Where Dreams Begin(2)

“Yes, it is,” Holly admitted, suddenly aware of the persistent pain in her temples and the back of her skull, the throbbing that warned of worse pain to come. She had never had a megrim in her life until George's passing, but they had started after his funeral. The severe headaches appeared unexpectedly and often drove her to bed for two and three days at a time.

“Shall I escort you home?” Thomas asked. “I'm certain that Olinda would not mind.”

“No,” Holly said swiftly, “you must stay here and enjoy the ball with your wife, Thomas. I'm perfectly able to return home unescorted. In fact, I would prefer it.”

“All right.” He smiled at her, and the similarity of his features to George's made her heart wrench painfully and caused the throbbing in her head to sharpen. “At least allow me to send for the family carriage.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Shall I wait in the entrance hall?”

Thomas shook his head. “I fear there is such a crush of vehicles outside that it may take several minutes for ours to come to the forefront. In the meanwhile, there are several quiet places for you to wait. As I recollect, there is a nice little parlor that opens onto a private conservatory. You'll find it past the entrance hall, along the hallway to the left of the curving staircase.”

“Thomas,” Holly murmured, touching his sleeve lightly and managing a wan smile. “What would I do without you?”

“You'll never have to find out,” he replied gravely. “There is nothing I would not do for George's wife. The rest of the family feels the same. We'll take care of you and Rose. Always.”

Holly knew she should have taken comfort in his words. However, she could not rid herself of the troubling awareness of being a burden for George's family. The annuity left to her at George's death was so small as to be inconsequential, making it necessary for her to sell the elegant white-columned house they had occupied. She was grateful for the Taylors' generosity in giving her two rooms in their family residence. She had seen the way other widows were shunted aside, or compelled to marry again, just so a family could be rid of them. Instead, the Taylors treated her as a beloved guest and, even more, as a living monument to George's memory.

As Holly moved along the wall of the drawing room, her left shoulder blade suddenly met the hard, gilded edge of the ornately molded doorframe. Blindly she darted through the open doorway, into the keyhole-shaped entrance hall of the mansion belonging to Lord Bellemont, the earl of Warwick. The town estate was designed for house parties in which politics were plotted, marriages were engineered and fortunes were changed. Lady Bellemont possessed a well-deserved reputation as an expert hostess, inviting the perfect mixture of aristocrats, politicians and accomplished artists to her balls and soirees. The Taylors liked and trusted Lady Bellemont, and had deemed it appropriate for Holly to reenter society at the first ball of the new Season.

The circular space of the entrance hall was flanked by two immense curving staircases. Conveniently situated on the ground floor, the main rooms of the mansion branched into clusters of parlors and visiting areas that opened onto outdoor conservatories or small paved gardens. Anyone wishing for a small private meeting or romantic rendezvous could find a secluded place with no difficulty.

Breathing easier with every step that took her farther away from the crowded drawing room, Holly strode along the hallway toward the parlor that Thomas had suggested. The skirts of her corded silk evening dress, dyed in a shade of blue so dark as to approximate black, swished heavily around her legs as she walked. The hem of the gown was weighted with wadded and stitched bunches of silk and crepe that gave it the currently fashionable fullness, so different from the light, floating skirts of the gowns that had been in style before George had died.

The parlor door was half-open, and the room was unlit. However, clear icy light filtered through the windows, illuminating the parlor just enough that Holly could see without the aid of a candle. A pair of curving French armchairs and a table occupied one corner, while a few musical instruments reposed in mahogany stands nearby. Fringed velvet swags shrouded the windows and the top of the fireplace mantel. The thick carpet underfoot, patterned with floral medallions, muffled her footsteps.

Slipping inside the shadowy, quiet space, Holly closed the door, put a hand to the sung banded waist of her gown and gave a long sigh.

“Thank God,” she whispered, relieved beyond measure to be alone. How strange…she had become so accustomed to solitude that she was uncomfortable in a crowd. She had once been socially adept, fun-loving, at ease in any situation…but that had been because of George. Being his wife had given her a confidence that she now sorely lacked.

As she wandered deeper into the room, a cool draft wafted over her, making her shiver. Although her boatshaped neckline was modestly high, nearly covering her collarbone, her throat and the tops of her shoulders were exposed to the open air. Seeking the source of the breeze, Holly realized that the parlor opened onto a conservatory leading to the outside gardens, and that the French doors had been left ajar. She went to close the doors, then hesitated with her hand on the cold brass knobs as an odd feeling came over her. As she stared through the frosted-glass door panes, she felt her heartbeat escalate to an uncomfortable speed, until it pounded and throbbed in every limb.

She had the feeling of being poised at the edge of a cliff with endless air below her. The urge to withdraw quickly into the safety of the parlor, perhaps even back to the overheated clamor of the drawing room, came over her in a strong surge. Instead, she gripped the doorknobs tightly in her palms until they turned slick and hot in her perspiring palms. The night lured her outward, away from everything safe and known.