Page 4 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Then forgive me for disregarding your opinion on the matter.” She offered a half smile. “Your chivalrous obligation has been met, Mr. Dravenhearst. My well-being ascertained, you may return to the party with a clear conscience. Please, go drink and dance with the other debutantes. You’ll be missed.”
He chuckled and stepped into the room. “There’s not a single gal in there worth dancing with, and certainly nothing I want to drink, Miss Greenbrier…hasn’t been since January 17, 1920.” With a shifty smile, he produced a hip flask from under his jacket. “Which reminds me, physician or not, I’ve got the best cure around for that wrist.” He unscrewed the cap and offered it to her, crouching on bended knee.
It was, she was forced to admit, a rather heady sight—this self-assured man on his knees before her. With closeness came sudden awareness of his sheer size, of the suit jacket pulling slightly at his shoulders, straining to contain the broad swell underneath. His shirt was the same, stretched just a hair too taut, catching on ridges of muscle upstanding gentlemen had no business having.
He needed a new suit, one that fit properly.
She recalled the coarseness of his hand in hers, cataloged the light crinkle lines around his tawny brown eyes. His black hair was thick and full, not atrace of balding or silver in sight. He was older than her but younger than Alastair. Significantly.
Margaret sniffed the air directly above the proffered flask, and the harsh burn of alcohol seared her nostrils. She coughed twice; whatever he was offering wasstrong. “You got a medicinal license for that?”
“Actually, Miss Greenbrier, I do. But of far greater import is your abominable dismissal of the finest bourbon in the state of Kentucky. You wound me.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes and snorted, amused. “Is this the infamous Dravenhearstbourbon, then?”
“Ah.” He placed a hand to his heart in mock-supplication. “You’ve heard of us?”
Against her best intentions, she let out a tiny giggle.
“Now then,” he continued, smiling softly, “I’m almost afraid to offer again, since you’ve clearly no idea how to properlysniff, let alone sip, quality bourbon, but would you care for a taste?”
Hearing the dulcet drawl of his words, taking in the rakishly charming grin on his full lips, Margaret suddenly thought she just might. Her hand lifted, disconnected from her body and, most certainly, her mind.
The flask was warm in her grip.
Warm from the heat of his body,she realized. Her gaze swept over his domineering physique, so incongruous with his purported station and name. She gave a second sniff, this one small, dainty even.
“Notes of smoke and clove, upfront on your palate,” he murmured, his focus darting between his flask and her lips. “With a smooth caramel finish.”
It sounded delightful, like a sugar-and-spice childhood dream. Captivated, Margaret tipped back the flask and took a hearty pull.
“Whoa!” He grabbed for the bottle as the harsh burn flooded Margaret’s mouth and nostrils. She fought the urge to spit it straight back out.
What a charlatan this man was, full of falsely honeyed words. She coughed violently as the bourbon scorched its way down her throat. This disgrace of a drink had just singed her tastebuds for the next week!
“You’re a filthy liar,” she managed between gags.
He released a half-suppressed chuckle. “Oh, am I now?”
“Indeed, sir, you are.”
“First you impugn my family’s lifeblood—our heirloom bourbon recipe—next you malign my reputation?”
“I’m sure it’s hardly a first for either.”
“Well.” He leaned back on his haunches, a move perhaps intended to give her breathing room. But her eyes swept over his powerfully built thighs, and she lost her breath as quickly as it returned. “You may be right on the second count, certainly not on the first. Our bourbon, at least, is above reproach.”
“I cannot honestly say I agree.”
“It’s an acquired taste. Perhaps I can convince you to take a second sip? Much smaller this time.” He tilted his head. “Your wrist will thank you for it, if nothing else.”
Margaret had limited experience with alcohol. Prohibition had begun when she was only nine, but she and Elijah had snuck a taste or two of their parents’ moonshine on occasion, enough for Margaret to know it was of the second sip she had to beware. The second always went down smoother than the first. The second led to a third and a fourth, until suddenly you were rolling around on the basement floor, giggling with your twin brother, not a care in the world…
“Margot, are we flying?”
“We’re a pair of blue jays!” She laughed, spreading her arms.
“Miss Greenbrier?” The handsome devil with the sweet bourbon eyes placed a hand on her knee.
