Page 19 of The Dravenhearst Brides

The horses she understood, but the distillery…the estate was bankrupt because of it. Bourbon was a poor investment these days.

“What sordid trouble have you gotten yourself into today?” he asked, eyeballing her dirty yellow dress, the mud caked under her fingernails.

“I’d hardly call gardening with Evangeline sordid,” she replied.

“Though I could ask the same of you.” She indicated his smoke-stained shirt, undone at the collar to reveal a teasing glimpse of dark chest hair.

Margot’s cheeks flushed, and she lowered her gaze.

His sleeves were rolled up to expose sooty hands and forearms, two fresh burn marks marring the skin.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve been making barrels again today.” She tweaked his nicked hand, and he flinched away.

“How do you know about the barrels?”

“You have warehouses full of them,” she said. “All empty, gathering cobwebs. Why?”

“You’re not supposed to be sniffing around the distillery.”

“Julian offered to show me.” Bit of a fib, but necessary.

“If you wanted a tour, all you had to do was ask.” He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it. Grumpy.

“You certainly didn’t make it sound that way when I arrived. You all but forbade me from going near the rickhouses. I wonder why.” She injected the final word with a touch of sarcasm. Thanks to Xander, she now knew precisely why, but she wanted to hear Merrick say it.

He held silent.

“And when would I have asked you?” she continued, picking up steam. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have not.”

“You most certainly have.”

“I most certainly have not.”

She snorted. “You’re a child.”

“I’m not a child,” he snapped, finally losing his composure.

He jabbed two fingers toward the distillery behind them.

“I’m a man. A man trying desperately to preserve a family business that hasn’t turned a profit in over a decade.

I’m a man busting his ass from sunup to sundown to do the work of twenty, alone.

A man who has been on his own—managing an entire estate—since he was sixteen goddamn years old.

Half my miserable life. So forgive me if I haven’t paid you enough attention, darling, but the world does not, cannot, stop turning every time a debutante bride comes to Dravenhearst Manor.

” He finished in a wild huff, his eyes alight with fire and something Margot, with her own grief-seasoned gaze, recognized as pain.

She didn’t have experience with raging men, but Margot did know what it was like to feel all alone in the world.

Half my miserable life, he’d said. Alone.

She took a deep breath. “I only asked about the barrels.” Her voice was soft. “Will you tell me about them?”

“What?” His tone was still quite fierce. Unwilling to back down.

“I’d like to know about them. How you make them, why you make them, everything about them. They’re magnificent.”

They were outside the manor, on the portico before the front door.

“I…” His voice cracked. “I make them to remember. Bourbon spends years in the barrel, the distillate diffusing in and out of the wood’s pores.

We call it the devil’s cut, the portion the barrel absorbs during maturation.

But what remains, what survives, is stronger for it, sharpened and aged. Loss turned transformative.”

“Transformative,” she repeated softly. She’d never thought of loss in such a manner. “Who taught you how to make them?”

“No one taught me.” His brows dipped, frown lines appearing. “I taught myself.”

“Not your father?”

“He bought his barrels. I bought ’em too, before Prohibition. But then the money dried up, and I had to find another way.”

“Well, there’s plenty of money now.” It’s why you married me. “If you still need more barrels—though I can’t imagine why—we can place an order for a shipment.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe in paying another man for a job I can do myself.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She tilted her head.

“The tide is turning against Prohibition, Margot. Mark my words, I’ll be making and selling bourbon by the new year.

Which means I need to start filling barrels as soon as possible.

That’s what Alastair was doing here, trying to shake me down.

” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the papers, handing the top copy to her.

“What’s this?” She skimmed the document, her head twinging at numbers and sums running up and down the page. She thrust it toward him, immediately disinterested.

“It’s a bill. For a grain shipment from Alastair’s farm,” he explained. He pushed the paper back into her hands. “I need it to make mash. That’s your copy.”

“Why do I need a copy?” she asked, confused. And what the hell is mash?

Merrick stuck his hands back in his pockets and looked skyward, avoiding eye contact. “For your records. Because I’m going to repay you. Every cent.”

