Page 11 of The Dravenhearst Brides

My dearest Margaret,

The house was quiet this morning. Well, truthfully, it’s been quiet for years.

But this morning was a different quiet. This morning, the quiet was in the knowing.

Knowing you are gone. It is as it should be, for a daughter to grow and leave her father’s arms. But though you are gone from my home, you are never gone from my heart.

Please write soon and tell me of your new life and family.

Forever yours,

Pa

As she always did on Sunday mornings, Margot rose early. She hadn’t lived near Frankfort for many years, but she recalled Sunday Mass began at half past eight, and God help the family who straggled in late. Father Simmons could send your soul straight to hell with a single look.

She slipped into the closet to select a suitable church dress and noticed her wedding gown had fallen to the floor. It rested in a crumpled heap near the corner of the closet.

How did that happen?

She reached for the clothes hanger, then strung up the gown once more.

Margot cast a wary eye around the closet.

She would need to go through this space and hang up her things today, lest they all become hopelessly wrinkled in her trunks.

But the racks were already filled with clothes—day dresses and exquisite evening gowns—from another era. Another woman.

Merrick’s mother, she realized, breathing in the perfumed jasmine in the air. The other Margaret, as she’d begun to think of her.

Margot sighed as she backed out of the closet. She dressed hurriedly in a periwinkle floral dress cut on the bias before pressing an ear to her husband’s bedroom door. Naught but silence. Perhaps he was already awake and breakfasting? Yes, that’d be it.

Margot slipped into Oxford heels and church gloves, then hurried from the room. She was single-minded in her rush—so much so, she almost missed the oil portrait hanging atop the grand stairwell.

Almost.

She skidded to a halt. The painting was as tall as Margot herself and depicted a man and woman, both formally dressed.

The man’s countenance was stiff, as though he’d been forced into his tailcoat and disliked every minute of it.

His hair was black and thick, the sharp cut of his jawline identical to Merrick’s.

His father. Evidently, scowling was hereditary. Which must mean…

The woman, the other Margaret, was the real draw of the portrait.

She stood beside her husband with one hand resting, casually possessive, on his chest. Her fingers dazzled with gemstone-heavy rings, sparkling even through painted oils.

Her smile was close-lipped, the angle of her jaw tilted just so to set off her feathered hat, the plumes stained a deep plum to match the folds of her dress.

Her skin was porcelain smooth, her eyes catlike and alert.

Two locks of curling golden-red hair—the color identical to Margot’s own—escaped the pins beneath her Gainsborough.

And her stature—oh, her stature! Gossamer perfection with delicate wrists, a shapely bustled bottom, a full bosom, yet a waist so narrow, a stiff wind might simply blow her over.

Margot leaned closer, envious. What witch had this woman bribed for a figure like that?

A flash of sudden movement, and she backed away. A trick of the light, perhaps…she thought she’d seen…no.

She stared deep into the woman’s green eyes, searching for the twinkle, for the wink she’d surely imagined.

An abrupt bang echoed through the house. Margot jumped, her hand clutching her chest. The echo continued, reverberating like a slammed door. Breathless, she leaned around the corner, but no one was there.

A draft, perhaps? She shivered. Merrick had mentioned that, hadn’t he? That the house was drafty?

Casting a final nervous glance over her shoulder at the portrait, Margot descended the stairs.

She recalled Ruth, the equestrian trainer, mentioning a resemblance between her and the former lady of the house, but Margot didn’t flatter herself to see it.

It was the hair color, nothing more. She—the other Margaret—was the picture of vitality and perfection.

She certainly hadn’t been spurned on her wedding night. Not a chance in hell.

Babette. A voice rose, whispering the surname in Margot’s mind as she hurried down the final steps. Her gaze moved to the stained-glass violets as she crossed the foyer. The aperture was dim, morning light just beginning to peek through.

When Margot entered the dining room, the table was set with fresh fruit and oatmeal. A bowl of the latter was placed before Merrick’s empty seat, steaming as though he was expected any moment.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, heavy and steady in the hallway. She turned just as he rounded the corner.

“Oh,” he cried, colliding with her. He grasped her arms to keep from stumbling.

“Sorry.” She leapt away from his scalding touch.

The specter of last night’s rejection twisted her gut.

She imagined her shame laid out before her as plainly as the breakfast spread.

Margot knew it wasn’t normal for a woman to sleep alone on her wedding night.

Everyone knew it. And just once…oh, how she longed to be normal.

“The fault was mine,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone…you to be up this early. And so well-dressed, to boot. Do we have a morning engagement I’ve forgotten?”

“It’s Sunday,” she said, confident it was answer enough.

She stepped back to assess his attire. He wore exceedingly tight pants with leather inserts around the inseam.

His equestrian jacket was unbuttoned to the waist, a loose shirt underneath.

His hair was distinctly rumpled and windswept, his feet tucked into muddy stable boots.

The longer she looked, the deeper she frowned, certain this was not the attire of a man prepared to attend Sunday service with his wife, as any respectable Kentucky gentleman should.

Those pants! They were downright sinful—so sinful Margot feared she’d not be able to tear her own sinful eyes away from his sinfully broad thighs. Or worse still, higher up…

She closed her eyes against the offending onslaught.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—

“Do you find something amusing?”

When she peeped an eye open again, he was smirking.

“Amusing?” she breathed, gaze darting south, then promptly back up. “That’s one word, I suppose, for your taste in breakfast attire.”

He snorted. “I’ve been out riding. It’s how I start every morning. If you’d ever like to join me, to learn—”

“But it’s Sunday,” she said, not wanting to answer his question about riding.

“Indeed.” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve mentioned that already.”

