Where Dreams Begin(77)

“Yes, I think so, too,” Paula said matter-of-factly. “But that doesn't make him right for you, milady, any more than you are right for him.”

The reassurance that Bronson's mother did not blame her for the situation should have made Holly feel better. Unfortuately, it didn't. Each time Holly saw Bronson, no matter how brief or casual the encounter, she was filled with longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She began to wonder if she could really live like this for the remainder of her promised year at the Bronson home. Devoting herself to Rose and to the Bronson women, she kept herself as busy as possible. And there was much to do, especially now that Elizabeth had made her entrance into society. The great hall was filled with constantly arriving bowers of roses and spring arrangements, and the silver tray near the door was loaded daily with cards from hopeful suitors.

As Holly had predicted, the combination of Elizabeth's beauty and fortune, not to mention her irrepressible charm, had attracted many men who seemed more than willing to overlook the circumstances of her birth. It required both Holly's and Paula's efforts to chaperone the daily visits and carriage drives and picnics as various gentlemen came to court Elizabeth. However, there was one caller in particular who seemed to capture the girl's interest most strongly—the architect, Jason Somers.

There were callers with bluer blood and greater wealth, but none that possessed Jason's self-confidence and charm. He was a robust man with more than his share of talent and ambition—a man not all that unlike Elizabeth's brother. From what Holly had observed, Jason was able to balance Elizabeth's exuberant spirit with his own steady strength. It was a good match, and promised to be a happy union, if all turned out as Holly hoped.

During one of Jason's morning visits, Holly happened to see the pair as he and Elizabeth returned from a walk in the garden.

“…besides, you're not tall enough for me…” Elizabeth was saying, her voice filled with effervescent laughter as they strode through the French doors and into a gallery of marble sculpture. Holly paused at the far end of the gallery where she happened to be walking. She was concealed by a towering winged rendition of some Roman god.

“Good God, woman, I'm hardly what anyone would call short,” Jason retorted. “And I'm a good two inches taller than you.”

“You are not!”

“Am too,” he insisted, and pulled her against him with an easy strength that made Elizabeth gasp. They were matched length-to-length, Elizabeth's slender form measured against Jason's larger one. “See?” Jason said, his voice suddenly husky. The amusement faded from the girl's face, and she fell abruptly silent, staring at the man who held her, her eyes filled with shy apprehension. Holly briefly considered interrupting the scene, knowing that Elizabeth was unused to such attentions from a man. But there was a look on Jason's face that Holly had never seen before, utterly tender and desirous. He bent his head to murmur something in her ear, and Elizabeth turned pink, one of her hands creeping up to his shoulder.

Holly's own face flushed a bit as she slipped away discreetly, allowing the two a measure of privacy. Oh, how long ago it seemed that she had been courted by George in the same manner, and how innocent and hopeful she had felt. But her memories were blurred now, and she no longer found pleasure in reminiscing. Her life with George had become a distant dream.

Filled with wistfulness, Holly spent the rest of the morning playing with Rose, and then left her daughter in Maude's care. She declined lunch, as she was too dispirited to eat a bite. Instead, she selected a novel from the library and carried it with her on a walk through the gardens. The sky was overcast, and the breeze was infused with a cool mist that caused Holly to shiver and pull her brown cashmere shawl more closely around her shoulders. Pausing first at a stone table, and then at a bench sided by flower-filled urns, she finally found a spot for reading, a summerhouse about twelve feet wide. The windows were covered in little wooden shutters, and inside it was lined with cushioned benches. The seats and backs of the benches were covered with a heavy twilled green fabric that held a faintly musty but not unpleasant scent.

Curling up on one of the cushions and drawing her feet up beneath her, Holly leaned back and began to read. Soon lost in the tale of a doomed love affair—was there any other kind?—Holly failed to noticed the rumblings of thunder in the sky. The light darkened from silver-white to gray, and rain began to patter heavily on the lawn and paved walkway outside. A few errant drops blew through the shutter and fell to Holly's shoulder, finally alerting her to the worsening weather outside. Looking up from the novel, she frowned.

“Bother,” she muttered, realizing that her novel reading was coming to an end. It was definitely time to return to the main house. But the rain was already heavy, and she wondered if the storm might lessen in a few minutes. Sighing, she closed the book in her lap and leaned her head against the wall as she watched the rain pelt the grassy earth and hedges. The vibrant smell of a heavy spring shower filled the summerhouse.

Her melancholy thoughts were soon interrupted as someone opened the door roughly and shouldered his way inside.

She was startled to see Zachary Bronson, his large form shrouded in a sodden greatcoat. He brought a gust of fresh rain-laden wind with him, then closed the shuttered door with the back of his shoe. Swearing beneath his breath, he struggled with a huge dripping umbrella. Retreating back against a cushion, Holly watched him with a growing smile as he endeavored to fold the ungainly contraption. He was a handsome devil, she thought with a flicker of pleasure, her gaze drinking in the sight of his rain-washed face and his coffee-black eyes and his gleaming dark hair plastered to his well-shaped skull.