Where Dreams Begin(61)

“What, precisely, is your objection to my appearance, Mr. Bronson?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “If you want to show the world you're still in mourning for George, that gown is perfect.”

Offended and strangely hurt, Holly sent him an outright glare. “My gown is quite suitable for the occasion. The only thing you don't like about it is that it is not one of the ones you purchased for me! Did you really expect me to wear one of those?”

“Considering it was your only alternative to wearing mourning—or Half Mourning, whatever the hell it's called—I thought it was a possibility.”

They had never argued like this, not in deadly earnest, in a way that ignited Holly's long-dormant temper like a flame set to gunpowder. Whenever they debated an issue, the words were spiced with humor, teasing, even provocative meaning, but this was the first time that Holly had ever been truly angry with him. George would never have spoken to her in the blunt, brutal manner Bronson did…George had never criticized her except in the gentlest of terms, and always with the kindest of intentions. In her flaring anger, Holly did not stop to wonder why she was comparing Bronson so closely with her husband, or how his opinion had come to hold such power over her emotions.

“This is not a mourning gown,” she said irritably. “One would think you had never seen a gray gown before. Perhaps you've spent too much time in brothels to notice what ordinary women wear.”

“Call it what you like,” Bronson returned, his voice soft but stinging, “I know mourning when I see it.”

“Well, if I choose to wear mourning for the next fifty years, that's my concern and none of yours!”

His broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug, a common gesture that he knew was bound to incense her further. “No doubt many will admire you for walking around dressed like a crow—”

“A crow,” Holly repeated in outrage.

“—but I've never been one to admire displays of excessive grief, especially public ones. There's some merit in keeping your feelings private. However, if you're so in need of sympathy from others—”

“You insufferable swine!” she hissed, more angry than she could ever remember being in her life. How dare he accuse her of using mourning merely as a way of gaining public sympathy for herself? How dare he imply that her grief for George was not sincere? Rage sent the blood rushing to her face, until she was hot and crimson. She wanted to hit him, hurt him, but she saw that her anger pleased him for some unfathomable reason. The cool satisfaction in his black eyes was unmistakable. Just a few minutes ago she had taken such pride in his gentlemanly appearance, but now she almost hated him.

“How could you know anything about mourning?” she said, her voice unsteady. She could not bring herself to look at him as she spoke. “You could never love someone the way I did George—it's not in you to surrender any part of your heart. Perhaps you think that makes you superior. But I feel sorry for you.”

Unable to tolerate his presence a moment longer, she strode away rapidly, her stiffened petticoat batting at her legs. Ignoring Paula's and Elizabeth's worried, questioning voices, she churned up the stairs as quickly as her heavy skirts would allow, while her lungs worked like leaky bellows.

Zachary stood exactly where she left him, stunned by the argument that seemed to have flared out of nowhere. He hadn't planned to start it, had even felt a surge of pleasure the first instant he had seen Holly…until he had realized that her dress was gray. Gray like a shadow, a pall cast by George Taylor's ever-present memory. He had known at once that every moment of Holly's evening would be given over to regret that her husband was not with her, and Zachary would be damned if he would spend the next several hours trying to win her away from George's ghost. The silvery-gray gown, pretty as it was, had taunted him like a banner before a bull. Why couldn't he have her for just one evening, without her grief being wedged so insistently between them?

And so he had spoken carelessly, perhaps even cruelly, too wrapped up in his own annoyance and disappointment to care about what he was saying.

“Zachary, what did you tell her?” Paula demanded.

“Congratulations,” came Elizabeth's sarcastic voice. “Only you could ruin the evening for everyone in a mere thirty seconds, Zach.”

The few servants who had witnessed the scene suddenly busied themselves with meaningless self-appointed tasks, clearly not wanting to fall victim to his evil temper. However, Zachary was no longer angry. The moment Holly left his side, he had been flooded with a strange, sick feeling. He analyzed the sensation, unlike anything he had experienced before. Somehow he felt worse at this moment than he had after the worst beating of his prizefighting days. There was a huge block of ice in his stomach, the coldness spreading until it reached his fingers and toes. He was suddenly afraid he had made Holly hate him, that she would never smile at him or let him touch her again.

“I'll go up to her,” Paula said, her tone motherly and calm. “But first I wish you would tell me what was said between you, Zachary—”

“Don't,” Zachary interrupted softly. He held up his hand in a swift restraining gesture. “I'll go to her. I'll tell her…” Pausing, he realized that for the first time in his life, he was ashamed to face a woman. “Hell,” he said savagely. He, who had never cared for anyone's opinion of him, had been utterly cowed by the words of a small woman. It would have been far better if Holly had cursed him, thrown something, slapped him. That he could have survived. But the quiet contempt in her voice had devastated him. “I just want to give her a minute or two to calm herself before I approach her.”