Page 61 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“No. You’renot.” 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 aDravenhearstheir.”
“Don’t do this.” He shoved her away again, harder than the first time. She stumbled. “Don’t youdaredo this. You can’t say these things, hold me captive on your leash. It’s been months since we—”
“Threemonths,” 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.”
