Page 5 of The Dravenhearst Brides

She’d been reintroduced to Louisville society barely a week later, suddenly the most prized of all the cattle her father owned.

Samuel Greenbrier had an extensive portfolio of assets to secure, one his fey daughter could not possibly manage alone.

It was Elijah, after all—the son—who had been groomed for the job.

But when they’d put Elijah in the ground eight years past, it had never once been suggested Margaret learn, that she be taught in his stead.

God forbid she be educated beyond eligibility.

Her father wished for more time. Margaret wished she could turn back time. She would do so very many things differently.

She cleared her throat. “What is it then?” she asked. “Your opinion.”

“Alastair Pendry will make a fine husband, a fine partner.” Pa hesitated when she pulled a face. “Let me finish, Margaret. I understand your reluctance—I do. The age gap is significant.”

“He has children older than me.”

“He does. But he also has wisdom and life experience, and whether you believe it or not, he cares for you. Deeply. Perhaps not the way you, as a young woman, wish to be cared for. But fondness and respect are not bad places from which to build a marriage.”

Margaret squirmed in her seat, hating how reasonable her father sounded. “And Dravenhearst? A fortune hunter…you suspect he will suck Greenbrier Estates—and me—dry?”

Pa shook his head. “That man has found avenue after avenue to balance his accounts, no matter the personal cost. He’s smart and sparing. He siphoned off what bourbon he could to the George T. Stagg distillery—they’ve a pharmaceutical permit. And to fill in the cracks, he pivoted.”

“Pivoted to what?”

Now it was Pa’s turn to fidget. “It’s best you go into it knowing everything,” he murmured, rubbing his jaw. “He pivoted to horses. He’s a horseman, Margaret. Rides every day, races too.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Hoofbeats roared in her ears. The back of her neck prickled with heat. She closed her eyes.

Blasted Kentucky men and their horses.

“Of course,” Pa was quick to continue, “Alastair is as well. You’ve always known that.

I believe that’s the source of the bad blood between the two.

There’s been some swapping of trainers and sire deals gone sour.

Not to mention, Alastair has always been staunchly dry, and Dravenhearst is inarguably wet. ”

“I see,” she managed, lids fluttering open.

“Dravenhearst had the Kentucky Derby winner three years ago, Gallant Fox. Quite the boon, that colt—they called it the Triple Crown, the three races he won. Earned Dravenhearst a windfall.”

“Horses and hooch,” Margaret grunted, sinking lower in her seat. “He’s a regular philistine.”

“A philistine perhaps, but one with a respectable lineage who’s asked for your hand,” Pa said.

“I won’t force you into a decision, Margaret, and to be frank, I don’t know enough about this man to make any false assurances.

He’s got a good head for business, yes, but I cannot vouch for his character the way I can for Alastair.

Perhaps you can fill in those gaps yourself.

He says you’ve spent time together at several social events? ”

Margaret thinned her lips, sucking them over her teeth. It was a lie. And in Margaret’s experience, where one lie lay, more were likely buried alongside. Even still, she threw her own log on the pyre.

“We have.”

Pa nodded warily.

“He really offered?” Margaret asked, wanting to be sure.

“He did.”

Her heart stuttered.

The temptation to accept any man other than Alastair was strong.

Dravenhearst was young, attractive, had his own estate—a bankrupt estate, perhaps, but that was nothing her own fortune couldn’t change.

She liked the appearance of the package, tied up with a nice symmetric bow.

She focused on that package rather than the undercurrent of unease in her gut.

A shyster, Alastair had called him.

If my eyes are wide open, she reassured herself, I’ll not be played. It’s a business arrangement for both of us. I can maximize my profits as much as he can.

She already knew her answer, had known it the minute Dravenhearst walked through the door. It was like the laudanum on the nightstand—inevitable. Reach and drink.

Margaret drank.

“I choose him. The philistine,” she whispered.

“You’re certain?” Her father’s gaze was penetrating, inscrutable.

“I am.”

Pa rose from his seat. Margaret stood on the wobbly legs of a fawn, hesitant and brand new in the world.

“I’ll send word to him this evening.” Pa offered a weak smile. “Congratulations, Mrs. Dravenhearst.”

She laughed, wholly uncomfortable, and turned to depart. “That will take some getting used to.”

“In time, I’m sure it will suit. If I may give you one final piece of advice?”

Margaret hesitated, one foot already in the hallway. Her fingers curled around the door as she looked back. “You may.” Please.

Her heart ached at the figure her father cut in the lamplight.

Sunken, shadowed cheeks. Blue-bruised, veiny hands.

His smooth voice now gravelly, permanently hoarse from the never-ending coughing fits that seized him every hour of every day.

The currency value of her father’s word skyrocketed the day she learned she would soon lose him.

“Marriage, especially in the early days, is ne’er easy.

Tiptoeing around each other, fitting into a new household…

these are difficult things.” When her father swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed prominently.

His shoulders seemed small, frail beneath the now ill-fitting jacket.

He’d lost more weight. “Love takes time, Margaret. In the early days, when it seems but a distant dream, I’ve found friendship is a very good place to start. ”

Friendship.

Margaret was starved for it. She hadn’t felt a connective thread tie her to anyone but her father in so very long.

She swallowed thickly. “I’ll remember, Pa.”