This dignified house fronted with pediments and columns and rows of small, neat windows was where George had lived as a child. It was easy to imagine the boisterous boy he must have been, running up and down the central staircase, playing on the gently sloped lawns outside, sleeping in the same nursery where Holly's own daughter Rose now rested.
Holly was glad that the townhouse where she and George had lived during their short, lovely marriage had been sold. That place contained the happiest and the most agonizing memories of her life. She would rather stay here, where her grief was dulled by pleasant images of George in his childhood. There were paintings of him as a boy, places where he had carved his name in the woodwork, trunks of toys and dusty books that must have occupied him for hours. His family…his mother, his two brothers and their wives, not to mention the servants that had attended George since infancy, were nothing but kind and loving. All the affection that had once been lavished on George, the favorite of the family, was now given to her and Rose. She could easily see spending the rest of her life here, in the mellow world the Taylors provided.
It was only at odd moments that Holly felt constrained by this perfect seclusion. There were times when she sat with her needlework and found herself drifting into strange, wild fantasies that she couldn't seem to control. There were also moments when she felt some irrepressible emotion that she had no means to release…she wanted to do something scandalous, scream in church, go somewhere in a shocking red dress and dance…or kiss a stranger.
“Dear Lord,” Holly whispered aloud, realizing that there was something wicked inside her, something that must be battened down and tightly secured. It was a physical problem, the need of a woman for a man, the dilemma that every widow faced when there was no longer a husband to visit her bed. She had loved George's caresses, and she had always anticipated the nights when he would come to her room and stay until morning. For the past three years, she had fought the unspeakable need she felt since his death. She confided her problem to no one, as she was well aware of society
's view on female desire. That it should not exist at all. Women must live as an example to men and use their virtue to tame a husband's base instincts. They must submit to their husbands, but never encourage a man's passion, and they certainly must not display any sign of physical desire themselves.
“Milady! How was the ball? Did ye enjoy yerself? Did ye dance? Were there people ye remembered from before?”
“Fine, yes, no, and many,” Holly replied, forcing herself to smile as her servant, Maude, appeared at the threshold of her two-room suite and welcomed her inside. Maude was the only maidservant that Holly had been able to retain after George's death. The others had either been absorbed into the Taylor household, or dismissed with good references and as much severance pay as Holly had been able to spare. Maude was an attractive, buxom woman in her early thirties, possessed of boundless energy and unfailing high spirits. Even her hair was exuberant, with blond curls springing insistently out of the tight coils she pinned it in. She worked hard each day, primarily serving as a nanny to Rose, and also functioning as lady's maid to Holly when necessary.
“Tell me how Rose is,” Holly said, heading to the small fire on the grate and extending her hands toward its inviting warmth. “Did she go to sleep easily?”
Maude laughed ruefully. “I'm sorry to say she didn't. She was chattering like a little bird about the ball, and how pretty ye look in yer blue gown.” She took Holly's pelisse and folded it neatly over her arm. “Although, if ye ask me, yer new gowns still look like mourning—they're all so frightfully dark. I wish ye'd had one made in yellow or that pretty light green all the fine ladies are wearing—”
“I've been wearing black and gray for three years,” Holly interrupted wryly, standing still as the maid began on the back buttons of her dark blue gown. “I can't sud denly burst into a rainbow of colors, Maude. One has to ease into these things slowly.”
“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.
Zachary had hired a succession of housekeepers until he had realized that even the best ones still needed the overall direction provided by a lady of the house. And God knew his mother hadn't the slightest notion of how to give orders to a servant, other than to timidly ask a maid for a cup of tea or for assistance in dressing.
“They're servants, Mother,” Zachary had told her patiently, at least a hundred times. “They expect you to ask for things. They want you to. They wouldn't have jobs otherwise. Now, stop looking so damned apologetic when you need something, and ring the bellpull with some authority.”
But his mother only laughed and stammered, and protested that she hated to put someone to any bother, even if they were paid for it. No, his mother was never going to improve in this area—she had lived in humble circumstances for too long to be any good at managing servants.