Where Dreams Begin(86)

“But you don't love me, Vardon. And I don't—”

“I want to give you the protection of my name,” he interrupted.

“But it's not enough to wash away the scandal and the rumors—”

“It's better than what you've got now,” he pointed out reasonably. “Besides, you're wrong about something. I do love you. I've known you since before you and George were married. I've never respected and liked a woman more. Furthermore, I believe the maxim that a marriage between friends is the best kind of all.”

Holly understood that he was not referring to the kind of love she'd had with George. Neither was he offering the passionate attachment she shared with Zachary Bronson. This was truly a marriage of convenience, one that would serve both their needs and satisfy George's last request.

“What if that is not enough for you?” she asked quietly. “You'll meet someone, Vardon…It could be weeks after we are married, or years, but you will someday. A woman you would gladly die for. And you'll want to be with her desperately, and I'll be nothing but a millstone around your neck.”

He shook his head immediately. “I'm not made that way, Holly. I don't believe there's just one person or one true love for each of us. I've had love affairs—three years of them—and I'm damn tired of all the histrionics and obsessions and ecstasy and melancholy. I want some peace.” A self-mocking smile touched his lips. “I want to be a respectable married man—though God knows I'd never imagined myself saying that.”

“Vardon…” She stared down at the brocade of the settee, using a fingertip to trace the fleur-de-lis pattern worked in gold and burgundy threads. “You haven't asked why I left Mr. Bronson's employ so abruptly.”

A long speculative silence passed before he answered. “Do you want to tell me?” He didn't seem particularly eager to know the answer.

Holly shook her head, while a huff of laughter caught painfully in her throat. “Not really. But in light of your proposal, I feel obligated to confess something. I don't want to lie to you, and—”

“I don't need to hear your confessions, Holly.” Ravenhill caught at her hand and squeezed, his grip steady and comforting. he waited until she brought herself to look into his regretful, brooding gray eyes. “I don't want to hear them,” he continued, “because then I'd have to give you my confessions in return. It's not necessary, or productive. So you keep your past, and I'll keep mine. Everyone's allowed to have one or two secrets.”

Holly felt a warm surge of liking for him. Any woman would be fortunate to have such a husband. It was even possible for her to envision a marriage between them. They would be a bit more than friends, albeit a good deal less than lovers. But the situation felt odd and manufactured, and she frowned as she stared at him. “I want to do the right thing, if only I knew what it was,” she said.

“What would feel right to you?”

“Nothing,” she confessed, and Ravenhill laughed quietly.

“Let me court you for a little while, then. We can afford a bit of time. I'll wait until you're convinced this is the best choice for both of us.” He paused and then pulled her hands to his shoulders, giving her a faint half-smile as if daring her to leave them there. She did, although her heart pounded in sudden panicked awareness of what he was going to do.

Ravenhill leaned forward and brushed a light kiss on her lips, lingering only a moment. There was nothing demanding in his kiss, but she sensed the wealth of sexual experience and self-assurance he possessed. She wondered if George would have matured into a man like this, if he would have acquired the same polished worldliness, if his eyes would have acquired the same faint laugh lines at the corners, if his form would have relinquished the lankiness of youth for the same solid, seasoned strength.

Ravenhill drew back, his slight smile remaining as Holly withdrew her hands hastily. “May I see you tomorrow morning?” he asked. “We'll go riding in the park.”

“All right,” she whispered.

Her thoughts were swamped in confusion, and she went through the motions of bidding him good-bye and seeing him out. Thankfully Ravenhill resisted the Taylors' attempts to invite him to supper, and he gave Holly a briefly ironic smile that betrayed his thoughts on her in-laws' obvious meddling.

Olinda, Thomas's tall, elegant blond wife, came to stand beside Holly as she remained in the entrance hall. “What a handsome man Lord Ravenhill is,” she exclaimed admiringly. “One never really noticed his looks when compared to George, but now that he is no longer in George's shadow…” Suddenly realizing that her remarks might be construed as tactless, she fell silent.

“He is still in George's shadow,” Holly said softly. After all, wasn't this entire situation of George's making? It was all going according to his design. The thought should have been reassuring, but it only chafed and annoyed her.

“Well,” Olinda said thoughtfully, “I suppose to you, every man in the world is inferior to George. He was so remarkable in every way. No one could eclipse him.”

There was a time not long ago when Holly would have agreed automatically. Now, however, she bit her lip and remained silent.

Sleep was elusive that night. When Holly did finally relax into slumber, it was light and restless, and she was troubled by vivid dreams. She walked through a rose garden, her feet crunching on graveled paths, her eyes squinting from the glare of harsh sunlight. Enchanted by the lush red blossoms that surrounded her, she reached for one, cupped her hand around the velvety petals and bent to inhale its fragrance. A sudden stabbing pain in her finger startled her, and she drew back hastily. There was a bleeding wound at the base of her finger, inflicted by a hidden thorn. Catching sight of a nearby fountain that splashed cool water into a marble basin, she went to soak her injured hand. But the rosebushes gathered and grew around her in a strange, living mass. The blossoms withered and dropped, and all that was left was a wall of sharp brown thorns, imprisoning her on every side. Crying out in distress, Holly shrank into a ball on the ground while the thorny branches continued to grow around her, and she held her wounded hand against the crashing, agonized beat of her heart.