Page 8 of The Dravenhearst Brides

“Er…what?” She turned a pair of wide doe eyes to Dravenhearst.

“Do you ride?” he repeated, slowly this time.

With every passing second she stared, mouth gaping, Dravenhearst’s eyebrows rose closer to his hairline. He must think her mad. Or at best, a simpleton.

Say something, you ninny. Anything.

“No,” she finally managed. There was a story, but it died on her lips. She felt no closeness, no warmth for this man, nothing to encourage her trust.

“Pity.” Disappointment followed by dismissal flickered through his eyes.

I did, a small voice inside screamed. I did ride. I can. Quite well. Once…

“Margot, catch me!”

She swayed on the spot and whipped her head to the right. She was used to the ghostly voice in her mind, but she’d heard it aloud this time, clear as day. Hoofbeats too, fast approaching.

“What’s wrong?” Dravenhearst turned to her, worry brewing in his amber eyes. Just over his shoulder, cresting the gentle hilltop, a horse appeared. First a pair of pointed ears, then beady eyes, a nickering snout, gleaming chestnut body. Strong, powerful.

Deadly.

“H-h-horse.” She pointed.

“Oh.” He turned, the worry in his expression transforming into a crinkled smile. “That’s Omaha, our Derby prospect for next spring. He’s magnificent, no?”

Not quite the descriptor Margaret would have chosen.

“That’s Julian astride. He’s training to jockey.”

“Indeed?” Her response was faint. She barely cast Julian-the-jockey a glance, so focused was she on the beast. With every step the horse neared, Margaret pulled back. “Perhaps…please, shall we meet the household staff?” She dragged him away.

An ancient-looking man with spotty tufts of white hair growing from the most improbable places on his head stepped forward. The hand he extended to Dravenhearst was covered in liver spots and had an unmistakable tremor.

“Merrick, many happy returns.” The man’s voice was gravelly, a bit garbled even. “And ye’ve brought Babette?” His milky eyes gleamed as he turned to Margaret. “Wherever have you been, your ladyship? Reckon you must be tired. I’ve prepared your room, just as you prefer it—”

“Xander, no,” Dravenhearst hissed. “This is Margaret, my wife.”

“Yes, yes…Margaret. Precisely,” the man chirped, eyes alight with fervor.

In the background, the two female staff members raised hands to their mouths in synchronized surprise.

Margaret leaned in and tipped her lips toward her husband’s ear. “Happy returns? Is your birthday upcoming?”

“No.” He turned helplessly to her. “Margaret, this is Xander Kent, our head of household. He’s been at the estate for nigh on sixty years, since he was a boy.” He lowered his voice to a pitch for her ears alone. “And his memory comes and goes a bit these days, easily confused.”

“I see.” She tilted her head, fascinated by the tiny outcroppings of hair spurting from the man’s knobby ears, not to mention the absolute riot of his overgrown and tangled eyebrows. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent.”

“Oh, Babette, surely—”

“Xander, sugar?” A diminutive woman with wiry, tanned forearms and a thick mane of silver hair stepped forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulders with care.

The endearment had dripped from her lips with such a thick southern twang it sounded more like shugga.

She continued, her voice deep and throaty, “This is Merrick’s new bride, remember? Merrick, not Richard.”

Dravenhearst’s lips tightened and thinned. The beastly horse gave a soft snort, and Margaret blew out a nervous exhale. The sun beat down on the back of her neck, hotter than hot.

The silver-haired woman turned her warm eyes to Margaret. “Hello, I’m Evangeline, Xander’s wife. I tend to the gardens and grounds of the estate.”

“Oh.” Margaret half-heartedly raised her bouquet, her grip on the stems sweaty. “Mr. Dravenhearst…er, Merrick…” She floundered, unsure what to call the man standing beside her and feeling quite embarrassed.

I’m so hopelessly out of my depths here.

“Merrick,” he whispered, staring pointedly at the dirt.

“R-r-right.” Margaret’s voice shook. She swiped at the sweat beading across her upper lip, then the prickles at the back of her neck. “He mentioned you made my bouquet. The magnolia and myrtle…it’s beautiful. Perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Evangeline murmured, her hand running gently but possessively up and down Xander’s arm.

Between the groundskeeper’s falsely cheery smile and the butler’s dazed eyes, his mouth half-open in bewilderment, a most unsettling feeling took over Margaret.

It started in her toes and ran like a live wire straight to her gut.

Something wasn’t right. Sick to her stomach, she turned to Dravenhearst and was met with yet another weak smile. A blatant facade.

What is going on here?

“A bride, Merrick? Really?” The final member of the staff stepped forward, her stride powerful enough to lightly fan the few stubborn wisps that dared escape her tight blonde chignon. She wore jodhpurs, riding boots, and a tone dripping with disdain. “And one who looks a near replica of—”

“Ruth, not now.”

The woman—Ruth—narrowed her eyes. They were lined in kohl, blue and sharp. “When then? After she’s settled into the house, comfy and cozy and—”

“Goddammit, Ruth,” Dravenhearst growled. “I said not now.” His voice took on a new tenor, an icy cold Margaret hadn’t imagined it could hold. The snap of a shotgun being cocked and aimed.

Suddenly, the heated flush of the sun on her neck became too much. Tiny black spots appeared in her vision.

No. Please.

She moved a fluttering hand to fan herself. A futile effort.

“Ruth, you’re being rude,” Evangeline whispered, warning.

Ruth laughed, all pearlescent teeth and dimples, and thrust her hand forward. There was such confidence, even imperiousness, to the gesture, Margaret was unsure whether she was worthy to take it. She hesitated, her vision tunneling. She was so very hot.

“I’m Ruth Auclaire, the equestrian trainer.”

Equestrian. Horses.

A faint whinny beside her.

“I’m…” Margaret gasped, her hand jolting forward even as her vision blacked out. Her next breath came in a halting, shuddering gasp as full panic set in. “I’m…I’m…”

Margaret.

The world disappeared. It was almost merciful when it went.

The last thing Margaret heard before she surrendered was a shocked gasp and a strangled cry from her unassuming husband’s lips as she went down in a flurry of bridal skirts.

The magnolia bouquet fell from her slackened grip, crushed unceremoniously beneath her knees into the dirt.