“Then let us talk later,” Holly eventually murmured. “Call on me at the Bronsons' home, if you wish.”
“Shall I take you back to the ballroom?”
She shook her head hastily. “If you wouldn't mind, please leave me here. I just want to sit alone and think quietly for a moment.” Seeing the objections in his gaze, she gave him a coaxing smile. “I promise, no one will accost me in your absence. I'm only a stone's throw from the house. Please, Vardon.”
He nodded r
eluctantly and took her gloved hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. When he had left her, Holly heaved a sigh and wondered why she was so confused and unhappy about fulfilling the last promise George had ever asked of her. “Darling,” she whispered, closing her eyes, “You always knew what was right for me. I trust you now as much as I ever did, and I see the wisdom in what you asked of us. But if you could give me a sign that it is still what you want, I would gladly spend the rest of my life as you wished. I shouldn't see it as a sacrifice, I know, but—”
Her soulful ponderings were suddenly interrupted by an irate voice.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
Being thoroughly a man, one whose nature was rooted in competition, Zachary had experienced jealousy before. But nothing like this. Not this mixture of rage and alarm that shredded his insides. He was no idiot—he had seen the way Holly was looking at Ravenhill in the ballroom, and he had understood it all too well. They were cut from the same cloth, and they shared a past that he'd had no part of. There were bonds between them, memories, and even more, the comfort of knowing exactly what to expect from each other. All of a sudden Zachary hated Ravenhill with an intensity that approached fear. Ravenhill was everything he was not…everything he could never be.
If only this were a more primitive time, the period of history when simple brute force overrode all else and a man could have what he wanted merely by staking his claim. That was how most of these damned bluebloods had originated, in fact. They were the watered-down, inbred descendents of warriors who had earned their status through battle and blood. Generations of privilege and ease had tamed them, softened and cultured them. Now these pampered aristocrats could afford to look down their noses at a man who probably resembled their revered ancestors more than they themselves did.
That was his problem, Zachary realized. He had been born a few centuries too late. Instead of having to mince and prance his way into a society that was clearly too rarefied for him, he should have been able to dominate… fight…conquer.
As Zachary had seen Holly leave the ballroom, her small hand tucked against Ravenhill's arm, it had required all his will to appear collected. He had nearly trembled with the urge to snatch Holly into his arms and carry her away like a barbarian.
For a moment, the rational part of his brain had commanded him to let Holly go without a struggle. She had never been his to lose. Let her make the right decisions for herself, the comfortable decisions. Let her find the peace she deserved.
The hell I will, he had thought savagely. He had followed the pair, intent as a prowling tiger, letting nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. And now he found Holly sitting here alone in the garden, looking dazed and dreamy, and he wanted to shake her until her hair cascaded loose and her teeth rattled.
“What's going on?” he demanded. “You're supposed to be smoothing the way for Lizzie and telling me which girls to dance with, and instead I find you in the garden making calf eyes at Ravenhill.”
“I was not making calf-eyes,” Holly said indignantly, “I was remembering things about George, and…oh, I should return to Elizabeth—”
“Not yet. First I want an explanation of what is going on between you and Ravenhill.”
Her small, pale face wore an expression of consternation. “It's complicated.”
“Use very small words,” he suggested acidly, “and I'll try to follow along.”
“I'd rather discuss it later—”
“Now.” He caught her gloved elbows as she rose from the bench, and glared into her moonlit face.
“There's no need to be upset.” Holly gasped a little at the rough way he handled her.
“I'm not upset, I'm…” Realizing he was holding her too tightly, Zachary let go of her abruptly. “Tell me what you and Ravenhill were talking about, dammit.”
Although his grip couldn't possibly have hurt her, Holly cupped her hands around her elbows and rubbed them gently. “Well, it concerns a promise that I made long before you and I met.”
“Go on,” he muttered as she paused.
“On the day George died, he expressed his fear over what was going to happen to Rose and me. He knew he wasn't leaving us very much to live on, and although his family reassured him that they would take care of us, he was terribly troubled. Nothing I said would comfort him. He kept whispering that Rose needed a father to protect her, and that I…oh, dear…” Shivering at the bleak memory, Holly sat on the bench once more and blinked hard against the rising pressure of tears. Ducking her head, she used the tips of her gloves to blot the rivulets that leaked from her eyes.
Zachary swore and rummaged through the innumerable inside pockets of his coat for a handkerchief. He found his pocket watch, his extra pair of gloves, wads of money, a gold tobacco case and a small pencil, but the handkerchief proved elusive. Holly must have realized what he was searching for, as she suddenly choked on a watery giggle. “I told you to bring a handkerchief,” she said.
“I don't know where I put the damn thing.” He gave her one of his extra gloves. “Here, use this.”
She dabbed at her wet cheeks and nose, then held the object tightly in her hand. Although she hadn't invited him to sit beside her, Zachary straddled the bench and faced her, staring at her down-bent head. “Go on,” he said gruffly. “Tell me what George said.”
Holly sighed deeply. “He was afraid of what would happen to me…that without a husband I would be lonely, that I needed a man's guidance and affection…he was afraid I would make ill-advised decisions, and that others would take advantage of me. And so he asked for Vardon…er, Ravenhill. He trusted Ravenhill more than anyone in the world, and had faith in his judgment and sense of honor. Although Ravenhill might seem a bit cold on the surface, he is a kind man, and very fair and generous—”
“Enough about the wonders of Ravenhill.” Renewed jealousy fomented inside him. “Just tell me what George wanted.”