Page 5 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Not Eli at all.
“Margot, catch me!”
She blinked, disoriented. “Forgive me.” Against her better judgment, Margaret tossed back another sip, letting the burn in her throat overtake the one in her heart.
She was better prepared, but she’d still swear on her brother’s grave there wasn’t a trace of caramel to be found in this travesty of a drink. Her lips puckered.
“What’s the verdict?” Dravenhearst leaned in. His hand, she realized, remained lightly perched on the tip of her knee. “Have I converted you from a dry to a wet?”
Margaret smirked. Drys were those who supported the temperance movement, the wets those who fought it. Frankly, she’d never given much thought to either side, nor had anyone ever asked her opinion. Alcohol had been outlawed as long as she could remember, simple as that.
Before she could formulate an answer, footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door creaked before slamming open as her father and Alastair strode into the room.
“Margaret?” Pa’s brow furrowed with concern.
“What in blue blazes is going on here?” Alastair demanded.
Dravenhearst remained on his knees, his traitorous hand still resting on her thigh.
Oh, gracious, what a mess. If only she cared.
A deliciously rebellious smile rose on her lips, stretching muscles Margaret had nearly forgotten she possessed.
“Alastair.” Dravenhearst rose to his feet and nodded, his hand vanishing from her leg. The spot quickly grew cold.
The introduction she thought she’d need died on her lips as Alastair’s face curdled with open contempt.
“Merrick.” Alastair nodded in turn, a sharp jerk of his head. His eyes, glimmering possessively, flicked to Margaret.
She detested his presumption with every fiber of her being. A fire kindled to life inside her, one that hadn’t been lit in years and years.
Simply because she sensed it would cause quite a reckoning, Margaret stood and slipped her hand into Dravenhearst’s. His fingers jerked with surprise, but bless his heart, he held fast.
Pa’s face flickered with confusion, Alastair’s with rapidly rising irritation.
“Miss Margaret,” Alastair began, his voice low. “Shall I escort you back to the ballroom now?”
“Miss Greenbrier and I were not done conversing.” Dravenhearst saved Margaret from a response. “I am, most assuredly, capable of seeing her safely back myself.”
“Certainly.” Alastair nodded. “Forgive me, though, if I’m hesitant to leave myfiancéein your notoriously dissolute company, Merrick.”
Dravenhearst’s fingers flinched again within her own, compelling Margaret to speak. “Beg pardon, sir, we arenotaffianced.”
Alastair narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the impression your father has given me.”
At this, Samuel Greenbrier started to cough. All eyes in the room watched him withdraw a handkerchief and give three bellowing hacks into its folds. “Margaret…” he said, wiping his mouth.
His tone—weathered and beaten and defeated—was a slap to her face. It was not a tone Samuel Greenbrier used often, if at all. Margaret drew back, hiding behind Dravenhearst’s shoulder, not wanting to hear another damning word.
“Is the matter indeed settled?” Dravenhearst asked, shifting from foot to foot, looking at Margaret rather than her father.
She blinked twice, disarmed.
“Itissettled,” Alastair interjected.
“If I was asking for your grandiose shyster’s opinion, Alastair, I would have said as much,” Dravenhearst replied, his eyes never leaving Margaret.
Her face burned, unused as she was to such single-minded consideration. She looked away first.
