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

by Emma R. Alban

“You look absolutely smitten,” she decides finally, unable to rein it in any longer. He looks like a child. Father rolls his eyes. “No worse than you do.” Gwen stills. “Excuse me?” “You and Miss Demeroven, thick as thieves. I’m surprised Montson got a word in edgewise.”

Gwen swings the door to the kitchen wide and then stops cold, staring at Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm, pressed up as they are against the counter, covered in flour and kissing like they’re drinking oxygen from each other’s mouths.

Does Father think she’s so inclined? Think she wants to be like Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe—happily living together in secret beneath their roof since she was small? Loving, caring, adoring women who’ve helped her grow—does Father think that she feels—that she wants—that—with Beth?

And then her lips crash onto Beth’s. Beth gasps against her mouth, frozen in shock. Her mind goes totally blank. Gwen, kissing, wine, jealous—oh. Oh. Gwen goes to pull back but Beth’s hands shoot out, quite of their own accord, clutching at her waist, anchoring Gwen against her. Beth rises on her toes, pressing their lips back together, the warm, soft pleasure of it trickling through her. This is what it’s supposed to be. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. Swoony and bright and everything. Gwen sighs against her lips and Beth parts her own, sucking on Gwen’s bottom lip. Gwen hums and Beth’s whole body tingles. Gwen’s waist between her hands, Gwen’s chest pushing up against her, pressing Beth into the barrels behind her—it’s overwhelming and wonderful and so much, so much. Gwen moans softly, dragging her hands up to cup Beth’s jaw, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and Beth goes willingly.

Beth clutches at Gwen’s skirts, unwilling to be parted from her even with the threat of discovery looming around them. She’d let the whole world watch for another minute pressed against these aging barrels with Gwen’s lips on hers.

The press of Lord Montson against her back as they steered the ship did nothing for her. Nothing like the jolt she felt holding Gwen, being held.

Didn’t see her sitting on her window seat until it was nearly light again, reliving the kisses, wondering what happens now. Wondering how to do it again. Wondering what kind of life she could lead that would give her Gwen.

It’s wonderful and devastating and all-consuming. Like Gwen lit a spark that didn’t exist until yesterday, until their lips touched and the possibility of more presented itself like an explosion. An explosion that cannot be undone.

But how is she to settle that in her head, when she feels nothing for Lord Montson and everything everything everything for Gwen?

Gwen’s hand grips at Beth’s as they watch their parents interact. Their parents, who they want to get married, so they could become—Beth swallows hard, her throat tight. They were meant to be getting their parents engaged, not engaging in . . . it themselves. Suddenly their silly plan seems to have manifested, but everything’s been turned upside down.

Can people tell that they’ve lain together? That the way Gwen presses up against her is less than innocent? That her body still tingles with the memory of the previous night, and the blush on her cheeks has nothing to do with the heat and her skirts, and everything to do with the hand Gwen slips into her own?

She shouldn’t be able to affect Beth like this, in public, with just her fingers on her wrist. But the thought of what else Gwen’s fingers can do, and vivid memories of where they were just a few hours ago have Beth shifting in her seat and Gwen grinning smugly.

Lord Montson’s here. Beside her. Her suitor. Likely to propose within the month. He’s here, next to her, sitting there all tall and handsome, while Gwen grips at her hand with fingers that have been inside her and lips still slightly plumped from her fervid kisses and other—

Beth struggles to find her voice, feeling Gwen’s thumb brushing over her pulse again. She glances at Gwen, who simply looks back at the game. But Beth can tell from the tension in Gwen’s jaw and shoulders that she knows what she’s doing. Toying with her with Lord Montson right beside them.

How foolish she was to think they could just live in their happy little bubble. Reality has crashed back in and it feels like someone has sat down on her chest, squeezing the happiness and breath from her until every movement makes her jolt and she could cry from the confusion, frustration, and heat.

“Sounds like you’ll be getting a proposal,” Gwen says softly, her voice flat. Her fingers slip away from Beth’s so she can fold her hands tight into her lap. Beth can barely swallow, barely blink. She can’t even chase after her hand. She can’t move. A proposal.

“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.”

Albie taps the side of the carriage, setting them off at a lurching rumble that’s destined to steal what little she ate for dinner. Did she eat? She should have. She could have eaten Beth. She looked like a flouncy dessert.

“Do you really want to? I know Lord Ashmond is an unmitigated arse, but Lord Montson seems sweet enough, and he does like you very much.” “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.” “Oh,” Meredith says softly before glancing around the tent again.

“I 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.

“I love you,” Beth whispers, stroking at her cheek. Gwen rests her forehead against Beth’s, heaving in air as she comes down. “I love you too,” Gwen murmurs, angling her head to sip a kiss from her lips.