The clutch of panic began to ease from her throat. “I—I want to ignore this as if it never happened.”
“All right,” he said at once, although his gaze was frankly skeptical. “You set the rules, my lady.” He stooped and retrieved her discarded glove, and handed it to her. Flushing, she fumbled to pull it back over her arm.
“You must promise not to interfere in the matter between Ravenhill and me,” she managed to say. “I invited him to call on me. I do not wish for him to be turned away or treated rudely when he visits. I will make all decisions about my future—and Rose's—without any help from you.”
She saw from the hard flexing of his jaw that he was gritting his teeth. “Fine,” he said evenly. “But I want to point something out. For three years Ravenhill has gallivanted around Europe—and don't try to claim that his infernal promise to George was uppermost in his mind then. And what about your actions? You weren't thinking about the damn promise when you agreed to work for me—you know George wouldn't have approved. Hell, you and I both know he probably rolled over in his grave!”
“I accepted your offer because I didn't know if Ravenhill still desired to uphold his vows to George. I have Rose and her future to consider. When you appeared, and Ravenhill was nowhere to be found, it seemed the best choice at the time. And I don't regret it. When my employment with you is concluded, I will then be free to fulfill my obligations to George, if that turns out to be the best course of action.”
“All very sensible,” he observed in a soft but stinging tone. “Tell me this: If you decide to marry Ravenhill, will you let him share your bed?”
She colored at the question. “You have no right to ask such a thing.”
“You don't want him that way,” he said flatly.
“There is far more to a marriage than what occurs in the conjugal bed.”
“Is that what George told you?” he shot back. “I wonder…did you ever respond to him the way you do with me?”
The question filled her with outrage. Holly had never struck anyone in her life, but her hand moved of its own accord. As if she stood outside the scene, she watched the white flash of her glove as she slapped his face. The blow was pitifully soft, insignificant except as a gesture of rebuke. It didn't seem to bother Bronson in the slightest. In fact, she saw the satisfied gleam in his eyes, and she realized in a flash of despair that she had given him his answer. With a sob of distress, she sped away from him as fast as her feet would take her.
After a while Zachary returned to the ball, doing his best to appear composed while his body ached with frustrated desire. At last he knew what it was like to hold her in his arms and feel her mouth work sweetly under his. At last he knew the taste of her skin, the throb of her pulse against his lips. Absently taking a cup of some noxiously sweet liquid from a passing servant, Zachary stood at the side of the room and stared at the crowd until he located Holly's vivid red dress. She appeared miraculously carefree and self-possessed, chatting lightly with his sister Elizabeth and making introductions to the would-be suitors that approached them. Only the arcs of bright color at the crests of her cheeks betrayed her inner turmoil.
Zachary tore his gaze from her, knowing it would cause comment if he continued to stare at her so openly. But somehow he knew that she was aware of him, despite the fact that they were separated by a roomful of people. Blindly he turned his attention to the cup of punch in his hand. He drank it in a few impatient gulps, finding the taste to be cloying and medicinal. Various acquaintances came to stand next to him, most of them partners in business ventures, and he obligingly made polite conversation, smild at jokes he only half-heard, ventured opinions when he was barely aware of the subject matter. All his attention, his thoughts, his wilful soul, were focused on Lady Holland Taylor.
He was in love with her. Every dream, hope and ambition of his life combined was a tiny flame in comparison to the great conflagration of emotion that burned inside him. It terrified him that she held such immense power over him. He had never wanted to love anyone this way—it brought him no comfort or happiness, only the painful knowledge that he was almost certain to lose her. The thought of not having her, relinquishing her to another man, to the wishes of her departed husband, nearly brought him to his knees. Wildly he considered ways to lure her…There were things he could offer. Hell, he would personally build a great marble monument to the memory of George Taylor, if that was her price for accepting him.
Occupied with his frantic thoughts, Zachary didn't immediately notice the nearby presence of Ravenhill. Gradually he became aware of the tall blond man standing only a few feet away, a handsome solitary figure amid the vibrant clamor of the ball. Their gazes met, and Zachary stepped closer to him.
“Tell me,” Zachary said softly, “what kind of man would ask his best friend to marry his wife after he died? And what kind of man would inspire two seemingly sensible people to agree to such a damned stupid plan?”
The man's gray eyes surveyed him in a measuring stare. “A better man than you or I will ever be.”
Zachary couldn't stop himself from sneering. “It seems that Lady Holland's paragon of a husband wants to control her from the grave.”
“He was trying to protect her,” Ravenhill said without apparent heat, “from men like you.”
The bastard's calmness infuriated Zachary. Ravenhill was so damned confident, as if he had already won a competition that Zachary hadn't even known about until it was over. “You think she'll go through with it, don't you?” Zachary muttered resentfully. “You think she'll sacrifice the rest of her life simply because George Taylor asked it of her.”
“Yes, that's what I think,” came Ravenhill's cool reply. “And if you knew her better, you'd have no doubt of it.”
Why? Zachary wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the painful question. Why was it a foregone conclusion that she would go through with her promise? Had she loved George Taylor so much that he could influence her even in death? Or was it simply a matter of honor? Could her sense of duty and moral obligation really impel her to marry a man she didn't love?
“I warn you,” Ravenhill said softly, “if you hurt or distress Lady Holland in any way, you'll answer to me.”
“All this concern for her welfare is touching. A few years late in coming, isn't it?”
The comment seemed to rattle Ravenhill's composure. Zachary felt a stab of triumph as he saw the man flush slightly.
“I've made mistakes,” Ravenhill acknowledged curtly. “I have as many faults as the next man, and I found the prospect of filling George Taylor's shoes damned intimidating. Anyone would.”
“Then what made you come back?” Zachary muttered, wishing there were some way to forcibly transport the man back across the Channel.
“The thought that Lady Holland and her daughter might need me in some way.”
“They don't. They have me.”
The lines had been drawn. They might as well have been generals of opposing armies, facing each other across a battlefield. Ravenhill's thin, aristocratic mouth curved in a contemptuous smile. “You're that last thing they need,” he said. “I suspect even you know that.”