Page 24 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“I’ll fly, of course.” She huffed, staring him down. “On my witch’s broom. Amazing how quickly a bride turns into a shrew, isn’t it?”
“As quickly as her groom turns into an insensitive pig, I suppose.” The crinkles around his eyes settled in a bemused frown. He sighed. “It’s really that important to you?”
His acknowledgment appeased her. “It is.”
Even during her darkest days—the endlessly dark days confined to the Louisville townhouse with her volatile mother—Sunday mornings had been sacred. Even when her mother had stopped going outside altogether, Pa paid a priest to hold private sermons in their home. It was routine, familiar, and in that way, a comfort.
Merrick sighed again, loosening his grip on her wrist. “I’ll take you.”
“You needn’t. I’m fine going alone,” she lied.
“If you’ll just allow me a few minutes to change out of thedevil’s knickers,” he said, a small smile breaking through, “we’ll be on our way.”
“Swell,” she whispered. Her gaze lingered on his face, on the softening she saw there. His teasing was…not unwelcome.
As he turned to mount the stairs, every muscle in her husband’s taut behind was on display. He vaulted upward on powerful thighs, skipping every other step. Another unexpected tease.
Margot blew out an exhale, trying to pretend she wasn’t terribly, hopelessly, embarrassingly affected.
The devil’s knickers indeed.
“You realize,” Merrick whispered in her ear as they entered the church house, “religion is little more than a political tool for social control?”
“Hush.” She silenced him.
“It’s true. It’s been used throughout history to great effect, most recently by those thumping moralizers behind the temperance movement, the ones who rallied for Prohibition and bankrupted my estate. Fucking Puritans—”
“Merrick!” she hissed, reaching to grip his hand. “Language.You are in a house of God.”
“Not by my own volition.” He glanced nervously around the room, halting his steps.
Margot quickly realized why, spotting a familiar face just up the aisle.
Alastair.
His gaze roved her from head to toe, settling on Margot and Merrick’s joined hands. She couldn’t read his expression, but he lifted his fingers in a stilted wave.
She pitched her voice for Merrick’s ears alone. “Shall we be polite and say hello?”Please don’t make me say hello.
“No. Old Kentucky blood feuds run deep. I have nothing to say to Alastair. Do you?”
She shook her head, relieved.
“Good.” Merrick tightened his grip on her hand. It was comforting, a squeeze from an ally. “Then perhaps we should take our seats and wait for the show to begin.”
Margot snorted as she stepped into the nearest pew. “It’s not an opera or the ballet, Merrick. It’s Sunday service.”
He watched as she settled on her knees, folded her hands under her chin, and turned her attention forward.
“Oh, love.” He chuckled. “You are woefully naive. This is the greatest show in town. And that man”—he nodded toward Father Simmons, stepping out of the vestibule—“is chief charlatan.”
She sighed, gaze still pinned ahead. “Does it exhaust you?”
“What?”
“Being so ornery all the time.”
“Horses are ornery,” Merrick answered. “I’m merely pragmatic.”
