Page 60 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Babette tossed her head back and laughed.
A blonde whirlwind tumbled into the group. Margot saw her face first in the gilded mirrors on the wall.
Ruth, wearing a shimmering gown of powder blue. She stumbled through the array of poufs and chairs, falling comfortably onto Babette’s settee, their shoulders colliding. She turned, lifting her legs to drape them over her friend’s lap. Ruth’s toes were scandalously bare, clad in neither shoes nor stockings. She reclined, laying her head against the cushions and fanning her face.
Margot registered this power move for what it was. None of the other revelers dared share Babette’s space, breathe her privileged air. But Ruth had an open invitation.
“It’s quite warm this evening,” she pronounced. “I’ve overdone myself dancing.”
Babette smiled and tickled Ruth’s bare toes. “Who could blame you? Mr. Blanchard makes a fabulous dance partner.”
“Yes,” Ruth’s reply was light, her smile mischievous. “I’ll tell you a secret.” Her eyes flicked merrily to Babette. “He’s even more fabulous at necking.”
Babette tipped herself sideways with laughter, swigging champagne and leaning into Ruth. “You mean petting, no doubt. Perhaps that’s why you’re so flushed.”
The crowd hooted as Ruth sputtered.
“Which reminds me.” Babette pushed herself onto an elbow. “Whereismy husband? Richard?” She hollered his name, scanning the crowd.
“Speak of the devil.” Ruth tipped her head as Richard stumbled into view, one arm slung jovially around another man’s shoulder, the other clutching an open bottle of Dravenhearst Distilling bourbon. His shirt was undone nearly to the waist, exposing his chest. His dark hair was distinctly mussed, handsomely so.
“Richard,” Babette called again, capturing both her husband’s attention and that of half the room. “I love you!”
His answering smile was slow and charming. Wickedly so. His arm dropped from his friend’s shoulder, and he pointed to Babette. “I love you too, Mrs. Dravenhearst.”
Good-natured heckles rose from all four corners of the room, along with a certain amount of cooing. Margot was taken aback by the public display. This party was turning all she knew about polite society on its head.
“For heaven’s sake, must you two always be soloud? All the time?” Ruth asked, dropping a hand over her eyes. “I think I’ve a headache coming on.”
Babette grinned but didn’t reply, only lifted her own hand to admire her wedding rings.
At that moment, a brown-haired man sitting alone in a fauteuil armchair rose to his feet and slipped away from the group. Babette’s eyes followed his every move, her smile evaporating.
The man shouldered by Margot as he departed, his silver cufflinks catching thecandlelight.
Racehorses.
It was all Margot needed to see. She followed the mystery man. He snatched a bottle of clear liquor from a mirrored serving tray en route to the exit, dragging a hand through his hair.
Soft footfalls gave chase. The man swung into a dark hallway and leaned against the wood-paneled wall with an immense sigh. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Misery radiated off him in waves.
In a flurry of skirts, Babette rounded the corner and barreled straight into his arms. She swatted the bottle away from his face and pressed her lips in its place.
The kiss lasted a fraction of a second, the man sinking briefly into temptation before rallying. He raised a gentle hand to push her away.
“Babette, stop.” His brown eyes brimmed with hurt. “You don’t get to do this anymore. It’s done. You married him. I don’t even know what I’m doing, coming to these stupid parties…I don’t belong here. Not anymore.”
“You always belong,” she murmured, leaning into him. “Because you belong with me. Where I go, you go.”
“Not anymore.”
“Always.”
The man sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not always. Not anymore,” he repeated. “I’m going to ask Eliza to marry me.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
