Where Dreams Begin(103)

“Zachary Bronson,” Holly exclaimed in horrified disbelief, “do you mean to tell me that you've somehow coerced the earl and countess of Glintworth into inviting us to their weekend party?”

“I gave them a choice,” he said indignantly. “The fact is, Glintworth is in debt up to his ears, and he's been after me for months to let him invest…” He paused to applaud for Rose as she launched into an unsteady rendition of “Three Blind Mice,” then turned back to Holly. “He's chased me like a dog after a rat about letting him invest in a rail line I'm planning. The other day I told him that in return for letting him have a piece of my business, I wouldn't mind a public demonstration of friendship from a man as estimable as himself. Evidently Glintworth convinced his wife that it would be in their best interests to send us an invitation to her party.”

“So you gave them the choice of entertaining us or facing financial ruin?”

“I wasn't quite that blunt.”

“Oh, Zachary, what a pirate you are!”

He grinned at her disapproving expression. “Thank you.”

“That was not intended as praise! I suspect if someone were drowning in quicksand, you would extort all manner of promises before throwing him a rope.”

He shrugged philosophically. “My sweet, that's the entire point of having the rope.”

As it happened, they did attend the weekend party, and were received by the ton with a sort of grim courtesy that made one thing clear: They were not exactly welcome, but neither were they going to be excluded. Zachary's prediction had been correct. He had countless financial affiliations with ambitious peers who owed him favors—they would not dare to risk his wrath. A man could have fine heritage and a great deal of land, but if he had no money to maintain his estate and his lifestyle, he was eventually bound to lose everything. As the economy lurched slowly away from its agrarian roots, too many impoverished aristocrats had been forced to sell their property and ancient holdings for want of cash, and no associate of Zachary Bronson's cared to find himself in such a position.

There was a time when Holly might have been distressed by the cool reception her former friends gave her, but she was surprised to find that now it did not matter to her at all. She knew the things that were being said about her: that she had been Zachary Bronson's paramour before their marriage, that the wedding had taken place as a result of pregnancy, that she had married him for mercenary reasons, that she had been brought low by association with a family of bad blood. But gossip and social disapproval and the taint of scandal affected her no more than harmless darts flung against a suit of armor. She had never felt so secure, so cherished and loved, and it seemed that her happiness only grew each day.

To her relief, Zachary had slowed the reckless pace of his life, and although he was still constantly busy, his relentless energy did not exhaust her as she had once feared. Even Paula had remarked on the change in him, pleased that he now usually slept eight hours instead of five, and that he spent his evenings home instead of carousing in town. For years he had gone through life as if it were a battle, and now he had begun to regard the world around him with a new sense of comfortable ease.

Zachary drank less and spent fewer hours indoors poring over contracts and figures, choosing instead to spend afternoons accompanying Holly and Rose on picnics or open carriage rides. He purchased a handsome yacht for them to enjoy at water parties, escorted them to pantomimes at Drury Lane and bought a seaside “cottage” with a dozen bedrooms at Brighton for summertime trips to the shore. When friends joked about what a family man he had become, Zachary only smiled and replied that he found no greater enjoyment than spending time in the presence of his wife and daughter. Upper society was clearly puzzled by his behavior. It was generally considered unmanly to dote so openly on one's wife, not to mention a child, and yet no one dared make a critical comment in Zachary's presence. His attitude was written off as yet another of his many idiosyncracies. Holly herself was surprised by the extent of his devotion, but she couldn't help feeling a twinge of pleasure at the obvious jealousy of other women, who teasingly asked what magic potion she had employed to keep her husband so enthralled.

Often Zachary brought friends home for supper, and their table was filled with politicians, lawyers and wealthy merchants who were very different from the company Holly was accustomed to. They talked freely about money, trade, political issues, all the things that would never have been mentioned at aristocratic tables. These people were foreign to her, often rootless and rough-edged, and yet she found them fascinating.

“What a crowd of scoundrels,” she exclaimed to Zachary late one evening, after the last dinner guest had departed. She walked upstairs to their bedroom, while Zachary kept one arm loosely around her waist. “That Mr. Cromby and Mr. Whitton are barely fit for decent society.”

“I know.” Zachary lowered his head repentantly, but she caught his sudden grin. “Seeing them makes me realize how much I've changed since I met you.”

She let out a skeptical snort. “You, sir, are the biggest scoundrel of them all.”

“It's your job to reform me,” he replied lazily, stopping just one step beneath her so that their faces were level.

Holly linked her arms around his neck and kissed the end of his nose. “But I don't want to. I love you just as you are, wicked scoundrelly husband.”