Where Dreams Begin(83)

He wanted her to love him as willingly and joyously as she had loved George. The very idea would have made most people laugh. It even amused him. What must Holly think when she compared him to her saintly husband? Zachary was a scoundrel, an opportunist, a rough-mannered scavenger—the definitive opposite of a gentleman. Clearly Ravenhill was the right choice, the only choice, if she wanted a life similar to the one she'd had with George.

Scowling, Zachary strode to the library in search of a packet of files and letters he intended to bring with him to Durham. A flurry of packing was going on upstairs, as Maude and the housemaids stuffed clothes and personal belongings into trunks and valises…and as Zachary's valet packed suits and neckties in preparation for his trip. Zachary would be damned if he would watch Holly leave the estate. He would go first.

Reaching his desk, he began to rifle through piles of paper, not noticing at first that someone else was there. A little peep came from the depths of his big leather chair, and Zachary swung around sharply, a question on his lips.

Rose was sitting there with Miss Crumpet, the two of them nearly lost in the deep upholstery. With a sinking heart, Zachary saw that the child's face was splotched and red, and her nose needed wiping.

It seemed that the Taylor females required an unending supply of handkerchiefs. Cursing beneath his breath, Zachary valiantly searched for one in his coat, but found nothing. He untied his linen cravat, jerked it from his neck and held it to Rose's nose. “Blow,” he muttered, and she complied gustily. She giggled, evidently entertained by the novelty of using a necktie as a nose-wipe.

“You're being silly, Mr. Bronson!”

Zachary squatted down before her, staring at her eye to eye, and an affectionate grin tugged at his lips. “What's the matter, princess?” he asked gently, although he already knew.

Rose unburdened herself eagerly. “Mama says we have to go away. We're going to live at my uncle's house again, a-and I want to stay here.” Her little face crumpled with childish sorrow, and Zachary nearly staggered from the impact of an invisible blow to his chest. Panic…love…yet more anguish. Although saying good-bye to Holly hadn't quite killed him, this would certainly finish him off. Somehow during the past months he had begun to love this enchanting child, with her sugar-sticky hands, her jangly button string, her long tangled curls, her brown eyes so like her mother's. No more tea parties, no more sitting in the parlor before the hearth and spinning tales of bunies and cabbages, dragons and princesses, no more miniature hands that clung to his so trustingly.

“Tell Mama that we must stay here with you,” Rose commanded. “You can make her stay, I know you can!”

“Your mama knows what's best for you,” Zachary murmured, smiling faintly though he was dying inside. “You be a good girl and do as she says.”

“I am a good girl always,” Rose said, and began to sniffle again. “Oh, Mr. Bronson…what will happen to my toys?”

“I'll send every last one to you at the Taylors'.”

“They won't all fit.” She used a chubby hand to smear a teardrop across her cheek. “Their house is much, much littler than yours.”

“Rose…” He sighed and pressed her head against his shoulder, his huge hand engulfing the entire top of her skull. She stayed against him and snuggled close, patting his scratchy jaw. After a while, she wriggled away. “You're squashing Miss Crumpet!”

“Sorry,” he said contritely, reaching out to straighten the doll's little blue bonnet.

“Will I ever see you and Lizzie again?” Rose asked woefully.

Zachary couldn't bring himself to lie to her. “Not very often, I'm afraid.”

“You'll miss me awfully,” she said, heaving a sigh, and she began to fumble for something in the pocket of her pinafore.

Something went wrong with Zachary's eyes, some odd blurring and stinging that he couldn't seem to blink away. “Every day, princess.”

Rose extracted a small object from the pocket and handed it to him. “This is for you,” she said. “It's my perfume button. When you get sad, you can smell it, and you'll feel better. It always works for me.”

“Princess,” Zachary said, making his voice soft to keep it from cracking, “I can't take your favorite button.” He tried to give it back to her, but she pushed his hand away.

“You need it,” she said stubbornly. “You keep it, Mr. Bronson. And don't lose it.”

“All right.” Zachary closed his fist over the button and bowed his head over it, struggling with his unruly emotions. He had done this to himself, he thought. He had schemed and manipulated until he had gotten Lady Holland Taylor to live in his home. But he had never anticipated the consequences. If he had only known…

“Are you going to cry, Mr. Bronson?” the child asked in concern, coming to stand beside his knees, staring into his downturned face.

He managed to smile at her. “Just a little on the inside,” he said raspily. He felt her little hand on his cheek, and he held utterly still as she kissed him on the nose.

“Good-bye, Mr. Bronson,” she whispered, and she left with her button string trailing dolefully behind her.

It was still morning when his carriage was finally prepared for his departure, and there was nothing keeping him at the estate. Nothing but his own tormented heart. Pondering all that had been said between he and Holly, he realized that there was nothing to be gained by further conversation. The choices had been set out, and Holly would either go or stay according to her own desires, with no interference from him.