Page 3 of The Dravenhearst Brides

She recalled the coarseness of his hand in hers, cataloged the light crinkle lines around his tawny brown eyes. His black hair was thick and full, not a trace of balding or silver in sight. He was older than her but younger than Alastair. Significantly.

Margaret sniffed the air directly above the proffered flask, and the harsh burn of alcohol seared her nostrils. She coughed twice; whatever he was offering was strong. “You got a medicinal license for that?”

“Actually, Miss Greenbrier, I do. But of far greater import is your abominable dismissal of the finest bourbon in the state of Kentucky. You wound me.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes and snorted, amused. “Is this the infamous Dravenhearst bourbon, then?”

“Ah.” He placed a hand to his heart in mock-supplication. “You’ve heard of us?”

Against her best intentions, she let out a tiny giggle.

“Now then,” he continued, smiling softly, “I’m almost afraid to offer again, since you’ve clearly no idea how to properly sniff, let alone sip, quality bourbon, but would you care for a taste?”

Hearing the dulcet drawl of his words, taking in the rakishly charming grin on his full lips, Margaret suddenly thought she just might. Her hand lifted, disconnected from her body and, most certainly, her mind.

The flask was warm in her grip.

Warm from the heat of his body, she realized. Her gaze swept over his domineering physique, so incongruous with his purported station and name. She gave a second sniff, this one small, dainty even.

“Notes of smoke and clove, upfront on your palate,” he murmured, his focus darting between his flask and her lips. “With a smooth caramel finish.”

It sounded delightful, like a sugar-and-spice childhood dream. Captivated, Margaret tipped back the flask and took a hearty pull.

“Whoa!” He grabbed for the bottle as the harsh burn flooded Margaret’s mouth and nostrils. She fought the urge to spit it straight back out.

What a charlatan this man was, full of falsely honeyed words. She coughed violently as the bourbon scorched its way down her throat. This disgrace of a drink had just singed her tastebuds for the next week!

“You’re a filthy liar,” she managed between gags.

He released a half-suppressed chuckle. “Oh, am I now?”

“Indeed, sir, you are.”

“First you impugn my family’s lifeblood—our heirloom bourbon recipe—next you malign my reputation?”

“I’m sure it’s hardly a first for either.”

“Well.” He leaned back on his haunches, a move perhaps intended to give her breathing room.

But her eyes swept over his powerfully built thighs, and she lost her breath as quickly as it returned.

“You may be right on the second count, certainly not on the first. Our bourbon, at least, is above reproach.”

“I cannot honestly say I agree.”

“It’s an acquired taste. Perhaps I can convince you to take a second sip? Much smaller this time.” He tilted his head. “Your wrist will thank you for it, if nothing else.”

Margaret had limited experience with alcohol.

Prohibition had begun when she was only nine, but she and Elijah had snuck a taste or two of their parents’ moonshine on occasion, enough for Margaret to know it was of the second sip she had to beware.

The second always went down smoother than the first. The second led to a third and a fourth, until suddenly you were rolling around on the basement floor, giggling with your twin brother, not a care in the world…

“Margot, are we flying?”

“We’re a pair of blue jays!” She laughed, spreading her arms.

“Miss Greenbrier?” The handsome devil with the sweet bourbon eyes placed a hand on her knee.

Not Eli at all.

“Margot, catch me!”

She blinked, disoriented. “Forgive me.” Against her better judgment, Margaret tossed back another sip, letting the burn in her throat overtake the one in her heart.

She was better prepared, but she’d still swear on her brother’s grave there wasn’t a trace of caramel to be found in this travesty of a drink. Her lips puckered.

“What’s the verdict?” Dravenhearst leaned in. His hand, she realized, remained lightly perched on the tip of her knee. “Have I converted you from a dry to a wet?”

Margaret smirked. Drys were those who supported the temperance movement, the wets those who fought it. Frankly, she’d never given much thought to either side, nor had anyone ever asked her opinion. Alcohol had been outlawed as long as she could remember, simple as that.

Before she could formulate an answer, footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door creaked before slamming open as her father and Alastair strode into the room.

“Margaret?” Pa’s brow furrowed with concern.

“What in blue blazes is going on here?” Alastair demanded.

Dravenhearst remained on his knees, his traitorous hand still resting on her thigh.

Oh, gracious, what a mess. If only she cared.

A deliciously rebellious smile rose on her lips, stretching muscles Margaret had nearly forgotten she possessed.

“Alastair.” Dravenhearst rose to his feet and nodded, his hand vanishing from her leg. The spot quickly grew cold.

The introduction she thought she’d need died on her lips as Alastair’s face curdled with open contempt.

“Merrick.” Alastair nodded in turn, a sharp jerk of his head. His eyes, glimmering possessively, flicked to Margaret.

She detested his presumption with every fiber of her being. A fire kindled to life inside her, one that hadn’t been lit in years and years.

