Seeing that Holly was unescorted, at least three men rapidly headed toward her from different parts of the room. It was not lost on Holly that her wine-red gown was attracting more attention than she had ever received in her life. “No, thank you,” she said repeatedly, as she was beset with requests for various dances. She displayed her gloved wrist and its lack of a dance card. “I'm not dancing this evening…thank you so much for asking…I'm truly honored, but on…” The men did not leave, however, on matter how firmly she refused. Two more appeared, bearing cups of punch to assuage her thirst, and another came with a plate of tiny sandwiches to tempt her appetite. Their efforts to capture her interest escalated rapidly, men elbowing and jostling each other in an effort to stand closer to her.
Holly's surprise at the flood of attention became tempered with a bit of alarm. She had never been so besieged. When she had been a young, white-gowned girl, her chaperones had carefully supervised all interactions with males, and as a married matron, she had been protected by her husband. But her appearance in the red gown—and no doubt the rumors and insinuations about her presence in the Bronson household—had combined to attract a great deal of masculine interest.
Only one man could have cut through the mob. All of a sudden Zachary Bronson shouldered his way into the tightly packed crowd, looking impossibly large and dark, and a bit irate. It was only now, when she saw Bronson standing amid so many other men, that Holly realized how he was able to intimidate them all by sheer virtue of his size. She felt an inappropriate but delicious thrill as he took her arm possessively and glared at the horde around them. “My lady,” he said brusquely, his cold gaze continuing to survey the group, “may I have a word with you?”
“Yes, certainly.” Holly gave a sigh of relief as he drew her aside to a relatively private corner.
“Jackals,” Bronson muttered. “And people say I'm not a gentleman. At least I don't pant and slobber over a woman in public.”
“I'm sure you're exaggerating, Mr. Bronson. I hardly saw anyone slobbering.”
“And the way that bastard Harrowby was staring at you,” Bronson continued irritably. “I think he sprained his damn neck trying to get a look down the front of your dress.”
“Your language, Mr. Bronson,” Holly said tartly, though inside she felt a bubbling of laughter. Was it possible he was jealous? She knew she should not be pleased by such a thought. “And I needn't remind you that my choice of attire is entirely your fault.”
The musicians in the upstairs bower began to play, the bright, lively music filling the air. “The dancing will begin soon,” Holly said, adopting a businesslike air. “Have you been writing your name on various young ladies' dance cards?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, you must apply yourself to it at once. I will suggest a few that are well worth approaching: Miss Eugenia Clayton, for one, and by all means Lady Jane Kirkby, and that girl over there—Lady Georgiana Brenton. She's the daughter of a duke.”
“Do I need a third party to make the introductions?” Bronson asked.
“At a public ball, yes. However this is a private ball, and the fact that you were invited is sufficient testament to your respectability. Remember to make conversation that is neither too serious nor trivial. Talk about art, for example, or your favorite periodicals.”
“I don't read periodicals.”
“Then discuss prominent people whom you admire, or social trends you find interesting…oh, you know very well how to make small talk. You do it with me all the time.”
“That's different,” Bronson muttered, staring with barely concealed alarm at the flocks of white-gowned virgins that filled the room. “You're a woman.”
Holly laughed suddenly. “And what are all those creatures, if not women?”
“I'll be damned if I know.”
“Do not swear,” she said. “And do not say anything indelicate to one of those girls. Now go dance with someone. And bear in mind that a true gentleman would approach one of the poor girls sitting in the chairs against the wall, instead of heading for the most popular ones.”
Staring at the row of disconsolate wallflowers, Zachary heaved a sigh. He couldn't fathom why it had once seemed like a good idea to marry some unformed fledgling and mold her to his liking. He had wanted a trophy, an upperclass brood mare to lend some prestige to his common bloodline. But the idea of spending the rest of his life with one of these well-bred girls seemed appallingly dull. “They all look the same,” he muttered.
“Well, they're not,” Holly reproved. “I remember full well how it felt to be cast out into the marriage market, and it's terrifying. I had no idea what kind of husband I might end up with.” She paused and touched his arm lightly. “There, do you see that girl seated at the end of the row? The attractive one with the brown hair and the blue trim on her gown. She is Miss Alice Warner—I am well acquainted with the family. If she is anything at all like her older sisters, she will be a delightful partner.”
“Then why is she sitting alone?” he asked darkly.
