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August 31 - September 12, 2024
April 1857
“This is my fourth,” Gwen says, meeting her eyes with a brash grin that’s cracking at the edges. “I think if I make it to next season without a husband, I get a medal.”
She doesn’t miss him. But she’s still sad.
She’s the perfect partner in crime. Sharp, witty, wily, and funny as hell—Gwen’s never had so much fun with someone.
“He wasn’t in line to inherit and didn’t have the security of a title that Father wanted for my future,” Mother says, staring off at the boats herself. “But we had fun for a while.”
Mother steps in, saving the poor boy. Beth’s just dizzied by how many social engagements she’s now required to attend for getting hit in the back.
“Your father wasn’t the heir to this title,”
“Oh, I hope it’s not a morality play,” Mother says. “Dreadfully dull.” “Sometimes they’re fun,” Beth argues. “If there’s enough that’s exciting before the moralizing kicks in.”
It’s heady and splendorous and the longer they kiss the better it gets, like they’re both learning and advancing and chasing the same inexorable pleasure.
She should take her happinesses as she can, for she knows they’ll be forever fleeting. But at least she’ll have them.
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?

