Page 10 of The Dravenhearst Brides

He gestured to the window. “If you don’t care for violets, we could commission a new installation. This is now your home as much as mine.”

“No.” Margot shook her head. “I’m sure you’re quite attached—”

“I’m not.”

She was surprised by the vigor in his tone, the bite. “Okay. I…I’ll think about it.”

The hallway leading to the dining room was dark, illuminated by flickers of candlelight in ornamental gold wall sconces. Curiously, only every other pair was lit.

Inside the dining room, heavy drapes partially concealed the windows. The table was set for two—she could see that much in the flickering candlelight of yet another pair of long tapers.

“The house is wired for electricity, is it not?” She looked at the mahogany paneled wall and spotted a light switch. “Ah.”

“Of course it is.”

She walked several paces and reached for the switch.

“Er, is that necessary?” Dravenhearst moved to stop her.

“Necessary?” she repeated, confused. “Well, I do quite like to see what I’m ingesting for dinner.”

“It’s only…”

“Only what?” Her finger hovered beside the switch, itching to flip it.

“Electricity costs money.”

Margot wasn’t sure what she’d expected but most certainly not this. “Electricity…costs money?”

He shifted from foot to foot, then walked to the bar. It hosted an impressive lineup of decanters and carafes. He poured out a large glass of amber liquid. Bourbon, no doubt.

“Shall I make you a drink?” He tossed the offer over his shoulder.

Margot frowned. “No, thank you.”

Perhaps her stiff tone alerted him, for he turned to her. “Are you certain? I know your first foray was cursory, but it’s an acquired taste—”

“You assume I desire to acquire it.”

“I assume nothing of your desires,” he murmured, eyes pinned on her as he took his first sip.

Margot swallowed and crossed her arms. “What I’d rather discuss is your absurd concern we can’t afford a side of illumination with our meal.”

“I can see just fine,” he said. “Perhaps you need your vision checked. I can summon a physician if need be.”

“Which would cost a damn sight more than simply flicking a light switch.”

“Ah, but a physician would be a one-time expense, and there is no greater priority than one’s health. But electricity…are you planning to turn on lights all over the house every evening?”

“Only enough to watch where I step in this ghastly place. Wouldn’t want to walk into a suit of armor, would I?”

At this, he cracked a smile. “We’ve no suits of armor, but it is rather ghastly, isn’t it?” He tipped his chin upward to examine the coffered ceiling.

Each square was heavily carved with ornate depictions of foliage and vines.

Central to each was a bearded centaur, their horse-like bodies stretched mid-gallop or rearing wildly, human heads tilted heavenward, mouths gaping in perhaps a war cry or benediction.

But the longer Margot stared, the more convinced she was of their silent screams.

She shivered and looked away.

“Ghastly,” Dravenhearst repeated. He gestured to the table. “Shall we?”

Margot took her seat and frowned at the lit tapers.

“Consider it romantic,” he suggested, dragging his own chair out with a jarring scrape. He undid his cufflinks and folded up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms with a thick dusting of dark hair. “It’s our wedding night after all.”

“I suppose it is.” Margot released a nervous breath at the reminder. There was simply no way she’d be able to eat. Not a single bite.

The meal progressed in silence. A shaky-handed Xander brought in a platter of roast beef and cooked vegetables.

She could do little more than push the food around on her plate, mixing it up to make it appear she’d eaten.

Her husband spent an inordinate amount of time separating and cutting each item into meticulously even, minute pieces.

Only then did he begin to eat, one bite at a time in an even rotation around the plate.

Carrot, meat, potato, onion. Carrot, meat, potato, onion. Carrot, meat, potato, onion…

His rigidity was perversely fascinating. What sort of sociopath had she married?

The scent of spun sugar overtook the air as dessert was brought in. It was a generous slice of spongey vanilla cake with finely detailed frosting—white flowers accented with rounded dollops of crimson extract—and a band of jam-like sauce separating the two layers.

“Who made this?” she asked, her mouth watering.

“Xander. It’s one of his specialties. German buttercream with raspberry amaretto jam. He only makes it in the summer, using fresh preserves from Evangeline’s garden.”

“Xander?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. The bumbling butler with the trembling hands created something this detailed, this exquisite?

“Yes, he likes to bake. He’s a damn sight better at baking than he is at cooking. Since the meat didn’t appear to your liking, perhaps this will suit better?”

So he’d noticed her subterfuge. Margot blushed and eyed the cake, tempted.

“It tastes as good as it looks, I assure you.” Dravenhearst chuckled from down the table.

“You mean it isn’t poisoned?” She meant the words as a joke, but as they left her mouth, they rang with a seed of buried, paranoid truth.

His jaw dropped. “Is that why you didn’t eat dinner? Why on earth would I poison you?”

“We both know I’m worth far more to you dead than alive.”

He pushed his chair back from the table in disgust. “That’s a horrible thing to say. What kind of man do you think I am?”

“One who marries a woman he’s just met for her money.”

He fell silent. To punctuate her point, Margot sliced off the tip of the cake and lifted it to her lips. He watched, mesmerized. She gave it a delicate sniff before taking a bite. Raspberry exploded on her tongue.

As she chewed, he spoke again, his tone flat. “Your father didn’t discuss the terms of his estate with you, did he?”

“I’m an only child, Mr. Dravenhearst—”

“Merrick.”

She halted. It felt so intimate, his first name.

“My name is Merrick,” he repeated. “It’s going to be an awfully long lifetime together if you insist on using my surname for the entirety.”

Merrick. She rolled the name around in her mind, tasting before she released it. “I’m an only child, Merrick. With a rapidly ailing, exorbitantly rich father. I know what I stand to inherit, as do you. We needn’t pretend otherwise.”

