Page 59 of The Dravenhearst Brides
No, she wanted only to feel.
To feel his roughened fingers against her, inside her. To feel his hot breath on her cheek, wet hair brushing her forehead. To feel the grass at her back, taste the rain on her lips, hear her own panting breaths rumbling in her ears, louder in her mind than the thunder in the distance. And then there was the pressing warmth of his body, shielding her from the storm overhead, drawing out an altogether different tempest from deep within her. One bigger than anything around them.
An unfamiliar sensation, hot and dizzying, began to build. No longer adrift in the terrifyingly wide world, she was anchored directly to him. Clinging to him. Crying out. Building, crashing, rising. Again and again.
“Merrick,” she gasped. “Merrick!”
He bent down, kissing his way from her neck to her chest. His tongue circled her nipple, took it into his mouth, drawing an arch from her back and a cry from her throat as she surrendered completely.
She shattered beneath him as fast and hot and electric as a bolt of lightning across the sky. The world sharpened around her, then faded.
When her breath returned, Margot wasn’t sure what to say. She trusted neither her voice nor words. She nuzzled into his damp neck, breathing in the smell of leather and bourbon. She wanted to get drunk on it. Drunk on him.
A lifetime of this,she thought faintly. That was what he could give her. What she wanted from him. Desperately.
He collapsed into the grass beside her, exposing her body to the full effect of the rain. She was pelted with it, drenched within a second. A shiver overtook her, but it started inside, not out. Misunderstanding, Merrickrolled back on top of her, taking the rain against his own shoulders again. She reached up, running her fingers through his dark hair to push it out of his eyes. She wanted tosee.
Because the way he was looking at her…
She wasn’t adrift. She wasn’t wounded. She wasn’t half of a missing soul.
No.
Under the piercing clear gaze of his amber eyes, she suspected she was, for the first time in years,whole.
19
July 13, 1901
Darling,
I’m throwing a party tonight. Come.
Love,
Babette
Softgoldlightbehindslumbering lids. The tinkling of glassware, the gentle swell of laughter. A hint of smoke on the air. And somehow, her mouth. Full. Dripping with the taste of molten sin—sweet, decadent, and rich.
Margot opened her eyes to a new world.
She stood inside a high-ceilinged ballroom with mirrors along one wall. A shiny marble floor underfoot reflected light from the chandeliers. Romantically dim. Couches, wingback chairs, cushioned poufs, and curule seats were grouped in intimate bunches around the perimeter. In the center of the room, a dance floor emerged, filled with close-hugging bodies, moving together in a way she’d never seen before. Couples and clusters,skin to skin, swaying amorously to plaintive notes streaming from a single violinist’s bow.
Margot shivered in the cold. Unlike the partygoers, who were dripping in extravagant Edwardian fashions, Margot was clad only in her nightdress with bare feet. The room, thehouse…she distantly registered it as her own. She’d explored this ballroom during her first days at Dravenhearst Manor, had wondered what lavish parties and secrets were locked inside its walls. The things this room must haveseen…
Babette held court in the near corner, lounging carelessly on an ivory settee. Her posture was reminiscent of Merrick’s rakish entitlement, the kind that only came with the certainty of absolute ownership. Ownership of the room, the people, the adoration, the subterfuge. She held it all in the palm of her hand.
Babette’s red hair was unbound, tumbling in loose curls over one bare shoulder. Romantic and heavy. Her neck glittered with half a dozen strands of thick pearls and diamonds, and a glass of half-drunk champagne dangled casually from one hand. She wore a dress the color of a lemon drop, the skirt heavily embroidered with pink roses and violets. Butterflies hid amongst the flowers, their delicate stitched wings spread in flight.
Babette lounged alone, but the couches and chairs around her were filled with men and women in similarly opulent dress, all sharing space, rules of propriety forsaken. One man even sat on the floor, his legs stretched across the Parisian rug, head tipped languidly back on a velvet loveseat. His shirt buttons were half undone, exposing throat and chest, a woman’s hand massaging through his hair. Margot flinched from the brazen display, meeting Babette’s queen-like gaze instead.
She tipped her chin and smiled slowly at Margot, then raised a hand to waggle her fingers. A matching set of diamond rings—engagement and wedding bands—twinkled in the dim light.
Margot waited to see if any of Babette’s sycophants would notice the wave, would look her way. None did. To all but the woman who summoned her, she was invisible. Margot drifted close to hear the swirl of conversation.
“…parties are terribly boring,” a raven-haired beauty was saying, the one whose hands were knuckle deep in the floor lounger’s hair. “Nothing like this.” Her eyes darted around the ballroom. “You and Richard throw the most exquisite soirees, Babette.”
“Babettethrows the most exquisite soirees,” her partner on the floor mumbled, eyes closed in pleasure. “Richard just foots the bill.”
