Where Dreams Begin(6)

“A pet name used by family and very close friends.” Lady Bellemont frowned a little, troubled by his apparent interest in Lady Holland. “My dear, I can assure you that there are many charming and attainable ladies present here tonight. Let me introduce you to a few who would be thrilled to receive your attention—”

“Tell me everything you know about Lady Holland,” he said, staring at her intently.

Lady Bellemont made a face and sighed. “Very well. Tomorrow you may come to tea and we'll discuss—”

“Now.”

“In the middle of a ball that I am giving? There is a time and a place for—” She broke off and laughed as she found herself being pulled unceremoniously to a nearby settee. “My dear, I find your masculine qualities quite charming, but it is possible to be a bit too masterful—”

“Everything,” he repeated, and flashed her a crooked grin of such roguish appeal that she felt her heart give an extra beat. “Please.”

And suddenly Lady Bellemont felt there was nothing she would rather do than spend the rest of the evening ignoring her social responsibilities and telling him anything and everything he wished to know.

Holly crossed the threshold of the Taylor family mansion like a rabbit retreating to the safety of its burrow. Although the Taylors did not possess the abundance of funds necessary to keep the house perfectly maintained, Holly loved every elegant, gently worn inch of the place. The faded tapestries and frayed Aubusson carpets were comfortingly familiar. Sleeping under the ancient roof gave one the feeling of resting in a beloved grandparent's arms.

This dignified house fronted with pediments and columns and rows of small, neat windows was where George had lived as a child. It was easy to imagine the boisterous boy he must have been, running up and down the central staircase, playing on the gently sloped lawns outside, sleeping in the same nursery where Holly's own daughter Rose now rested.

Holly was glad that the townhouse where she and George had lived during their short, lovely marriage had been sold. That place contained the happiest and the most agonizing memories of her life. She would rather stay here, where her grief was dulled by pleasant images of George in his childhood. There were paintings of him as a boy, places where he had carved his name in the woodwork, trunks of toys and dusty books that must have occupied him for hours. His family…his mother, his two brothers and their wives, not to mention the servants that had attended George since infancy, were nothing but kind and loving. All the affection that had once been lavished on George, the favorite of the family, was now given to her and Rose. She could easily see spending the rest of her life here, in the mellow world the Taylors provided.

It was only at odd moments that Holly felt constrained by this perfect seclusion. There were times when she sat with her needlework and found herself drifting into strange, wild fantasies that she couldn't seem to control. There were also moments when she felt some irrepressible emotion that she had no means to release…she wanted to do something scandalous, scream in church, go somewhere in a shocking red dress and dance…or kiss a stranger.

“Dear Lord,” Holly whispered aloud, realizing that there was something wicked inside her, something that must be battened down and tightly secured. It was a physical problem, the need of a woman for a man, the dilemma that every widow faced when there was no longer a husband to visit her bed. She had loved George's caresses, and she had always anticipated the nights when he would come to her room and stay until morning. For the past three years, she had fought the unspeakable need she felt since his death. She confided her problem to no one, as she was well aware of society's view on female desire. That it should not exist at all. Women must live as an example to men and use their virtue to tame a husband's base instincts. They must submit to their husbands, but never encourage a man's passion, and they certainly must not display any sign of physical desire themselves.

“Milady! How was the ball? Did ye enjoy yerself? Did ye dance? Were there people ye remembered from before?”

“Fine, yes, no, and many,” Holly replied, forcing herself to smile as her servant, Maude, appeared at the threshold of her two-room suite and welcomed her inside. Maude was the only maidservant that Holly had been able to retain after George's death. The others had either been absorbed into the Taylor household, or dismissed with good references and as much severance pay as Holly had been able to spare. Maude was an attractive, buxom woman in her early thirties, possessed of boundless energy and unfailing high spirits. Even her hair was exuberant, with blond curls springing insistently out of the tight coils she pinned it in. She worked hard each day, primarily serving as a nanny to Rose, and also functioning as lady's maid to Holly when necessary.

“Tell me how Rose is,” Holly said, heading to the small fire on the grate and extending her hands toward its inviting warmth. “Did she go to sleep easily?”

Maude laughed ruefully. “I'm sorry to say she didn't. She was chattering like a little bird about the ball, and how pretty ye look in yer blue gown.” She took Holly's pelisse and folded it neatly over her arm. “Although, if ye ask me, yer new gowns still look like mourning—they're all so frightfully dark. I wish ye'd had one made in yellow or that pretty light green all the fine ladies are wearing—”

“I've been wearing black and gray for three years,” Holly interrupted wryly, standing still as the maid began on the back buttons of her dark blue gown. “I can't sud denly burst into a rainbow of colors, Maude. One has to ease into these things slowly.”