Where Dreams Begin(54)

Despite his swollen mouth, Warrington smiled, apparently pleased by the compliment.

Returning to Ravenhill, Zachary toweled off and donned his clothes, buttoning his shirt with difficulty and leaving his waistcoat unfastened. “Allow me,” Ravenhill offered, but Zachary shook his head irritably. He hated to be touched by other men, even to the extent of refusing the services of a valet.

Ravenhill shook his head and smiled slightly. “As mild-tempered as a wild boar,” he commented in a cool, dry tone. “How in God's name did you get Lady Holland to agree to it?”

“Agree to what?” Zachary asked, although he knew exactly what Ravenhill meant.

“The shy, gentle lady I knew three years ago would never have agreed to work for you. She would have been terrified of you.”

“Maybe she's changed,” Zachary muttered coldly. “Or maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought you did.” He saw the dislike in the other man's remote gray eyes, and he experienced a strange comingling of emotions. Triumph, because Holly was indeed living with him and her life was entwined with his in a way it had never been with this superior aristocrat's. And jealousy, bitter stinging jealousy, because this man had known her before Zachary had, and for a much longer time. And Holly and Ravenhill were obviously cut of the same cloth, both of them cultured and pedigreed.

Giving his battered face one last swipe with the towel, Zachary smiled slightly at the handsome aristocrat. “My thanks, Ravenhill. I would take you as my second anytime.” They exchanged a measuring glance, not hostile, but not precisely friendly. Ravenhill was not pleased with what had become of Holly, Zachary realized. His lordship was offended by the idea that his departed friend's wife was now employed by a lowbrow commoner. Too bad for you, Zachary thought nastily, every proprietary, primitive instinct in his body rising to the fore. She's mine now, and there's nothing in hell that you or anyone else can do about it.

Almost twenty-four hours to the minute since her megrims had begun, Holly felt well enough to rise from her bed. She felt weak and a bit dazed, as she always did after such an episode. It was early evening, the time when the Bronsons usually gathered in the family parlor to wait for supper to be announced. “Where is Rose?” was Holly's first question, as Maude helped her to sit up in bed.

“Downstairs with the master and his mother and sister,” Maude answered, tucking supportive pillows behind her back. “They've all been doting on her while ye've been sleeping, playing games with the child and giving her extra sweets. Mr. Bronson canceled his ride to town today and spent all morning guiding her ‘round the paddock on a little brown pony.”

“Oh, he shouldn't have,” Holly said in instant concern. “He shouldn't have neglected his business concerns—it isn't his place to take care of my child.”

“He insisted, milady. I thought it a bit unseemly, and I tried to tell him there was no need. But ye know how the master is when he is set on something.”

“Yes, I know.” Holly sighed and clasped her hand over her sore forehead. “Oh, the extra trouble I've caused for you and everyone—”

“Now, milady, don't go fretting yerself into another megrim,” Maude soothed. “The Bronsons are all quite happy, it seems, and Rose has enjoyed all the petting and spoiling. No harm done. Shall I have some victuals sent up, milady?”

“Thank you, but I would like to go downstairs and take supper with the family. I've been in bed for far too long. And I must see Rose.”

With the maid's help, Holly bathed and dressed in a soft, simple gown of brown corded silk trimmed with a small collar of tea-dyed lace, and more lace edging at the sleeves. Since her scalp was still sensitive after the attack of megrims, they coiled her long, loose locks and secured them to her nape with only two pins. After checking her appearance in the dressing-table mirror to ascertain that she was tidy, Holly carefully made her way to the family parlor.

As Maude had described, the Bronsons were all there. Zachary lounged on the carpet beside Rose as they pored over a pile of painted wooden puzzle pieces, while Elizabeth read aloud from a collection of short stories. Paula occupied a corner of the long settee, contentedly mending a torn ruffle on one of Rose's white pinafores. The small group looked up in unison as Holly entered the room.

Wan and fatigued, she managed an apologetic smile. “Good evening, everyone.”

“Mama!” Rose exclaimed, beaming as she hurried to Holly and threw her arms around her hips. “You're all better now!”

“Yes, darling.” Lovingly Holly stroked her daughter's dark curls. “I'm sorry I took such a long rest.”

“I had great fun while you were sleeping,” Rose said, and proceeded to entertain her with an account of the morning's pony ride.

While Rose chattered away, Elizabeth bounded over to Holly with exclamations of sympathy and concern, and guided her to the settee. Paula insisted on covering Holly's knees with a knitted lap blanket, despite Holly's sheepish protests. “Oh, Mrs. Bronson, you're too kind. Really, there's no need…”

While the women fussed over her, Bronson stood and bowed in welcome. Sensing his dark, assessing gaze, Holly gave him a hesitant smile. “Mr. Bronson, I—” She broke off in surprise as she saw that his eye was shadowed with a bruise, and there was another blotch on his jaw. “What happened to your face, sir?”