Where Dreams Begin(67)

“Yes, certainly.” Holly gave a sigh of relief as he drew her aside to a relatively private corner.

“Jackals,” Bronson muttered. “And people say I'm not a gentleman. At least I don't pant and slobber over a woman in public.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating, Mr. Bronson. I hardly saw anyone slobbering.”

“And the way that bastard Harrowby was staring at you,” Bronson continued irritably. “I think he sprained his damn neck trying to get a look down the front of your dress.”

“Your language, Mr. Bronson,” Holly said tartly, though inside she felt a bubbling of laughter. Was it possible he was jealous? She knew she should not be pleased by such a thought. “And I needn't remind you that my choice of attire is entirely your fault.”

The musicians in the upstairs bower began to play, the bright, lively music filling the air. “The dancing will begin soon,” Holly said, adopting a businesslike air. “Have you been writing your name on various young ladies' dance cards?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you must apply yourself to it at once. I will suggest a few that are well worth approaching: Miss Eugenia Clayton, for one, and by all means Lady Jane Kirkby, and that girl over there—Lady Georgiana Brenton. She's the daughter of a duke.”

“Do I need a third party to make the introductions?” Bronson asked.

“At a public ball, yes. However this is a private ball, and the fact that you were invited is sufficient testament to your respectability. Remember to make conversation that is neither too serious nor trivial. Talk about art, for example, or your favorite periodicals.”

“I don't read periodicals.”

“Then discuss prominent people whom you admire, or social trends you find interesting…oh, you know very well how to make small talk. You do it with me all the time.”

“That's different,” Bronson muttered, staring with barely concealed alarm at the flocks of white-gowned virgins that filled the room. “You're a woman.”

Holly laughed suddenly. “And what are all those creatures, if not women?”

“I'll be damned if I know.”

“Do not swear,” she said. “And do not say anything indelicate to one of those girls. Now go dance with someone. And bear in mind that a true gentleman would approach one of the poor girls sitting in the chairs against the wall, instead of heading for the most popular ones.”

Staring at the row of disconsolate wallflowers, Zachary heaved a sigh. He couldn't fathom why it had once seemed like a good idea to marry some unformed fledgling and mold her to his liking. He had wanted a trophy, an upperclass brood mare to lend some prestige to his common bloodline. But the idea of spending the rest of his life with one of these well-bred girls seemed appallingly dull. “They all look the same,” he muttered.

“Well, they're not,” Holly reproved. “I remember full well how it felt to be cast out into the marriage market, and it's terrifying. I had no idea what kind of husband I might end up with.” She paused and touched his arm lightly. “There, do you see that girl seated at the end of the row? The attractive one with the brown hair and the blue trim on her gown. She is Miss Alice Warner—I am well acquainted with the family. If she is anything at all like her older sisters, she will be a delightful partner.”

“Then why is she sitting alone?” he asked darkly.

“She is one of a half-dozen daughters, and the family can offer practically nothing in the way of a dowry. That is off-putting to many enterprising young men…but it won't matter to you.” Holly gave him a quick, subtle push in the back. “Go ask her to dance.”

He resisted her prodding. “What will you be doing?”

“I see your sister being escorted to the refreshment room, where I believe your mother is heading as well. Perhaps I'll join them there. Now go.”

He gave her an ironic glance and went off like a reluctant can being prodded to hunt.

When it became apparent that Holly was unattended once again, several men started toward her. Realizing she was about to be mobbed once more, Holly decided instantly on a strategic retreat. Pretending not to see any of the gentleman who were headed in her direction, she sailed toward the entrance of the drawing room, hoping to find refuge in one of the surrounding galleries and parlors. She was too intent on her escape to notice the large shape that crossed her path. Suddenly she walked directly into a man's solid body. A surprised gasp escaped her. A pair of gloved hands caught her elbows, restoring her uncertain balance.

“I'm so sorry,” Holly said in a rush, glancing up at the man before her. “I was in a bit of a rush. Forgive me, I should have been…” But her voice faded into stunned silence as she realized whom she had walked into.

“Vardon,” she whispered.

The very sight of Vardon, Lord Ravenhill, caused memories to come over her in a heady rush. For a moment her throat tightened too much to allow speech or breath. It had been three years since she had seen him, not since the funeral. He looked older, more serious, and there were lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before. Yet he looked more handsome, if possible, maturity lending him a look of ruggedness that saved him from what might have otherwise been bland attractiveness.

His wheat-blond hair was cut the same, and his gray eyes were just as she remembered, so cool and incisive until he smiled. Then his gaze was warm and silvery. “Lady Holland,” he said quietly.