Page 92 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“You and I are a bit like that. A dream like that coming true.”
That was the moment Margot Dravenhearst fell.
The moment Margot Dravenhearst fell irrevocably in love with her husband.
30
October 14, 1904
Babette, ma petite amour,
Peacocks—these wild ideas of yours!
For you, my muse, I enclose a gown like no other. A visionary dress for a visionary woman.
They won’t be able to take their eyes off you…or their hands.
Your humble servant,
Jean-Phillipe
Thelightingintheboudoir was dim with a crescent moon rising beyond the French doors.
Babette sat at the vanity, the folds of her peacock-feathered gown cascading over the seat, trailing to the floor to coalesce in a puddle around her bare toes. She swept a plump powder puff across her face, dusting it pale and smooth. Turning her skin to porcelain.
“That’s it then, is it?” Babette asked, dropping the puff atop its copper tin. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with him, given yourself away, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “You’re foolish.”
The sound cracked Margot’s spine into a straighter position. “I’m foolish? For loving yourson?” She bit down hard on the final word, her warm breath crystalizing in the frigid air.
“My son is a Dravenhearst,” Babette snapped. “Pretty words drip heavy from their serpent tongues. Smart girls don’t trade their hearts for words alone.”
Margot walked to the settee, then settled there. “Perhaps you’re jealous.” She flounced her nightdress as though it was the finest gown of Parisian silk and Italian lace. “It’s only natural, I suppose all mothers are. When their son gives his heart to another.”
Babette popped her lips into a perfect O, painting them with a berry stain. “And he’s told you so, has he? That he loves you?”
Margot opened her mouth to reply, then closed it.
“Oh, fledgling.” Babette chuckled. The lid of an ornate jewelry box opened next. She withdrew a pair of canary diamonds and fastened them to her ears. “They’re very good at this game, trust me. We must be better.”
“Just because he hasn’t said it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it,” Margot replied, uncertainty rising. Where was Eleanor when she needed her? Ever the romantic, surelyshewould understand. Margot looked left and right, searching.
“She’s not here,” Babette said, flouncing her hair. “Eleanor is dealing with her own ghosts tonight, the most pressing one shaped like the hulking Dravenhearst man warming your bed. You’ll understand yourself soon enough. He’ll turn on you. They all do.”
Down the hall, the wail of a baby sounded—a toddler with a full set of lungs. Babette rubbed her temples.
“Babette!” Pounding rattled the adjoined bedroom door. “Babette, Merrick’s crying.”
“I haveears, Richard,” she bit back. She lowered her breath so only Margot could hear. “That’s what the bloody nursemaid is for.”
“Babette.” More pounding. The tenor of Merrick’s cry rose to a fever pitch.
“I’m gettingdressed,” she shouted back, ripping a strand of pearls from the jewelry box and heaving them at the door. They landed with a startling rattle, the strand slithering like a snake as it settled.
A sigh through the wood, footsteps moving away.
Babette spun on her stool, wide eyes on Margot. Sweet eyes. Alluring eyes. She unfurled her fingers to reveal a pair of silk stockings. “Would you mind? I’d ask him”—she jerked her head toward the door—“but he’s being a dreadful oaf tonight, isn’t he?”
Babette lifted the hem of her feathered gown as though it was the curtain going up at the opera. She extended her pale, creamy leg—toes pointed—for Margot. Meanwhile, her fingers worried at her forehead, forcibly smoothing the lines. “If only he’d stop crying,” she murmured. “Just once. For just one hour.”
