Page 19 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Shall I make you a drink?” He tossed the offer over his shoulder.
Margot frowned. “No, thank you.”
Perhaps her stiff tone alerted him, for he turned to her. “Are you certain? I know your first foray was cursory, but it’s an acquired taste—”
“You assume I desire to acquire it.”
“I assume nothing of your desires,” he murmured, eyes pinned on her as he took his first sip.
Margot swallowed and crossed her arms. “What I’d rather discuss is your absurd concern we can’t afford a side of illumination with our meal.”
“I can see just fine,” he said. “Perhaps you need your vision checked. I can summon a physician if need be.”
“Which would cost a damn sight more than simply flicking a light switch.”
“Ah, but a physician would be a one-time expense, and there is no greater priority than one’s health. But electricity…are you planning to turn on lights all over the house every evening?”
“Only enough to watch where I step in this ghastly place. Wouldn’t want to walk into a suit of armor, would I?”
At this, he cracked a smile. “We’ve no suits of armor, but it is rather ghastly, isn’t it?” He tipped his chin upward to examine the coffered ceiling.
Each square was heavily carved with ornate depictions of foliage and vines. Central to each was a bearded centaur, their horse-like bodies stretched mid-gallop or rearing wildly, human heads tilted heavenward, mouths gaping in perhaps a war cry or benediction. But the longer Margot stared, the more convinced she was of their silent screams.
She shivered and looked away.
“Ghastly,” Dravenhearst repeated. He gestured to the table. “Shall we?”
Margot took her seat and frowned at the lit tapers.
“Consider it romantic,” he suggested, dragging his own chair out with a jarring scrape. He undid his cufflinks and folded up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms with a thick dusting of dark hair. “It’s our wedding night after all.”
“I suppose it is.” Margot released a nervous breath at the reminder. There was simply no way she’d be able to eat. Not a single bite.
The meal progressed in silence. A shaky-handed Xander brought in a platter of roast beef and cooked vegetables. She could do little more than push the food around on her plate, mixing it up to make it appear she’deaten. Her husband spent an inordinate amount of time separating and cutting each item into meticulously even, minute pieces. Only then did he begin to eat, one bite at a time in an even rotation around the plate. Carrot, meat, potato, onion. Carrot, meat, potato, onion. Carrot, meat, potato, onion…
His rigidity was perversely fascinating. What sort of sociopath had she married?
The scent of spun sugar overtook the air as dessert was brought in. It was a generous slice of spongey vanilla cake with finely detailed frosting—white flowers accented with rounded dollops of crimson extract—and a band of jam-like sauce separating the two layers.
“Who made this?” she asked, her mouth watering.
“Xander. It’s one of his specialties. German buttercream with raspberry amaretto jam. He only makes it in the summer, using fresh preserves from Evangeline’s garden.”
“Xander?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. The bumbling butler with the trembling hands created something this detailed, this exquisite?
“Yes, he likes to bake. He’s a damn sight better at baking than he is at cooking. Since the meat didn’t appear to your liking, perhaps this will suit better?”
So he’d noticed her subterfuge. Margot blushed and eyed the cake, tempted.
“It tastes as good as it looks, I assure you.” Dravenhearst chuckled from down the table.
“You mean it isn’t poisoned?” She meant the words as a joke, but as they left her mouth, they rang with a seed of buried, paranoid truth.
His jaw dropped. “Is that why you didn’t eat dinner? Why on earth would I poison you?”
“We both know I’m worth far more to you dead than alive.”
He pushed his chair back from the table in disgust. “That’s a horrible thing to say. What kind of man do you think I am?”
