Page 25 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Darling,

I’m throwing a party tonight. Come.

Love,

Babette

Soft gold light behind slumbering lids. The tinkling of glassware, the gentle swell of laughter. A hint of smoke on the air. And somehow, her mouth. Full. Dripping with the taste of molten sin—sweet, decadent, and rich.

Margot opened her eyes to a new world.

She stood inside a high-ceilinged ballroom with mirrors along one wall.

A shiny marble floor underfoot reflected light from the chandeliers.

Romantically dim. Couches, wingback chairs, cushioned poufs, and curule seats were grouped in intimate bunches around the perimeter.

In the center of the room, a dance floor emerged, filled with close-hugging bodies, moving together in a way she’d never seen before.

Couples and clusters, skin to skin, swaying amorously to plaintive notes streaming from a single violinist’s bow.

Margot shivered in the cold. Unlike the partygoers, who were dripping in extravagant Edwardian fashions, Margot was clad only in her nightdress with bare feet.

The room, the house…she distantly registered it as her own.

She’d explored this ballroom during her first days at Dravenhearst Manor, had wondered what lavish parties and secrets were locked inside its walls. The things this room must have seen…

Babette held court in the near corner, lounging carelessly on an ivory settee.

Her posture was reminiscent of Merrick’s rakish entitlement, the kind that only came with the certainty of absolute ownership.

Ownership of the room, the people, the adoration, the subterfuge.

She held it all in the palm of her hand.

Babette’s red hair was unbound, tumbling in loose curls over one bare shoulder.

Romantic and heavy. Her neck glittered with half a dozen strands of thick pearls and diamonds, and a glass of half-drunk champagne dangled casually from one hand.

She wore a dress the color of a lemon drop, the skirt heavily embroidered with pink roses and violets.

Butterflies hid amongst the flowers, their delicate stitched wings spread in flight.

Babette lounged alone, but the couches and chairs around her were filled with men and women in similarly opulent dress, all sharing space, rules of propriety forsaken.

One man even sat on the floor, his legs stretched across the Parisian rug, head tipped languidly back on a velvet loveseat.

His shirt buttons were half undone, exposing throat and chest, a woman’s hand massaging through his hair.

Margot flinched from the brazen display, meeting Babette’s queen-like gaze instead.

She tipped her chin and smiled slowly at Margot, then raised a hand to waggle her fingers. A matching set of diamond rings—engagement and wedding bands—twinkled in the dim light.

Margot waited to see if any of Babette’s sycophants would notice the wave, would look her way. None did. To all but the woman who summoned her, she was invisible. Margot drifted close to hear the swirl of conversation.

“…parties are terribly boring,” a raven-haired beauty was saying, the one whose hands were knuckle deep in the floor lounger’s hair. “Nothing like this.” Her eyes darted around the ballroom. “You and Richard throw the most exquisite soirees, Babette.”

“Babette throws the most exquisite soirees,” her partner on the floor mumbled, eyes closed in pleasure. “Richard just foots the bill.”

Babette tossed her head back and laughed.

A blonde whirlwind tumbled into the group. Margot saw her face first in the gilded mirrors on the wall.

Ruth, wearing a shimmering gown of powder blue.

She stumbled through the array of poufs and chairs, falling comfortably onto Babette’s settee, their shoulders colliding.

She turned, lifting her legs to drape them over her friend’s lap.

Ruth’s toes were scandalously bare, clad in neither shoes nor stockings.

She reclined, laying her head against the cushions and fanning her face.

Margot registered this power move for what it was. None of the other revelers dared share Babette’s space, breathe her privileged air. But Ruth had an open invitation.

“It’s quite warm this evening,” she pronounced. “I’ve overdone myself dancing.”

Babette smiled and tickled Ruth’s bare toes. “Who could blame you? Mr. Blanchard makes a fabulous dance partner.”

“Yes,” Ruth’s reply was light, her smile mischievous. “I’ll tell you a secret.” Her eyes flicked merrily to Babette. “He’s even more fabulous at necking.”

Babette tipped herself sideways with laughter, swigging champagne and leaning into Ruth. “You mean petting, no doubt. Perhaps that’s why you’re so flushed.”

