Page 20 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“One who marries a woman he’s just met for her money.”
He fell silent. To punctuate her point, Margot sliced off the tip of the cake and lifted it to her lips. He watched, mesmerized. She gave it a delicate sniff before taking a bite. Raspberry exploded on her tongue.
As she chewed, he spoke again, his tone flat. “Your father didn’t discuss the terms of his estate with you, did he?”
“I’m an only child, Mr. Dravenhearst—”
“Merrick.”
She halted. It felt so intimate, his first name.
“My name is Merrick,” he repeated. “It’s going to be an awfully long lifetime together if you insist on using my surname for the entirety.”
Merrick.She rolled the name around in her mind, tasting before she released it.“I’m an only child,Merrick. With a rapidly ailing, exorbitantly rich father. I know what I stand to inherit, as do you. We needn’t pretend otherwise.”
He leaned back in his chair, placing both hands on the armrests. Slowly, he drummed his fingers, one by one. When he finally spoke, his voice was deathly serious. “You know, I once stood to inherit an awful lot myself. Amazing how quickly things change.” He gestured toward the window and the distillery beyond it. “I had more than fifty men in my employ thirteen years ago. On January 17, 1920, I sent them all home. Jobless. I—and they—learned very quickly how money can disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
Margot sighed, sufficiently chastised. “I didn’t mean—”
“You know what?” He rose from his seat. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you’re tired. I know I am.”
He looks it,she realized. The flickering candlelight cast his face in long shadows. His eyes pooled with depth, and he appeared a decade older than his thirty-one years. Infinitely more worldly than she in so many ways.
Margot’s fears for the evening, for her wedding night, returned in full force. She nodded, barely able to summon words. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’m quite tired.”
“Shall we?”
Merrick took her arm as they left the room. His stride was purposeful, his grip on her elbow possessive. He steered her up the stairs, down the long hall to her bedroom.
Her hands began to tremble; she was certain he felt it against his arm. Dinner had not gone well, which was largely her own fault. She hadn’t been trying to pick a fight. She wanted to find common ground with him. She wanted…
They reached her bedroom door. She paused, waiting for him to take the lead. The only sound in the hallway was the blasted clock.
Tick, tick, tick.
“Well.” His voice came out as a low rumble that curled Margot’s toes. “I suppose this is good night.”
Good night?
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. There was only his slow inhale and thetick, tick, tickof the clock.
He stepped away from her. Infinitesimally but quite clearly.
She blinked, uncertain. Maybe she was supposed todosomething? Say something? Her lips were glued shut.
“Good night, Margot.”
It was too dark for her to make out the expression in his eyes. He was utterly unreadable.
“Where is your room?” she finally managed.
“Just there.” He nodded at the door beside hers. “The rooms are adjoined, should you need anything.”
She tilted her head. So she was supposed to say something after all. Now.
Margot summoned every ounce of courage. She was nervous, yes. She’d misstepped today. Several times. Badly. But she was filled with longing, pure and undiluted, for what her marriage could be. What she wanted it to be.
He doesn’t have to be a stranger,she thought, running her eyes over his form in the dark hallway. Her gaze lingered on the strong swell of his shoulders.He could be mine. This could besomething.
