Page 17 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“If you’d like a fresh start, how about a new name?”
“What?”
“My mother’s name was Margaret,” he said, his toe tapping three times in short succession. “Though amongst company, she often went by Babette, her maiden name.”
“Was?”
“She died. Many years ago.” He crossed his arms and scowled. “But people ’round here still remember her, so is there another name perhaps? A nickname? Xander is so easily confused these days.”
And it’s painful for you,Margaret surmised. She could hear the unspoken words even though he was not brave enough to say them. Haunted by loss…
There are ghosts in this house.The thought came unbidden, sudden. As though planted in her mind by someone else.
“Marge? Margie, perhaps?” he suggested.
She blinked.
“Maggie? Midge? Martha?”
She couldn’t help it; she wrinkled her nose.
“Martha?” he repeated. “Not to your liking?”
“Not particularly,” she whispered.
“What was that?” He stepped closer. “I’m an old man. You’re going to have to speak up.” His tone was close to teasing.
“You’re not that much older than me.”
“You think so?” He closed the remaining distance between them in two quick strides. When she, instinctively, looked downward, his knuckle was on her chin, tilting it back up. “How old do you think I am?”
He was standing very close. Margaret couldn’t blink or look away if she tried. He’d been clean-shaven this morning at the altar, but shadowy black stubble had grown in around his jawline. The muscles there were tight, his teeth clenched.
And his eyes…thoseeyes. Hypnotic. Deep, churning amber. The most tempting melted butterscotch. The only flaws were tiny frown lines etched underneath.
They undoubtedly came from scowling so much.
“Care to guess?” he asked, his voice soft.
Margaret estimated thirty, so to be safe, she said, “Twenty-nine?”
He released her. “Thirty-one,” he grunted, turning away. “And you’re what? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two,” she corrected.
“Perfect. Nearly a whole decade of life between us. Just goldarn perfect.” His hands were on his head as he moved away from her.
Margaret snorted quietly, unsure why this seemed to bother him. Alastair had been nearlythreedecadesher senior. Nine years, by contrast, seemed easily surmountable. Most men married women significantly younger anyway, better chance for children that way—
“Peggy? Marie? Greta?” He spoke the nicknames to the wall, hands still on his head.
Margaret couldn’t help it, she giggled. His histrionics were certainly amusing. She wondered if he was like this all the time.So dramatic.
“I’m running out of options.” When he finally turned to face her, a small smile tilted one-half of his lips from their pout.
A swooping, soaring sensation took root in Margaret’s gut. Maybe she didn’t mind the scowling so much. Not when a grin like that could break through the clouds.
“Margot, are we flying?”
