“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.
The dream changed then, and she found herself lying on a thick patch of green grass, while something…someone…blocked her view of the sky and clouds overhead. “Who is it…who is it…?” she begged to know, but the only reply was a soft, low laugh that curled around her like smoke. She felt a man's hands on her, gently lifting her skirts, sliding up her stiff legs, while a hot, delicious mouth pressed over hers. Moaning, she relaxed beneath him, and her sun-dazzled gaze cleared enough to reveal a pair of wicked black eyes staring into hers. “Zachary,” she gasped, her legs and arms and body opening to receive him, and she twisted in pleasure as she felt his weight lower over her. “Oh, Zachary, yes, don't stop—”
He smiled and covered her breasts with his hands and kissed her, and she groaned in excitement. “Zachary—”
Suddenly Holly jerked awake, startled from sleep by the sound of her own voice. Breathing fast, she stared dizzily at her surroundings. She was alone in bed, pillows heaped around her, sheets tangled around her knees and ankles. Sickening disappointment swept over her as the last wisps of the dream faded away. She clutched a pillow to her midriff and lay on her side, shaking and burning. Where was Zachary at this very moment? Was he sleeping and dreaming in his solitary bed, or was he sating his desires in the arms of another woman? Poisonous jealousy engulfed her. She pressed her hands to either side of her head, trying to block the images that crowded her mind. Some other woman might be holding his powerful body against hers, tangling her fingers in his thick dark hair, feeling him shudder as he took his pleasure within her.
“It doesn't matter now, I've made my choice,” Holly whispered to herself agitatedly. “And he said not to come back. It's over…it's over.”
True to his word, Ravenhill did come to court Holly, calling nearly every day. He accompanied her on rides through the park, picnics with the Taylors, and water parties with close friends. Thanks to the Taylors' determined protection, these gatherings were fairly uneventful, and Holly was sheltered from blatant snubs. One had to give her late husband's family a great deal of credit for loyalty. They closed ranks around her and defended her zealously, in spite of their own disapproval of her past actions. They did approve of her keeping company with Ravenhill, however. Having known of George's last wishes for Holly and Ravenhill to marry, the family did its best to ensure that there were no impediments to the match.
“When you and Ravenhill are wed,” William, the head of the family, told Holly matter-of-factly, “it will put to rest a large measure of the speculation concerning you and Bronson. I should do my best to hurry the procedure along, if I were you.”
“I understand, William,” Holly replied, though her insides had boiled in rebellion at the unwanted advice. “And I thank you for sharing your wisdom. However, it is not altogether certain that Ravenhill and I will marry.”
“What?” William's blue eyes narrowed in a forbidding scowl. “Is he showing reluctance to come up to scratch? I'll have a talk with him and sort things out. Don't fret, m'dear, he'll march to the altar with you if I have to prod him at gunpoint.”
“No, no,” Holly said hastily, her mouth quivering in sudden amusement. “There's no need, William. Ravenhill is showing no sign of reluctance. I am the reluctant one, and he is allowing me the time I require to make the decision.”
“What decision is there? What possible reason do you have for dragging your feet?” William stared at her impatiently. “Let me assure you, if not for this family, you would be a pariah by now. You're treading on the edge of ruin. Marry Ravenhill, for God's sake, and preserve what little social standing you have left.”
Holly contemplated him thoughtfully, her heart softening as she saw the resemblance he bore to George, though his once-thick blond hair was thinning on top and his blue eyes were stern rather than merry. Taking him by surprise, Holly approached him and kissed his cheek affectionately. “You've been very kind to me, my lord. You will have my everlasting gratitude for harboring such a disreputable character as myself.”
“You're not disreputable,” he grumbled, “you're merely misguided. You need a man, Holland. Like most women, you require the good judgment and common sense that a husband provides. And Ravenhill's a steady sort. Oh, I know about his wild ways in Europe, but every fellow has to sow his oats at one time or another, and that's all in the past.”
Holly smiled suddenly. “Why is it that my association with Mr. Bronson is called scandalous, and Ravenhill's even worse behavior is merely labeled as ‘sowing oats’?”