The crowd hooted as Ruth sputtered.

“Which reminds me.” Babette pushed herself onto an elbow. “Where is my husband? Richard?” She hollered his name, scanning the crowd.

“Speak of the devil.” Ruth tipped her head as Richard stumbled into view, one arm slung jovially around another man’s shoulder, the other clutching an open bottle of Dravenhearst Distilling bourbon.

His shirt was undone nearly to the waist, exposing his chest. His dark hair was distinctly mussed, handsomely so.

“Richard,” Babette called again, capturing both her husband’s attention and that of half the room. “I love you!”

His answering smile was slow and charming. Wickedly so. His arm dropped from his friend’s shoulder, and he pointed to Babette. “I love you too, Mrs. Dravenhearst.”

Good-natured heckles rose from all four corners of the room, along with a certain amount of cooing. Margot was taken aback by the public display. This party was turning all she knew about polite society on its head.

“For heaven’s sake, must you two always be so loud? All the time?” Ruth asked, dropping a hand over her eyes. “I think I’ve a headache coming on.”

Babette grinned but didn’t reply, only lifted her own hand to admire her wedding rings.

At that moment, a brown-haired man sitting alone in a fauteuil armchair rose to his feet and slipped away from the group. Babette’s eyes followed his every move, her smile evaporating.

The man shouldered by Margot as he departed, his silver cufflinks catching the candlelight.

Racehorses.

It was all Margot needed to see. She followed the mystery man. He snatched a bottle of clear liquor from a mirrored serving tray en route to the exit, dragging a hand through his hair.

Soft footfalls gave chase. The man swung into a dark hallway and leaned against the wood-paneled wall with an immense sigh. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Misery radiated off him in waves.

In a flurry of skirts, Babette rounded the corner and barreled straight into his arms. She swatted the bottle away from his face and pressed her lips in its place.

The kiss lasted a fraction of a second, the man sinking briefly into temptation before rallying. He raised a gentle hand to push her away.

“Babette, stop.” His brown eyes brimmed with hurt. “You don’t get to do this anymore. It’s done. You married him. I don’t even know what I’m doing, coming to these stupid parties…I don’t belong here. Not anymore.”

“You always belong,” she murmured, leaning into him. “Because you belong with me. Where I go, you go.”

“Not anymore.”

“Always.”

The man sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not always. Not anymore,” he repeated. “I’m going to ask Eliza to marry me.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“No. You’re not.” Babette pulled back to stare at him, eyes glittering dangerously. “She can’t have you.”

“Why not? Because you say so? It doesn’t work like that.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” The declaration was vehement—loud, sure, and quick. But it was tinged with pain.

Silence roared between them. Babette’s chest rose, fell. She licked her lips.

“I do love you,” he repeated, softer this time. “But you didn’t choose me. You didn’t love me, not enough to choose me—a poor farm boy—over your rich aristocrat. And now—”

“I’m late,” Babette interrupted.

“And…what?” His jaw slackened.

“I’m late,” she repeated, lowering her lashes. “Expecting a child.”

“Congratulations.” His response was dry. The set of his jaw stoic, though worlds broke apart in his eyes. “A Dravenhearst heir. I hope the three of you will be exceedingly happy.”

“It might not be.” Babette’s teeth grabbed her lower lip. “It might not be a Dravenhearst heir.”

“Don’t do this.” He shoved her away again, harder than the first time. She stumbled. “Don’t you dare do this. You can’t say these things, hold me captive on your leash. It’s been months since we—”

“Three months,” she said, righting herself and leveling him with an imperious stare. “You were in my bed two nights before my wedding. We both know it.”

He was quiet for several long moments. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, chest caving, voice cracking. “It’s his either way, Babette. You and I both know that.”

Silence bloomed again.

“I’m going to marry Eliza,” he finally said. “If I don’t choose myself, my own chance at happiness, no one else will. You taught me that.”

Babette clicked her tongue, displeased.

He reached for her cheek, two fingers brushing lightly across her skin. “I’ll think of you often. Whenever someone pours a glass of his goddamn bourbon. Dravenhearst Distilling—my life’s greatest curse.”

