Page 103 of A Shore Thing

Octavia cleared her throat.

Oblivious, Miss Beresford plucked at Miss Potter’s bouquet, then lifted a stem of purple blossoms to her dainty nose.

“We’ve imbibed rather a lot of champagne,” confessed Miss Potter. “Smuggled a bottle down to the beach.”

“We wanted to put a note in it,” giggled Miss Beresford. “And throw it into the sea. But we hadn’t paper and pen.” She came forward to give Muriel the flower. “Oh.” She stopped, looking between the glasses in Muriel’s hands. “You like champagne too. Well, how’s this?” She put the flower in the empty glass.

“Thank you.” Muriel smiled weakly.

Lucy.

The first word Griffith had ever said to her. The name on his lips when she knelt beside him in the field. The woman he went on and on about.

Jealousy niggled, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. And foolish.

She and Griffith had no future. Why let his past torment her?

“There you are!” Miss Swanwick sailed onto the terrace, carrying with her the parlor’s heat and heavy perfume. “And in good company, thank God.” She took Muriel by the elbow and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I was afraid you were alone out here with Octavia. She’s the worst flirt in the kingdom. An absolute menace. I must bring you back inside at once. Henrietta wants to meet you.”

Muriel let Miss Swanwick tug her through the parlor, depositing her glasses and the drooping heliotrope on the mantelpiece. Another dance was starting, and before they could skirt the room to wherever Henrietta sat in wait, Griffith tapped Miss Swanwick’s shoulder.

“May I?” He cut in deftly and whirled Muriel across the floor. The room blurred. He spun her too fast, and held her too tight, and she gave in to the giddiness, clutching his shoulders, a bubble of laughter in her throat.

The galloping rotations threw all thoughts of Lucy from her mind. She and Griffith danced every dance, until her feet were as sore as her knees.

They had to climb onto bicycles in the morning.

As the pianist bounced up to take refreshment and the dancers caught their breath, Griffith saw her eyes stray to the clock and nodded. “Time for the circuit of farewell.”

It took another half hour, but, at last, they’d reached the door, and Griffith was bowing to Henrietta, Lady Chettam, a stately woman in late middle years. Despite her short stature, she managed to speak while peering down the length of her powdered and imperious nose.

“You must call on me in London,” she commanded them both. “The salons start again in October.” She focused on Muriel. “You will perform a duet.”

Griffith made mild protest. “I don’t sing.”

“For which we’re all grateful,” responded Lady Chettam tartly. “I referred to Mrs. Pendrake and Octavia.”

Muriel noted the humorous spark in her eyes. Griffith did not.

“Like hell,” he grumbled. “I’ll learn to sing.”

Dancing had jettisoned certain things from his mind as well.

Come October, Muriel would live on a different continent. They weren’t attending any sapphic salons, not together.

She didn’t remind him on the walk back to the inn. Instead, they sang, loudly and off-key, whatever snippets of lyrics they could remember from popular ballads and drinking songs, until someone opened an upper-story window and shouted curses. After which they sang even louder.

23

Kit watched a stripe of pale dawn light lengthen across the floorboards. When it reached halfway to the door, he stirred, easing away from Muriel, sliding from beneath her soft limbs and silky curtain of hair. He crept to his own room, where washing up and packing were the work of a moment, then clattered down the narrow stair to breakfast. In the taproom, the smell of hot grease overpowered the beeriness, and a girl in a white cap bustled between tables delivering plates piled with sausages and eggs. He caught her eye, placed a large, indiscriminate order, and plunked himself into a high-backed chair at a table near the open fire. Butterfield and Kemble, already seated, looked up from their plates.

“You’re chipper,” observed Butterfield, his tone ungracious. “Enjoyed your night?”

“Yes, rather.” Kit leaned back in his chair. During those first strained seconds on the threshold of the parlor, he’d wondered if he’d made a mistake, if the night were about to transform from midsummer dream into nightmare. A great fist had seemed to close inside his chest, choking off the air. Then Muriel had picked up Octavia’s song, her voice unexpectedly melodic, her throat flushed pink. His heart began to beat again, and the shuttered faces of his friends opened one by one. They hadn’t all welcomed him with tact or comprehension. Hester used his old name repeatedly, and Celeste had remarked, with affectionate relief, that he looked the same and that she’d feared false whiskers. But by and large, the interactions had been comfortable, familiar in a way that didn’t depend on his filling his prior mold. Only when he’d realized that Octavia had led Muriel onto the terrace did his emotions roil out of his control. He’d quickly contained his agitation. Muriel knew how to handle herself. And if she decided to dally with a female lothario, who was he to stop her? Bedding a woman didn’t confer ownership. Still, his pulse had run high until she’d reappeared, at which point, he’d dashed forward and swung her into his arms. And later, he’d unbuttoned and unlaced every scrap of her clothing, and dragged his hungry mouth all over, licking every delectable inch of her skin, and…

“We would have enjoyed it too.” Butterfield’s sharp voice whisked the happy reminiscence from Kit’s mind. “You and Mrs. Pendrake went to meet that gorgeous little creature—Miss Swanwick, was that her name? You could have been a trump and invited us along.”

Mutton Wheelers at a sapphic gathering. Kit suppressed a shudder. “It was a private party.”