Where Dreams Begin(74)

Occupied with his frantic thoughts, Zachary didn't immediately notice the nearby presence of Ravenhill. Gradually he became aware of the tall blond man standing only a few feet away, a handsome solitary figure amid the vibrant clamor of the ball. Their gazes met, and Zachary stepped closer to him.

“Tell me,” Zachary said softly, “what kind of man would ask his best friend to marry his wife after he died? And what kind of man would inspire two seemingly sensible people to agree to such a damned stupid plan?”

The man's gray eyes surveyed him in a measuring stare. “A better man than you or I will ever be.”

Zachary couldn't stop himself from sneering. “It seems that Lady Holland's paragon of a husband wants to control her from the grave.”

“He was trying to protect her,” Ravenhill said without apparent heat, “from men like you.”

The bastard's calmness infuriated Zachary. Ravenhill was so damned confident, as if he had already won a competition that Zachary hadn't even known about until it was over. “You think she'll go through with it, don't you?” Zachary muttered resentfully. “You think she'll sacrifice the rest of her life simply because George Taylor asked it of her.”

“Yes, that's what I think,” came Ravenhill's cool reply. “And if you knew her better, you'd have no doubt of it.”

Why? Zachary wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the painful question. Why was it a foregone conclusion that she would go through with her promise? Had she loved George Taylor so much that he could influence her even in death? Or was it simply a matter of honor? Could her sense of duty and moral obligation really impel her to marry a man she didn't love?

“I warn you,” Ravenhill said softly, “if you hurt or distress Lady Holland in any way, you'll answer to me.”

“All this concern for her welfare is touching. A few years late in coming, isn't it?”

The comment seemed to rattle Ravenhill's composure. Zachary felt a stab of triumph as he saw the man flush slightly.

“I've made mistakes,” Ravenhill acknowledged curtly. “I have as many faults as the next man, and I found the prospect of filling George Taylor's shoes damned intimidating. Anyone would.”

“Then what made you come back?” Zachary muttered, wishing there were some way to forcibly transport the man back across the Channel.

“The thought that Lady Holland and her daughter might need me in some way.”

“They don't. They have me.”

The lines had been drawn. They might as well have been generals of opposing armies, facing each other across a battlefield. Ravenhill's thin, aristocratic mouth curved in a contemptuous smile. “You're that last thing they need,” he said. “I suspect even you know that.”

He walked away. Zachary stood watching him, stonefaced and still, while inside he writhed in anguished fury.

Holly needed a drink. A large glass of brandy, one that would calm her overwrought nerves and allow her a few hours of sleep. She had not needed to take spirits since the first year of mourning George. The doctor had prescribed a nightly glass of wine in those days of turmoil, but it had not been enough. Only strong spirits had been sufficient to calm her, and so she had sent Maude on secretive missions to fetch her glasses of whiskey or brandy when the household had settled for the night. Knowing that George's family would not approve of a lady drinking, and also aware that they would be able to detect the lowering levels of liquor in the sideboard decanters, Holly had decided to smuggle a bottle to her own room. Using Maude as intermediary, Holly had gotten a footman to purchase brandy for her, and she had stored it in the drawer of her dressing table. Now thinking longingly of that long-ago brandy bottle, she dressed for bed and waited impatiently for the Bronson household to retire.

The carriage ride back home from the ball had been nothing short of hellish. Fortunately Elizabeth had been too excited by her own success, and the flattering attentions paid her by Jason Somers, to notice the seething silence between Holly and her brother. Paula had been aware of the tension, of course, and she had sought to cover it with a stream of light chatter. Holly had forced herself to ignore Bronson's brooding stare and had made small talk with Paula, smiling and joking while inside her nerves were shattering.

When there wasn't sound or movement to be detected in the cavernous house, Holly took a candle in a small jeweled holder and crept from her room. As far as she knew, the easiest place to find brandy was in the library sideboard, where Bronson always kept a supply of excelent French vintage.

Descending the grand staircase in her bare feet, Holly held the candle high, starting a little as the tiny flame cast eerie shadows on the gilded walls. The large house, always so busy and bustling in the daytime, resembled a deserted museum at night. Cool drafts curled around her ankles, and she shivered, grateful for the warmth of the ruffled white pelisse that fastened over her thin nightgown.

Entering the library, Holly inhaled the familiar smell of leather and vellum, and passed the huge gleaming globe on her way to the sideboard. She set the candle on the polished mahogany surface and opened a cabinet door in search of a glass.

Although there wasn't a sound or movement in the room, something alerted her to the fact that she wasn't alone. Uneasily she turned to survey her surroundings, and gasped as she saw Bronson seated in a deep leather armchair, his long legs stretched before him. He stared at her intently, his ophidian eyes unblinking. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though his coat had been removed and his waistcoat and necktie hung loose. His white shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing a wealth of thick black hair. An empty brandy snifter was held loosely in his fingers, and she surmised that he had been drinking for some time.