“She is one of a half-dozen daughters, and the family can offer practically nothing in the way of a dowry. That is off-putting to many enterprising young men…but it won't matter to you.” Holly gave him a quick, subtle push in the back. “Go ask her to dance.”
He resisted her prodding. “What will you be doing?”
“I see your sister being escorted to the refreshment room, where I believe your mother is heading as well. Perhaps I'll join them there. Now go.”
He gave her an ironic glance and went off like a reluctant can being prodded to hunt.
When it became apparent that Holly was unattended once again, several men started toward her. Realizing she was about to be mobbed once more, Holly decided instantly on a strategic retreat. Pretending not to see any of the gentleman who were headed in her direction, she sailed toward the entrance of the drawing room, hoping to find refuge in one of the surrounding galleries and parlors. She was too intent on her escape to notice the large shape that crossed her path. Suddenly she walked directly into a man's solid body. A surprised gasp escaped her. A pair of gloved hands caught her elbows, restoring her uncertain balance.
“I'm so sorry,” Holly said in a rush, glancing up at the man before her. “I was in a bit of a rush. Forgive me, I should have been…” But her voice faded into stunned silence as she realized whom she had walked into.
“Vardon,” she whispered.
The very sight of Vardon, Lord Ravenhill, caused memories to come over her in a heady rush. For a moment her throat tightened too much to allow speech or breath. It had been three years since she had seen him, not since the funeral. He looked older, more serious, and there were lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before. Yet he looked more handsome, if possible, maturity lending him a look of ruggedness that saved him from what might have otherwise been bland attractiveness.
His wheat-blond hair was cut the same, and his gray eyes were just as she remembered, so cool and incisive until he smiled. Then his gaze was warm and silvery. “Lady Holland,” he said quietly.
A thousand memories bound them together. How many lazy summer afternoons had the three of them spent together, how many parties and musical evenings had they attended at the same time? Holly remembered how she and George had laughingly offered advice to Vardon on what sort of girl he should marry…or George and Vardon attending boxing matches, then coming home as drunk as parrots…or the grim evening when she had broken the news to Vardon that George had contracted typhoid fever. Vardon had been a steady support for Holly all through his friend's illness and eventual death. The two men had been as close as brothers, and in that light Holly had regarded Vardon as a member of the family. Now seeing Vardon like this, after he had been absent from her life for so long, brought back a sweet, intoxicating sense of what it had been like when George was still alive. Holly half-expected to see George trailing after him with a ready joke and a merry smile. But George was not there, of course.
Only she and Vardon were left.
“The only reason I came here tonight is because Lady Plymouth told me that you would be attending,” Ravenhill said quietly.
“It's been so long, I—” Holly broke off, her mind blank as she filled her gaze with him. She longed to talk to him about George, and about what had transpired for both of them during the past years.
Ravenhill smiled, his white teeth gleaming in his golden face. “Come with me.”
Her hand slipped naturally into his arm, and she went without thinking, feeling as if she had stepped into the middle of a dream. Wordlessly Ravenhill led her from the ballroom and through the entrance hall to a long row of French doors. He guided her through the doors and out into the house's central courtyard, where the air was heady with the scent of fruit and flowers. Outside lamps adorned with festoons of lacy wrought iron shed light over the abundant greenery, and illuminated the sky above until it resembled the exact color of black plums. Seeking a measure of privacy, they walked to the edge of the courtyard, which opened onto a great formal garden at the back of the house. They found a circle of small stone benches half-concealed by a row of hedges, and they sat together.
Holly stared into Ravenhill's shadowed face with a tremulous smile. She sensed that he felt the same way she did, awkward but eager, two old friends anxious to renew their acquaintance. He looked so dear, so familiar, that she experienced a strong urge to hug him, but something held her back. His expression contained some secret knowledge that seemed to cause him discomfort…uneasiness…shame. He started to reach for her gloved hand, then drew back, resting his palms on his spread knees instead.
“Holland,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her. “You're more beautiful than I've ever seen you.”
She studied Ravenhill as well, struck by how much older he seemed, his golden handsomeness tempered by a bitter awareness of the grief that life sometimes held in store for the unsuspecting. He seemed to have lost the supreme selfassurance that had come with his privileged upbringing, and strangely he was all the more attractive for it.
“How is Rose?” he asked softly.
“Happy, beautiful, bright…oh, Vardon, how I wish George could see her!”