“This is no time to discuss semantics,” William said with an exasperated sigh. “The fact is, Holland, that you need a husband if you're to remain in good society. And Ravenhill is an appropriate and willing candidate. Moreo
ver, he's the candidate that my dear brother George recommended, and if George thought that well of him, then so do I.”
Reflecting on the conversation later, Holly admitted herself that William made sense. Life as Ravenhill's wife would prove far more pleasant than life as a scandaltainted widow. Her feelings for Vardon were clear. She liked and trusted him, and they had an affinity that had been born of long acquaintance with each other. Their companionable relationship was being cemented daily by long walks and lazy afternoons, and suppers at which they jested and confided and smiled at each other over the rims of sparkling crystal wine glasses. But Holly waited in vain for some inner signal that would let her know it was time…time to banish Zachary Bronson from her mind and heart and proceed with George's wishes.
However, her longing for Zachary did not fade. It became even more intense, if that was possible, until she found it difficult to eat or sleep. She had not been this acutely miserable since George's death. It seemed that her vision was covered in a dull gray film, and aside from reading and playing with Rose, there was little purpose to her days. One week passed, and another, until a full month had gone by since she had left the Bronsons.
Holly awakened early after yet another sleepless night and went to the window. She pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes and stared at the street below, illuminated by the lavender light of dawn. Coal smoke drifted over the city in a gentle fog, softening the jagged horizon of buildings and homes. Inside the house, early morning noises began: maids opening shutters, lighting fires, laying the hearths and preparing breakfast trays. Another day, she thought, and felt unaccountably weary at the prospect of bathing, dressing and arranging her hair, and picking listlessly at a breakfast she had no desire to eat. She wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
“I should be happy,” she said aloud, puzzled by her own inner emptiness. The kind of well-ordered life she had always expected and planned for and enjoyed was easily within her reach…but she didn't want it any longer.
A brief memory flashed through her mind, of the occasion when she and Rose had gone to the shoemaker's for a fitting, and Holly had tried on a pair of exquisite new custom-made walking shoes. Although the shoemaker had used the same pattern as always, something about the stitching or the stiff new leather had made the shoes pinch unbearably. “They're too tight,” Holly had commented ruefully, and Rose had exclaimed with delighted pride, “That means you're growing, Mama!”
Returning to this life with the Taylors, and contemplating marriage with Vardon, was exactly like trying on those tight shoes. For better or worse, she had grown out of this particular life. All those months with the Bronsons had made her, if perhaps not a better woman, at least a different one.
What to do now?
By force of habit, Holly went to the night table and picked up her miniature of George. The sight of his face would give her the comfort and strength, and perhaps a bit of guidance.
However, as she stared at her husband's serene young features, a startling realization came over her. The sight of George did not bring her peace. She no longer yearned for his arms, his voice, his smile. Incredible as it seemed, she had fallen in love with another man. She loved Zachary Bronson as deeply as she had ever loved her husband. Only with Zachary did she feel alive and whole. She missed his provocative, earthy conversations, and the darkeyed glances that contained sardonic amusement or anger or knee-weakening lust. She missed the way he had seemed to fill a room with his charismatic presence, the torrent of plans and ideas that flowed from him, the boundless energy that had swept her along in a fast-moving current. Life without him was slow and dark and unbearably dull.
Realizing that she was breathing in strange little gasps, Holly put her hand over her mouth. She loved him, and it terrified her. For months her heart had resisted the inexorable pull of her growing feelings. She had been desperately afraid to have her soul torn apart by loss once again, and so it had been easier and safer not to let herself fall in love. That had been the real obstacle between herself and Zachary…not her promise to George, not the differences in their backgrounds, not any of the inconsequential issues she had thrown between them.
Setting down the miniature, Holly unbraided her hair and dragged a silver-backed brush over the rumpled locks in frantic, ruthless strokes. The urge to run to Zachary was overwhelming. She wanted to dress and have a carriage readied and go to him this very minute, and try to explain why she had made such a mess of things.
But was it really the best choice for them to join their lives together? Their pasts, their expectations, their very natures were so radically different. Would any rational person advise them to marry? The notion that love would make everything all right was a ridiculous cliché an overly simplified answer to a complicated problem. And yet…sometimes the simple answers were the best ones. Perhaps the small issues could be sorted out later. Perhaps all that really mattered was the truth that existed in her heart.