She frowned. “I hate bourbon.”

“I know you do. That’s why this has never made a lick of sense. None of it has.”

“I can’t believe she showed you one of her Gomorrah parties.” Ruth, shaking her head, was wide-eyed over her gin rickey the following afternoon.

“Gomorrah party?” Margot wrinkled her nose.

“Surely you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah?” Ruth replied, waving the question away. “Sinful excess and whatnot.”

“But that’s…to host a party with such an indecent theme…” Margot tried to collect her thoughts. Sodom and Gomorrah were two notorious cities from the Bible, destroyed by God’s hellfire and brimstone for their wantonness, for their surplus and indecency. “It’s sacrilegious.”

“Mmm, that’s right.” Ruth took a slow sip, then gave Margot an appraising look. “Merrick mentioned you were religious. Babette wasn’t. She believed herself enlightened, a fierce apostate. And she loved irony.”

“Clearly.” Margot folded her arms, thinking of the half-dressed socialites she’d seen lounging in Babette’s inner circle. Perhaps she should consider burning sage throughout the manor, a purging cleanse of sins long past.

Ruth laughed. “Oh, lighten up, buttercup. I’ll not have your judgment here. What night did she show you? What were we wearing?”

Margot described Babette’s butterfly gown, Ruth’s powder blue dress.

“Oh, yes, I remember that party. It ended with a spectacular row between Richard and Babette. Is that what she showed you?”

Margot frowned. “No, that’s not what I saw at all. She and Richard seemed quite happy. Boisterous, in fact.”

Ruth’s smile dimmed. “That’s how they always were.

Everything about their relationship was the loudest show.

When they were in love and happy, it was larger than life, in your face.

When they weren’t happy…well, their fights were fierce enough to rock the foundation of the house.

But they always came back together in the end. ”

Margot considered this. It didn’t add up with what she’d seen. Both memories Babette had shared were focused more on the brown-eyed mystery man than Richard. Which was curious.

“She must be trying to tell you something with these dreams,” Ruth mused. “And part of me has always wondered…”

“Wondered what?”

Ruth thinned her lips. “No, I shouldn’t.”

Margot gripped her wrist. “If it’s peace she’s searching for, I want to give it to her.

The sooner the better.” Because she couldn’t live in a haunted house forever, and Merrick would never leave his distillery.

She was sure of it. If she wanted to be with him, she had to free this house of its ghosts.

Ruth took a deep breath. “There was always something about Babette’s death that didn’t sit right with me. I knew she had bouts of melancholia, but at her core, she was fierce. Nothing made that woman shrink. Except…sometimes…”

“Sometimes what?”

“Richard. He had a power over her I never understood. The house did too, after we moved here. Theirs was a…volatile relationship. One that ended in tragedy.”

“Are you suggesting Richard drove her to suicide?”

“Suicide? No.” Ruth chewed her bottom lip.

“I’ve always wondered if there was more to the story.

If perhaps Richard did something to hurt her—in the heat of the moment, of course.

He wasn’t a bad man, but he did have a temper.

It runs in the family, you know. In the bloodline. Bad blood will always out.”

“What do you mean?” Margot shifted in her seat.

“Eleanor showed Babette things from her own marriage, things that warranted being leery of the Dravenhearst men. Looking back through the years, I’ve wondered if something happened behind closed doors in that house, in that marriage.

Something I missed.” She looked away, knotting her hands in her lap.

Margot’s heart filled with sympathy. “You were an incredible friend to her. I’ve seen as much with my own eyes. Whatever happened, it doesn’t rest on your shoulders.”

“It’s only…Richard was a different man after Babette’s death. Maudlin, morose. He died a few years later, when Merrick was sixteen. Just wasted away. Guilt wears on people, you know.”

Margot knew a thing or two about guilt. If Babette didn’t commit suicide, if foul play had been involved in her death, it would certainly explain why her soul was restless. And if Richard was somehow involved…

Perhaps what Margot had mistaken as haunting and intimidation—the sleepwalking, the veiled threats with her wedding gown—was something else entirely.

A warning.