Margot narrowed her eyes. “Repay me?”

“It’s technically your money, not mine—which Alastair made damn sure I knew.

” His jaw ticked. “I don’t have enough scratch left in my own accounts to kickstart the distillery into working order, but once we start selling bourbon again, the cashflow will follow.

Consider this a start-up loan. One I intend to repay in full, soon as I’m able. ”

“Your accounts…my accounts…” Margot shook her head. “We’re married. What’s mine is yours. Ours. You don’t have to ask for a loan.”

“I want to.” His eyes snapped to hers. “I’m not proud I have to, but I sacrificed my pride a long time ago to keep the distillery afloat.”

He offered nothing else. No excuses, no pleas. Margot found she admired him for it. She could tell this was important to him, even if she didn’t fully understand why. Slowly, she nodded. “Okay then. A loan.”

“Thank you.” He pulled the creaky door open for her. They walked up the stairs in silence, past the portrait of Babette and Richard.

It wasn’t until they were standing outside their separate doors that Merrick spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Margot? Do you know how many jobs Prohibition cost in this state?”

“I…what?” The question caught her off-guard. “I’ve no clue how many distilleries were shut down, but I’m sure hundreds of good men—”

“Hundreds?” He shook his head. “Try thousands. The distilleries are but the tip of the iceberg. What about the barrel cooperages? Bottle manufacturers? Farmers who supplied the grain for bourbon mash? Do you know how much money Kentucky lost in taxable revenue? How many state programs went underfunded before being cut?”

“I…I’ve never thought of it,” she murmured, lowering her lashes.

“Most people don’t,” he whispered. “Most people say this economic depression started the day the market crashed, but a struck match won’t catch ablaze without kindling. And the drys pushing temperance made sure there was plenty of it lying around in this state.”

Margot nodded.

“That inheritance of yours?” He looked away, down the empty corridor.

“It’s a real privilege. I admire your father for everything he’s built.

You should too. I just…” He sighed and cut his gaze back to hers.

“It’s hard for me to hear the way you talk about it sometimes, how you take it for granted.

God knows, I did the same, but if I could go back… ”

Margot reached for his arm, suddenly understanding.

She’d thrown her inheritance in his face more than once, testing him, perhaps seeking to hurt him.

Not because she was ungrateful, but insecure.

It was all she had to offer, the only reason a man like him might desire a woman like her.

“You’re right. I’ve been flippant. I apologize for that. It was never my intent.”

He nodded and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Did you have a chance to review the papers I left you yesterday? On your nightstand?”

She frowned, thinking of the envelope beside the hydrangeas. In the midst of the tumultuous events that unfolded overnight and this morning, it was the furthest thing from her mind. “Er, no. That was from you? I assumed…a letter from my father.”

“It’s a copy of your father’s will, freshly notarized, as well as our marriage contract.”

She smiled. “Sounds dreadfully boring.”

“You ought to read it.”

She searched his serious eyes, uncertain. “I suppose I can make time—”

“If you look it over now, we can discuss it during dinner.”

Margot shook her head. “I can’t possibly have it read before dinner. I’ll look it over before bed tonight, will that suffice?”

“Yes.” He cracked open his door. “If you, er, need any assistance, just give a holler. I know you’re likely used to having a lady’s maid help you clean and dress for dinner.

I’m sorry we don’t…can’t afford to staff one.

It’s been all I could do to protect Xander and Evangeline from unemployment these last few years. ”

Was that the hint of a blush rising in his suntanned cheeks?

“I don’t need a lady’s maid,” she murmured.

That was all going by the wayside these days anyway.

Households were doing more with less, employing fewer staff.

And he did seem to be terribly sensitive about money, her husband.

She was only just beginning to understand the hardship hidden beneath his brusqueness.

She eyed the flickering candles lighting the hallway with wry amusement.

“But I will be turning on the lights in my room. Factor that into your electricity bill tabulations.”

His soft smile and answering chuckle played on loop in Margot’s mind for the rest of the evening.