He leaned back in his chair, placing both hands on the armrests.

Slowly, he drummed his fingers, one by one.

When he finally spoke, his voice was deathly serious.

“You know, I once stood to inherit an awful lot myself. Amazing how quickly things change.” He gestured toward the window and the distillery beyond it.

“I had more than fifty men in my employ thirteen years ago. On January 17, 1920, I sent them all home. Jobless. I—and they—learned very quickly how money can disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

Margot sighed, sufficiently chastised. “I didn’t mean—”

“You know what?” He rose from his seat. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you’re tired. I know I am.”

He looks it, she realized. The flickering candlelight cast his face in long shadows. His eyes pooled with depth, and he appeared a decade older than his thirty-one years. Infinitely more worldly than she in so many ways.

Margot’s fears for the evening, for her wedding night, returned in full force. She nodded, barely able to summon words. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m quite tired.”

“Shall we?”

Merrick took her arm as they left the room. His stride was purposeful, his grip on her elbow possessive. He steered her up the stairs, down the long hall to her bedroom.

Her hands began to tremble; she was certain he felt it against his arm. Dinner had not gone well, which was largely her own fault. She hadn’t been trying to pick a fight. She wanted to find common ground with him. She wanted…

They reached her bedroom door. She paused, waiting for him to take the lead. The only sound in the hallway was the blasted clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Well.” His voice came out as a low rumble that curled Margot’s toes. “I suppose this is good night.”

Good night?

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. There was only his slow inhale and the tick, tick, tick of the clock.

He stepped away from her. Infinitesimally but quite clearly.

She blinked, uncertain. Maybe she was supposed to do something? Say something? Her lips were glued shut.

“Good night, Margot.”

It was too dark for her to make out the expression in his eyes. He was utterly unreadable.

“Where is your room?” she finally managed.

“Just there.” He nodded at the door beside hers. “The rooms are adjoined, should you need anything.”

She tilted her head. So she was supposed to say something after all. Now.

Margot summoned every ounce of courage. She was nervous, yes. She’d misstepped today. Several times. Badly. But she was filled with longing, pure and undiluted, for what her marriage could be. What she wanted it to be.

He doesn’t have to be a stranger, she thought, running her eyes over his form in the dark hallway. Her gaze lingered on the strong swell of his shoulders. He could be mine. This could be something.

But only if she was brave enough to seize it. To make it so.

She reached for his wrist. Her touch was soft at first, ghosting over his bare skin.

He twinged at the contact, but she refused to be deterred.

She ran her fingers up the length of his sleeve, feeling the generous curve of biceps as her touch grew bolder.

Gripping. Dragging. She nearly lost her breath at her own daring.

She inhaled shakily as her fingers settled atop his shoulder, barely brushing the nape of his neck.

“Perhaps,” she breathed, her heart pounding, “you’d like to come in with me?”

Terror. Horror. Shock. Vulnerability.

All of it came rushing in at once, a dizzying medley that made her weak in the knees.

He bit his lip, then sighed and leaned in, whispering along the shell of her ear, his nose grazing her hair. “This is what you want?”

“Yes.” Her back stiffened, but she lifted her chin, feigning confidence. Hoping the nervous tremor in her legs wouldn’t betray her.

His fingers gripped hers, gently tugging her hand away from his neck.

“This is what you really want?” he repeated, brushing his lips over the inside of her wrist as he spoke. Pressing softly. A kiss made of breath as much as flesh.

A shiver coursed through her, shooting up her arm, down her spine. Her skin burned where his lips touched.

His gaze pierced her, searing through the darkness of the hallway. His lips parted before he spoke. “Because it’s not what I want.”

He stepped away, leaving her cold. Embarrassed. Confused.

Alone.

Margot was thunderstruck by his cruelty. Her vulnerability shattered, defensiveness rising in its place.

“You’re wicked.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m just trying to do my job, to be a good wife.”

“Exactly.” He was scowling again.

“It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To shower you with newfound riches and give you a son who can take over your empire one day?

” Her voice rang with fervor and frustration, the sting of tears, mortifyingly, rising.

“I assume you didn’t marry me simply to look on and laugh as I eat dessert every night. ”

“And you’d rather I sweep you up right now, pin you beneath me in my bed, and coldly impregnate you?” Color rose in his cheeks. “Is that really what you want?”

“No…I—”

“I don’t understand you.”

And I don’t understand you, she wanted to scream. Instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke quietly. “I just thought that was what you wanted, what a husband expects.”

“Well, it’s not. None of this”—he gestured between them—“is what I want.”

At those damning words, Margot’s heart turned to ice. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. And for my forward behavior. It won’t happen again.”

He sighed, his eyes searching her own. For what, Margot couldn’t be sure, but he would find no further vulnerability there.

Not tonight. Perhaps not ever. All hope she carried for intimacy in her marriage, for companionship, and maybe—dare she say it?

—even love, died then and there in that dark hallway.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Good night, Margot,” he finally said. “Sleep well.”

She nodded, unable to manage anything more. She stepped into her bedroom and shut the door with a very definitive click.

And then she was left alone. Left alone to remove her wedding gown herself. Left alone to hang it in a closet she realized was perfumed with faded jasmine and full of another woman’s clothes. Left alone to slip into her bed.

A rumble of thunder echoed outside. A summer storm rolling in.

Margot had spent many nights alone in bed, and she’d never once minded before. But as she stared at the door between their bedrooms—closed and still and final and mocking—she found tonight, on her wedding night, she minded much more than she cared to admit.