“Sunday Mass begins in less than an hour. Unless you’re so bold as to wear the devil’s knickers”—she nodded toward his pants—“into a house of God, I suggest you change. Quickly.”

He burst out laughing. “The devil’s knickers?”

“You are on display,” she hissed, averting her eyes again. “I suppose it’ll give the old aunties in church the thrill of their lives—”

He laughed again, the sound deep and full. Unrestrained.

Margot’s jaw slammed shut. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out precisely how to elicit that delicious sound from him again.

“That right there,” he began, the vestiges of his laughter fading, “is the most tempting advertisement for church I’ve heard in years. Still not motivating enough to get me there though.” He shouldered around her.

“You don’t…you don’t attend church?” She paled, her hand flying to her chest.

Merrick bit into an apple, chewing loudly. “Uh, no. Do you?”

“Everyone attends Mass.” Her utter shock prevented a more sophisticated rebuttal.

You see? Her mother’s voice chastised her in her mind. This is the sort of thing you ought to have known about your husband before agreeing to marry him.

Indeed. Horses, hooch, and a godless heathen, to boot.

“Not everyone.” Merrick shifted on his feet, growing nervous under her scrutiny.

“Everyone of sound moral character.”

“Ah. A fine distinction.”

“Hell’s bells, never you mind.” She spun on her heel to depart. She didn’t have the time or emotional countenance to argue with him. She would simply go by herself, that’s all. No matter the twist of fear in her gut at the thought of striding into the church house unescorted and alone.

Alone. She sighed. She better get used to it. It was becoming something of a pattern since exchanging matrimonial vows.

“Where are you going?” Merrick called after her.

“To church.” Alone.

His footsteps chased her into the entry hall. Full morning sun now streamed through the window, scattering speckles of lavender light across the wood floor.

“And how do you intend to get there?” The curl of his fingers around her arm stopped her momentum.

“I’ll fly, of course.” She huffed, staring him down. “On my witch’s broom. Amazing how quickly a bride turns into a shrew, isn’t it?”

“As quickly as her groom turns into an insensitive pig, I suppose.” The crinkles around his eyes settled in a bemused frown. He sighed. “It’s really that important to you?”

His acknowledgment appeased her. “It is.”

Even during her darkest days—the endlessly dark days confined to the Louisville townhouse with her volatile mother—Sunday mornings had been sacred.

Even when her mother had stopped going outside altogether, Pa paid a priest to hold private sermons in their home.

It was routine, familiar, and in that way, a comfort.

Merrick sighed again, loosening his grip on her wrist. “I’ll take you.”

“You needn’t. I’m fine going alone,” she lied.

“If you’ll just allow me a few minutes to change out of the devil’s knickers,” he said, a small smile breaking through, “we’ll be on our way.”

“Swell,” she whispered. Her gaze lingered on his face, on the softening she saw there. His teasing was…not unwelcome.

As he turned to mount the stairs, every muscle in her husband’s taut behind was on display. He vaulted upward on powerful thighs, skipping every other step. Another unexpected tease.

Margot blew out an exhale, trying to pretend she wasn’t terribly, hopelessly, embarrassingly affected.

The devil’s knickers indeed.

“You realize,” Merrick whispered in her ear as they entered the church house, “religion is little more than a political tool for social control?”

“Hush.” She silenced him.

“It’s true. It’s been used throughout history to great effect, most recently by those thumping moralizers behind the temperance movement, the ones who rallied for Prohibition and bankrupted my estate. Fucking Puritans—”

“Merrick!” she hissed, reaching to grip his hand. “Language. You are in a house of God.”

“Not by my own volition.” He glanced nervously around the room, halting his steps.

Margot quickly realized why, spotting a familiar face just up the aisle.

Alastair.

His gaze roved her from head to toe, settling on Margot and Merrick’s joined hands. She couldn’t read his expression, but he lifted his fingers in a stilted wave.

She pitched her voice for Merrick’s ears alone. “Shall we be polite and say hello?” Please don’t make me say hello.

“No. Old Kentucky blood feuds run deep. I have nothing to say to Alastair. Do you?”

She shook her head, relieved.

“Good.” Merrick tightened his grip on her hand. It was comforting, a squeeze from an ally. “Then perhaps we should take our seats and wait for the show to begin.”

Margot snorted as she stepped into the nearest pew. “It’s not an opera or the ballet, Merrick. It’s Sunday service.”

He watched as she settled on her knees, folded her hands under her chin, and turned her attention forward.

“Oh, love.” He chuckled. “You are woefully naive. This is the greatest show in town. And that man”—he nodded toward Father Simmons, stepping out of the vestibule—“is chief charlatan.”

She sighed, gaze still pinned ahead. “Does it exhaust you?”

“What?”

“Being so ornery all the time.”

“Horses are ornery,” Merrick answered. “I’m merely pragmatic.”

“I’d like to pray now,” Margot said, her voice prim. She didn’t want to fight with him. Not again. Not here.

“By all means.” He gestured, quite magnanimously, to the altar. “May you bend the ear of Christ himself to make all your wishes come true. If that fails, we can try rubbing some of my grandmother Eleanor’s antique bottles and lamps, see if we can’t summon ourselves a genie.”

She couldn’t help herself. She whipped her head around and glared. “What?”

“Surely you’ve read Arabian Nights?” He widened his eyes as he sat back in the pew…sprawled, more like, his legs spread impudently wide. “It’s a classic.”

“Of course I—”

“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips. “Father Simmons is ready to begin. I don’t want to miss a single Machiavellian word.”

Appalled, Margot turned to face front. “I’ll pray a decade of the rosary for your black soul,” she muttered under her breath.

“From your lips to God’s ears, love,” Merrick whispered back.