Where Dreams Begin(7)

“Ye're still mourning fer the poor master, milady.” The constricting gown eased from Holly's shoulders. “I think part of ye still wants to show it to the world, 'specially to any gentlemen that might wish to court ye.”

Holly's cheeks immediately took on a glow that had nothing to do with the fire's heat. Thankfully Maude was behind her and did not notice the gathering blush. Uncomfortably Holly reflected that there was at least one man she had made no effort to keep at bay. In fact, she had all but encouraged the rogue to kiss her a second time. Even now, the memory of his mouth on hers was still vivid. He had turned an ordinary evening into something dark, sweet and strange. He had seized her boldly and yet he had been so…tender. Ever since the moment she had left him, she had not been able to stop wondering who he was and what he looked like. It was possible she might meet him again and never realize he was the stranger that had kissed her.

But she would know his voice. Closing her eyes, she remembered the low masculine whisper, curling around her like smoke: Sweet lady…tell me why a kiss makes you cry. She swayed slightly, and was recalled to reality as Maude spoke in concern.

“Ye must be tired, milady. 'Twas yer first ball since the master passed on…. Is that why ye came home early?”

“Actually, I left because one of my megrims had started, and—” Holly broke off, puzzled, and rubbed her temples absently. “How strange,” she murmured. “It's gone. Once they start, there's usually no stopping them.”

“Shall I bring the tonic the doctor gave ye, in case it comes back?”

Holly shook her head, stepping out of the circle of her dress. “No, thank you,” she replied, still bewildered. It seemed that the episode in the conservatory had chased away any hint of a headache. What a strange antidote for the megrims, she thought ruefully. “I don't believe I'll have further problems tonight.”

With Maude's help, she changed into a white cambric night rail and a lace-trimmed pelisse that buttoned up the front. After tucking her feet into a pair of worn slippers, Holly bade the maid good night and headed up the narrow stairs leading to the nursery. The light from the candle she carried sent a flickering glow over the narrow rectangular room.

A child-sized chair covered in rose velvet and trimmed with silk fringe occupied one corner, next to a miniature tea table bearing a chipped and much-used toy tea service. A collection of old perfume bottles filled with colored water were carefully arranged on the lower shelves of the bookcase. At least a half-dozen dolls were scattered throughout the nursery. One doll was seated on the chair, and another perched on a battered rocking horse that had once belonged to George. And another was clasped in Rose's arms as she lay sleeping.

Holly smiled as she approached the bed, feeling a rush of love as she watched her child in slumber. Rose's little face was innocent and peaceful. The little girl's dark lashes rested on the sweet roundness of her cheeks, and her mouth hung slightly open. Kneeling by the bed, Holly touched one of her daughter's hands, smiling at the faded splotches of blue and green that had lingered despite vigorous washings. Rose loved to paint and draw, and her hands were forever stained with pigment. At four years of age, the child's hands still retained a trace of dimpled baby-plumpness.

“Precious hands,” Holly whispered, and pressed a kiss to the back of one. Standing, she continued to stare at her daughter. When the child was born, everyone, including Holly, had thought she resembled the Taylors. However, Rose had turned out to be a nearly identical replica of herself, small, dark-haired and brown-eyed. She favored George in character, possessing the same innate charm and intelligence.

If only you could see her now, my darling, Holly thought longingly.

In the year after their daughter's birth, the last twelve months of George's life, Holly and George had often watched their daughter sleeping. Most men would not have displayed such keen interest in their own children, considering it unmanly. Children were part of the feminine world, and a man had little to do with them, other than to occasionally ask about their progress or dandle them on his knee for a minute or two. However, George had been openly fascinated by his daughter, enchanted by her, and had cuddled and played with her in a way that had delighted Holly. His pride in Rose had known no limits.

“We're linked forever in this child,” George had said one evening, as he and Holly stood over their infant in her lace-trimmed cradle. “We made her together, Holly…such a natural, simple thing for two people to have a baby…but it almost defies my comprehension.” Too moved for words, Holly had kissed him, loving him for regarding Rose as the miracle that she was.

“What a father you would have had, Rose,” she whispered. It grieved her to know that her daughter would grow up without the security and protection a father would have provided…. But no man could ever replace George.

Two

Zachary Bronson needed a wife. He had observed the kind of ladies that men of wealth and social position were wedded to—composed, quiet-voiced women who managed a household and every detail of a man's life. The servants of a well-run household seemed to work together like the mechanism of a clock…completely unlike his own. Sometimes his servants seemed to get things right, whereas at other times they made his life into a farce. Meals were often late, linens and silver and furniture were never spotless as they were in other wealthy households, while supplies were either overly abundant or nonexistent.