Page 94 of The Dravenhearst Brides
No quip came. There was always a quip, and that was what worried Margot the most. Not Babette’s shocked eyes. Not the small gasp of fear betrayed by her lips. It was the loss of her voice.
“Tell me you love me,” he pleaded, pinning her shoulders to the wall. A trapped butterfly. “Onlyme.”
“Let go of me.”
“Tell me he’s nothing,” Richard begged, shaking her. “Tell me you won’t see him anymore. Promise me.”
Babette raised her chin, a fierce glint in her eye. Margot knew the answer before she said it, saw the shape of the word formed by her lips.
“No.”
Only the sound of breathing. Panting. Harsh. Guttural. Their faces mere inches apart.
“It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Me. Your son. Pieces on a chessboard.”
“I prefer checkers.”
“Goddammit!” He slammed her back again, and his hands flew to her throat. Squeezing.
Margot flew away from the wall.
“You are not to see him, not to look at him. Not to breathe air in the same room as him. I won’t ask again.”
Margot was at Richard’s shoulder now, clawing. Trying to haul him away, but her fingers plunged straight through his suit jacket. Flesh moving through frigid vapor, nothing to grip.
Not real, not real, not real.
Babette was turning purple. It seemed very real indeed.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Margot screamed, slapping ineffectively at his hulking, transparent shoulder. Such a large man. Strong as an ox.
Strong in all the same ways as her own husband, she realized, stumbling back in shock. She’d never thought of Merrick that way before, in terms of the damage he could inflict.
But those hands…Merrick’s hands…circling the pale throat of a redheaded woman…
Weak, fading, Babette struck. Her slap hit true, right across Richard’s chin. It was enough to snap him from his stuporous rage. He released her, staggering away. Staring at his hands in horrified shock.
Babette crumpled against the wall, gasping.
“What have you done to me?” Richard whispered, fingers shaking.
Babette gathered herself and stood to her full height. Spine unflinching, eyes blazing. A single peacock feather slipped loose from her magnificent gown and drifted to the floor.
“I didn’t know you had it in you. I’ll admit it, you almost had me fooled,” she said, fingers rising to her throat. “I wanted you to be different.”
“Babette, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re exactly the same as your father,” she spat. To hide her eyes—eyes filling with tears—she crossed the room to her vanity. Dug through her ornate box until she’d pulled a thick collar of jewels from its depths. Five strands wide. She slipped it around her neck, choker tight, to conceal the bruising already leaching through.
Richard fell to his knees. His voice was a plaintive whisper. “Babette.”
When she turned, her eyes were clear, hard. She grabbed his cravat, yanking his head up. “You may be just like your father, but I amnothinglike your mother. Make no mistake, I won’t stand for it.” She released him and strode to the door, pausing in the frame. “Lay a single finger on me ever again, and I’ll do what she should have done. I’ll kill you myself.”
Margot gasped.
“Babette,” Richard cried, rising to his feet.
They both followed the lady of the house into the hall, Richard storming, Margot fretting.
