Page 102 of A Shore Thing

She met Octavia’s dancing dark eyes.

“I couldn’t,” she said, stiff with awkwardness. “I…I don’t live in London.”

“How disappointing.” Octavia raised a brow. “I’d hoped you spent the colder months in town, when the plants are too withered by frost to be of interest.”

This was wrongheaded on so many counts, Muriel laughed. “That’s not how it works.”

Octavia leaned closer. She really was quite tall, neither young nor old, and undeniably handsome. She smelled of sandalwood. “You’re telling me tonight’s all we have.”

Muriel blinked. Was that what her comment had communicated? Carpe diem? Her head felt fuzzy, although she’d only drunk half a glass of champagne.

“I should tell you I’m not a sapphist.” She blurted it out, then bit her lip.

Octavia pulled back slightly, a lazy smile playing over her generous mouth. “All right. Tell me.” Her gaze turned wicked. “Like you mean it.”

“I’m not…” Muriel gulped champagne, emptying the glass in her right hand. Heaven help her. “That is, I don’t fancy…” She hesitated. She’d meant to say women. But did that imply she did fancy men, categorically? Throughout her life, she’d felt frissons with all sorts of people—because she admired their intelligence, or sensibility. If there was sometimes a physical component, well, she hadn’t ever pursued it, until now. Or rather, she had with Esmé, but she’d found those brief, labored relations in the marriage bed oddly distancing.

She wasn’t a sapphist, but maybe she wasn’t anything else either.

“I don’t fancy,” she said, with a hard stop. That came closest to the truth. She looked again into the parlor. Griffith and Miss Yarrow were twirling. “Not enough to join a club based on the type of fancying I do.”

Not unless there was a Kit Griffith Ladies Club.

Which, Lord above, there probably was.

The second glass of champagne now seemed indispensable and brilliant. She tipped it back.

“Enough to try out something new?” Octavia’s flirtatious drawl sounded close to her ear.

Muriel’s whole body tensed. The scent of sandalwood enveloped her.

“Octavia!” The cry came from the direction of the lawn. “What are you doing? You’re too bad!”

Muriel swiveled. Two women—blond or graying, Muriel couldn’t tell which—were marching toward them over the grass. The one who’d spoken pulled out in front, shaking a bouquet of heliotropes.

“I don’t believe in too bad,” called Octavia, but she slinked away from Muriel, palpably reluctant. “What were you doing out there in the hedges?”

“Stargazing,” replied the woman with the bouquet, as her companion caught up with her and gasped out her own answer: “Flower picking!”

They were both blondes, Muriel could see that now. And both disheveled.

She blushed.

Octavia laughed.

“Virginia Potter.” The woman with the bouquet drew up to Muriel. “You must be Lucy. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“Muriel,” corrected Octavia swiftly. “This is Muriel Pendrake.”

“Oh dear.” Miss Potter looked aghast. “That’s what Grace said, isn’t it? Muriel.” She smoothed her messy hair with her free hand. “I’ve had Lucy lodged in my head. Kate used to go on and on about a Lucy.”

“Kit.” Muriel murmured it automatically.

“I’ve got all the names wrong tonight.” Miss Potter gave Muriel an apologetic smile.

“This is Tilly Beresford,” said Octavia, motioning at the other blonde, while cutting her eyes at Miss Potter. “Lest Virginia misspeak.”

“Lovely evening.” Miss Beresford beamed at them each in turn. She was lovely, with a rounded figure decorated with bows, some of which appeared to have been undone and hastily retied. Her big eyes rested on Muriel. “You’re Lucy? An absolute delight to make your acquaintance. Virginia, give Lucy a heliotrope.”