Where Dreams Begin(69)

It occurred to her that there must be many different ways of mourning. While she had turned inward in her sorrow, perhaps Ravenhill's grief over George had turned him a bit mad for a while. The important thing was that he was back home now, and she took great pleasure in seeing him again.

“Why haven't you come to visit me?” she asked. “I had no idea you had returned from the continent.”

Ravenhill flashed her a self-deprecating smile. “So far I haven't kept any of the promises I made to my best friend on his deathbed. And if I don't start to make good on them, I won't be able to live with myself any longer. I thought the best way to begin was to ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said simply.

He smiled and shook his head at her answer. “Still every inch a lady, aren't you?”

“Perhaps not quite as much a lady as I once was,” she replied with a note of irony.

Ravenhill stared at her intently. “Holland, I've heard that you are employed by Zachary Bronson.”

“Yes. I am acting as a social instructor for Mr. Bronson and his delightful family.”

“That is my fault.” Ravenhill did not appear to receive the news with the same pleasure she took in imparting it. “You would never have been driven to such lengths had I been here to fulfill my promises.”

“No, Vardon,” Holly said hastily, “it has truly been a rewarding experience.” She fumbled for words, wondering how on earth she could explain her relationship with the Bronson family to him. “I am better for knowing the Bronsons. They have hepled me in ways I can't easily explain.”

“You were never meant to work,” Ravenhill pointed out quietly. “You know what George would have thought.”

“I am well aware of what George wanted for me,” she agreed. “But Vardon—”

“There are things we have to discuss, Holland. Now isn't the time and place, but there is one thing I must ask you. The promise we gave George that day—is it still something you would consider?”

At first Holly could find no breath to answer. She had a dizzying sense of fate rolling over her in an irresistible tide. And with it came the strangest mixture of relief and dullness, as if all she had to do was accept a circumstance that she had no control over. “Yes,” she said softly. “Of course I would still consider it. But if you have no desire to be bound by it—”

“I knew what I was doing then.” His purposeful gaze held hers. “I know what I want now.”

They sat together in a silence that required no words, while the ache of regret swirled around them. In their world, one did not seek happiness for its own sake, but received it—sometimes—as a reward for behaing honorably. Often doing one's duty brought pain and unhappiness, but one was ultimately sustained by the knowledge that he or she had lived with integrity.

“Then let us talk later,” Holly eventually murmured. “Call on me at the Bronsons' home, if you wish.”

“Shall I take you back to the ballroom?”

She shook her head hastily. “If you wouldn't mind, please leave me here. I just want to sit alone and think quietly for a moment.” Seeing the objections in his gaze, she gave him a coaxing smile. “I promise, no one will accost me in your absence. I'm only a stone's throw from the house. Please, Vardon.”

He nodded reluctantly and took her gloved hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. When he had left her, Holly heaved a sigh and wondered why she was so confused and unhappy about fulfilling the last promise George had ever asked of her. “Darling,” she whispered, closing her eyes, “You always knew what was right for me. I trust you now as much as I ever did, and I see the wisdom in what you asked of us. But if you could give me a sign that it is still what you want, I would gladly spend the rest of my life as you wished. I shouldn't see it as a sacrifice, I know, but—”

Her soulful ponderings were suddenly interrupted by an irate voice.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

Being thoroughly a man, one whose nature was rooted in competition, Zachary had experienced jealousy before. But nothing like this. Not this mixture of rage and alarm that shredded his insides. He was no idiot—he had seen the way Holly was looking at Ravenhill in the ballroom, and he had understood it all too well. They were cut from the same cloth, and they shared a past that he'd had no part of. There were bonds between them, memories, and even more, the comfort of knowing exactly what to expect from each other. All of a sudden Zachary hated Ravenhill with an intensity that approached fear. Ravenhill was everything he was not…everything he could never be.

If only this were a more primitive time, the period of history when simple brute force overrode all else and a man could have what he wanted merely by staking his claim. That was how most of these damned bluebloods had originated, in fact. They were the watered-down, inbred descendents of warriors who had earned their status through battle and blood. Generations of privilege and ease had tamed them, softened and cultured them. Now these pampered aristocrats could afford to look down their noses at a man who probably resembled their revered ancestors more than they themselves did.

That was his problem, Zachary realized. He had been born a few centuries too late. Instead of having to mince and prance his way into a society that was clearly too rarefied for him, he should have been able to dominate… fight…conquer.