Simply because she sensed it would cause quite a reckoning, Margaret stood and slipped her hand into Dravenhearst’s. His fingers jerked with surprise, but bless his heart, he held fast.

Pa’s face flickered with confusion, Alastair’s with rapidly rising irritation.

“Miss Margaret,” Alastair began, his voice low. “Shall I escort you back to the ballroom now?”

“Miss Greenbrier and I were not done conversing.” Dravenhearst saved Margaret from a response. “I am, most assuredly, capable of seeing her safely back myself.”

“Certainly.” Alastair nodded. “Forgive me, though, if I’m hesitant to leave my fiancée in your notoriously dissolute company, Merrick.”

Dravenhearst’s fingers flinched again within her own, compelling Margaret to speak. “Beg pardon, sir, we are not affianced.”

Alastair narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the impression your father has given me.”

At this, Samuel Greenbrier started to cough. All eyes in the room watched him withdraw a handkerchief and give three bellowing hacks into its folds. “Margaret…” he said, wiping his mouth.

His tone—weathered and beaten and defeated—was a slap to her face. It was not a tone Samuel Greenbrier used often, if at all. Margaret drew back, hiding behind Dravenhearst’s shoulder, not wanting to hear another damning word.

“Is the matter indeed settled?” Dravenhearst asked, shifting from foot to foot, looking at Margaret rather than her father.

She blinked twice, disarmed.

“It is settled,” Alastair interjected.

“If I was asking for your grandiose shyster’s opinion, Alastair, I would have said as much,” Dravenhearst replied, his eyes never leaving Margaret.

Her face burned, unused as she was to such single-minded consideration. She looked away first.

“Shyster?” Alastair cackled. “Takes one to know one, eh, Merrick?” He turned to Samuel. “The only shyster in this room is Mr. Dravenhearst. I suggest we gather Margaret and return to the ballroom posthaste. Do not entertain—”

“The matter is not settled,” Pa interrupted, his attention focused on Dravenhearst, assessing. “But it will be. Imminently. If you’ve something to say, boy, the time has come.”

The temperature in the room skyrocketed. Margaret’s heart stuttered.

Dravenhearst licked his lips. He couldn’t possibly have anything to say, Margaret could tell that much with the barest glance. It almost hurt more, to have this carrot dangled before her at the eleventh hour. Her desperation had never been higher.

A slow grin spread across Alastair’s face. “Cat got your tongue, Merrick? I suppose not even the Greenbrier fortune and a pretty face can get those bachelor legs of yours down the aisle.”

“Margaret.” Pa stepped forward, prepared to take control of the spiraling situation. “Do you even know this man?”

She wasn’t certain what prompted her to lie, but fib Margaret did. Straight through her teeth. “Of course.”

“But you…you’ve never mentioned…” Pa rubbed his chin. “Where did you meet?”

Margaret was quick. “At the Collingsworth party, was it not?” She turned to Dravenhearst, her eyes wide, pleading.

“Indeed it was.” A lazy grin overtook his features. The bastard was enjoying this. “I remember the evening well. You wore a midnight blue gown and this very same necklace, if I’m not mistaken.” He brushed a finger over the pearls, and a shiver ran through Margaret, straight to her toes.

How did he…?

“We met again at the Feinstein home,” he added. “You wore emerald green that evening, a stunning complement to your red hair.” His gaze traced her face. A flicker of intimacy passed through his eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat.

But Margaret had seen. It puzzled her, this game he was playing. She couldn’t even begin to ascertain his motives.

Dancing with the devil, she realized suddenly. That’s what I’m doing.

“Yes,” she murmured, unable to manage anything more. Because she had worn midnight blue and pearls to the Collingsworth gala, and emerald to the Feinstein’s. But how on God’s green earth did this man know that?

Alastair roused himself for a final parting shot.

“Samuel,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “We’re old friends.

I understand the situation you find yourself in, but you’ve always said your greatest fear was a fortune hunter seeking claim to your daughter.

You’ve said it since the day she was born and placed in your arms.” Alastair’s gaze was steady as it flicked to Dravenhearst, then back.

“I’m telling you, on my honor, there is one standing in this room today, make no mistake.

I implore you, as your friend and as someone who loves Margaret dearly, to refuse to consider his impertinence. ”

“If the man intends to ask for my daughter’s hand,” Pa said, “he may do so anytime. Properly. We’ll be accepting calls tomorrow.” His eyes flitted to Dravenhearst’s with significance. “For now, Margaret and I will take our leave.”

Margaret lowered her lashes as she slipped past Dravenhearst. His gaze burned into her spine as she crossed the room, but she hadn’t the courage to look back to meet it. She could ask nothing more of him. Tonight’s game had gone far enough.

As she departed on her father’s arm, Margaret’s ears picked up hushed tones.

“You’re a damn fool, boy,” Alastair murmured. “You can’t bring that girl to Dravenhearst Distilling as your bride, and you know it.”

“I never said I was going to,” came the cool response.

“See that you don’t. The only thing more foolish than me courting Margaret is you courting her.”