Ravenhill seemed unable to reply, staring hard at some distant point of the garden. His throat must have pained him, for he swallowed several times.
“Vardon,” Holly asked after a long silence, “do you still think of George often?”
He nodded, his smile edged with self-mockery. “Time hasn't helped nearly as much as everyone assured me it would. Yes, I think about him too damn often. Until he died, I'd never lost anyone or anything that mattered to me.”
Holly understood that all too well. For her, as well, life had been almost magically perfect. As a young woman, she had been untouched by loss or pain, and she had been so certain that things would always be wonderful. In her immaturity, it had never occurred to her that someone she loved could be taken away from her.
“Since boyhood, everyone thought of George as a prankster, and I was the responsible one,” Ravenhill said. “But that was only the appearance of things. In truth, George was the anchor. He had the deepest sense of honor, the greatest integrity that I've ever known. My own father was a drunkard and a hypocrite, and you know that I don't think much better of my brothers. And the friends I made at school were nothing but dandies and wastrels. George was the only man I've ever truly admired.”
Filled with a wistful ache, Holly reached for his hand and squeezed it hard. “Yes,” she whispered with a smile of tender pride, “he was a fine man.”
“After he passed away,” Ravenhill said, “I nearly went to pieces. I would have done anything to dull the pain, but nothing worked.” His mouth twisted in self-disgust. “I started drinking. And drinking. I became an unholy mess, and I went away to the continent to spend some time alone and clear my head. Instead, I did even worse things. Things I'd never imagined myself doing before. If you had seen me at any time during the past three years, Holland, you wouldn't have recognized me. And the longer I stayed away, the more ashamed I was to face you. I abandoned you, after I had promised George—”
Suddenly Holly's gloved fingertips touched his lips lightly, stilling the flow of wretched words. “There was nothing you could have done for me. I needed time alone to mourn.” She stared at him compassionately, scarcely able to imagine him behaving in ways that were less than proper and honorable. Ravenhill had never been one to indulge in reckless behavior. He had never been a drunkard or a skirt-chaser, had never gambled or fought, or done anything to excess. She couldn't begin to understand what his activities had been during his long absence from England, but it didn't matter.
It occurred to her that there must be many different ways of mourning. While she had turned inward in her sorrow, perhaps Ravenhill's grief over George had turned him a bit mad for a while. The important thing was that he was back home now, and she took great pleasure in seeing him again.
“Why haven't you come to visit me?” she asked. “I had no idea you had returned from the continent.”
Ravenhill flashed her a self-deprecating smile. “So far I haven't kept any of the promises I made to my best friend on his deathbed. And if I don't start to make good on them, I won't be able to live with myself any longer. I thought the best way to begin was to ask your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said simply.
He smiled and shook his head at her answer. “Still every inch a lady, aren't you?”
“Perhaps not quite as much a lady as I once was,” she replied with a note of irony.
Ravenhill stared at her intently. “Holland, I've heard that you are employed by Zachary Bronson.”
“Yes. I am acting as a social instructor for Mr. Bronson and his delightful family.”
“That is my fault.” Ravenhill did not appear to receive the news with the same pleasure she took in imparting it. “You would never have been driven to such lengths had I been here to fulfill my promises.”
“No, Vardon,” Holly said hastily, “it has truly been a rewarding experience.” She fumbled for words, wondering how on earth she could explain her relationship with the Bronson family to him. “I am better for knowing the Bronsons. They have hepled me in ways I can't easily explain.”
“You were never meant to work,” Ravenhill pointed out quietly. “You know what George would have thought.”
“I am well aware of what George wanted for me,” she agreed. “But Vardon—”
“There are things we have to discuss, Holland. Now isn't the time and place, but there is one thing I must ask you. The promise we gave George that day—is it still something you would consider?”
At first Holly could find no breath to answer. She had a dizzying sense of fate rolling over her in an irresistible tide. And with it came the strangest mixture of relief and dullness, as if all she had to do was accept a circumstance that she had no control over. “Yes,” she said softly. “Of course I would still consider it. But if you have no desire to be bound by it—”
“I knew what I was doing then.” His purposeful gaze held hers. “I know what I want now.”
They sat together in a silence that required no words, while the ache of regret swirled around them. In their world, one did not seek happiness for its own sake, but received it—sometimes—as a reward for behaing honorably. Often doing one's duty brought pain and unhappiness, but one was ultimately sustained by the knowledge that he or she had lived with integrity.
“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.