I thought Lord Havenfort all but had it locked down,” Mother says, and Beth can tell by the hold of her jaw that she’s trying not to let her true colors show.

Even Lord Montson’s friends were lamenting its imminent passage, like the act isn’t there to protect women from monsters and marital brutes.

How must they treat their fiancées behind closed doors if they’re so worried they’ll be able to convince a court of abuse?

If Mother could have petitioned a civil court—left her father—

“Are they all afraid their wives will divorce them given the chance? Doesn’t say much for their marriages,” Beth mutters as Mother sidles as close as she can.

She’s no more than something to kiss when things go well. Not good enough even for conversation.

“If she’s blind drunk she won’t know up from down, and you’d best hope there’s no young man trying to forget his own heartache with her.”

Gwen stares at the door, half wanting to follow after him—to ask, to know—did having her ruin his life? His mistake—was it worth

“You and Miss Demeroven are going into the gardens and you’re going to have whatever this is out. We’ll distract Montson if he shows back up. It’s dark, no one will notice, and I’m frankly sick of you either being drunk or depressed.”

Because while Beth’s been miserable and alone, it’s looked like Gwen’s been having a marvelous time being “ill” with drink, cavorting with her cousins and father, one big happy family.

And if having Gwen means being invited to fewer balls, all the better. If it means watching her mother relax, watching her be treated well, watching her be loved? After more than Beth’s lifetime of sadness, isolation, and abuse, Mother deserves some happiness, whatever the cost.

“Oh, I’ll take a skirmish, no matter who wins,” the man says, smirking at Bobby. His deep brown eyes are quite striking.

She feels she should probably think him quite handsome. But he pales in absurd comparison to Beth and no amount of straight white teeth and broad shoulders will sway her on that fact.

They should have asked for help a month ago. She’s been telling herself she’s losing Albie to Meredith—and possibly losing Bobby by extension. But they’ve been there the whole time, hoping and speculating.

She’s never paid much attention to their relationship. Bobby’s never been much more than a nuisance, but now—now it seems he’s sly and clever and persuasive.

She supposes besting her father’s nephews will only add to his sanctimonious disdain. Make him feel tall. She wonders if he’s poorly endowed. What else could make a man so rich this pompous?

“Go back to your betting,” Father spits out as Lady Ashmond attempts to help her husband up.

“I know,” Beth repeats. Gwen swallows hard as Beth raises their hands for Meredith to see. “But Lord Montson isn’t who I’d like to spend my life with. And my mother will be miserable, much as she keeps insisting it’s best for us both.”

“If our parents marry, it will mean we can . . . do away with charades and the marriage market. And they’ll be happy,”

“Beth and I are just going to have to meet to compare notes. And her mother will have to come. And the Mason house has been having terrible mold issues, haven’t you heard? So we’ll have to meet at mine. And as your father is providing some of the funding and working with Albie’s uncle to shore up the vote, I imagine he’ll have to come along. And we’ll simply need to picnic, won’t we?” Meredith says.

“You really ought to have consulted Mere from the outset,” Albie

“She’s the most devious of all of us, and that’s s...

She’s spent the last month and a half practically glued to Lord Montson’s side, and all this time, if they’d just asked Gwen’s cousins, they could have been having teas and listening to everyone laugh. It’s almost enough to make her vomit.

She needs Mother to admit that it’s terrible—this loveless, thankless match they’ve found.

“That’s how friendship works once you’re married, darling,” Mother says, her face carefully flat. Beth clenches her jaw. “She’s not my friend,” she insists, staring Mother down.

know you would prefer to . . . see your friend more, but we’ve found a compromise. Why can’t you be satisfied with that?” Rage slips up Beth’s throat, constricting her lungs. “Gwen is not—” “That’s all she can be,” Mother says.

Beth feels the words like a blow to her stomach. It’s not that Mother won’t acknowledge it. It’s that she can’t even imagine a world where Beth and Gwen could be together. “I know it isn’t fair, but we will find ways for you to see each other. And someday it will be more than enough. You’ll see. These feelings fade. You learn to live with compromise.”

course Mother’s fine with compromise. It’s all she’s ever known. But Beth—Beth wants so much more than empty, ashen compromise, for both of them. This half life will never be enough.

“You do not get to have everything you want in life.”

“You’ll have a manor and a husband and a fortune for generations. That is more than anyone can hope for.” “It’s not,” Beth insists. “Beth.” “I can hope for more,” Beth

They stand staring at each other, Beth begging for her mother to value her own life as much as she values Beth’s security.

“I just wanted to see you one more time,” Beth whispers, pulling back only to rise into a kiss that makes Gwen stumble back into the door, hands gripping at Beth’s waist to steady them both.

She has to surrender Beth to her unhappy marriage so she and her mother have somewhere to live, money to provide for them, security.

To sit up and look down at her lover for as long as she dares.

It’s devastatingly beautiful. She is devastatingly beautiful.

And as the day wears on she finds that the world hasn’t ended.

It turns out you really can walk through life with an irreparably broken heart. Her father’s managed, after all.

It’s one thing to lose Beth—to feel like she’s losing him too . . .

“And you wouldn’t . . . mind? If I never married?” “I just want you to be happy,” he says simply.

once more? Ask again.” The ease falls from his face, that guarded, aloof expression she so hates settling over him. It’s the look he wears at balls. The way he looks with women. Detached and poised and uncaring.

“You may be a glutton for punishment, but I am not,” he says stiffly. “What?” “The teas with Meredith? Do you think you’ve been subtle?”

“How you and Beth deal with the pain is your business, but I did my time. I let that woman stomp all over my heart, twice. I won’t do it a third time.”

“You’re a good girl, Gwennie. I love you very much. But leave me out of this. I won’t have us utterly destroyed by the Demerovens again.

Beth hasn’t had time to let it sink in—to know she does have an escape if she ever needs one. If she ever wants one, she can argue her case, can escape the Ashmonds, can go find Gwen, can disappear into the slums and live a happy life with her lover.

And so they’re here, listening to her father-in-law-to-be go on and on about the evils of women, while his wife and son nod absently along. Beth still doesn’t know if Lord Montson believes a single word his father says, but she knows he never fights him on it.