by Lisa Kleypas
It seemed that the Taylor females required an unending supply of handkerchiefs. Cursing beneath his breath, Zachary valiantly searched for one in his coat, but found nothing. He untied his linen cravat, jerked it from his neck and held it to Rose's nose. “Blow,” he muttered, and she complied gustily. She giggled, evidently entertained by the novelty of using a necktie as a nose-wipe.
“You're being silly, Mr. Bronson!”
Zachary squatted down before her, staring at her eye to eye, and an affectionate grin tugged at his lips. “What's the matter, princess?” he asked gently, although he already knew.
Rose unburdened herself eagerly. “Mama says we have to go away. We're going to live at my uncle's house again, a-and I want to stay here.” Her little face crumpled with childish sorrow, and Zachary nearly staggered from the impact of an invisible blow to his chest. Panic…love…yet more anguish. Although saying good-bye to Holly hadn't quite killed him, this would certainly finish him off. Somehow during the past months he had begun to love this enchanting child, with her sugar-sticky hands, her jangly button string, her long tangled curls, her brown eyes so like her mother's. No more tea parties, no more sitting in the parlor before the hearth and spinning tales of bunies and cabbages, dragons and princesses, no more miniature hands that clung to his so trustingly.
“Tell Mama that we must stay here with you,” Rose commanded. “You can make her stay, I know you can!”
“Your mama knows what's best for you,” Zachary murmured, smiling faintly though he was dying inside. “You be a good girl and do as she says.”
“I am a good girl always,” Rose said, and began to sniffle again. “Oh, Mr. Bronson…what will happen to my toys?”
“I'll send every last one to you at the Taylors'.”
“They won't all fit.” She used a chubby hand to smear a teardrop across her cheek. “Their house is much, much littler than yours.”
“Rose…” He sighed and pressed her head against his shoulder, his huge hand engulfing the entire top of her skull. She stayed against him and snuggled close, patting his scratchy jaw. After a while, she wriggled away. “You're squashing Miss Crumpet!”
“Sorry,” he said contritely, reaching out to straighten the doll's little blue bonnet.
“Will I ever see you and Lizzie again?” Rose asked woefully.
Zachary couldn't bring himself to lie to her. “Not very often, I'm afraid.”
“You'll miss me awfully,” she said, heaving a sigh, and she began to fumble for something in the pocket of her pinafore.
Something went wrong with Zachary's eyes, some odd blurring and stinging that he couldn't seem to blink away. “Every day, princess.”
Rose extracted a small object from the pocket and handed it to him. “This is for you,” she said. “It's my perfume button. When you get sad, you can smell it, and you'll feel better. It always works for me.”
“Princess,” Zachary said, making his voice soft to keep it from cracking, “I can't take your favorite button.” He tried to give it back to her, but she pushed his hand away.
“You need it,” she said stubbornly. “You keep it, Mr. Bronson. And don't lose it.”
“All right.” Zachary closed his fist over the button and bowed his head over it, struggling with his unruly emotions. He had done this to himself, he thought. He had schemed and manipulated until he had gotten Lady Holland Taylor to live in his home. But he had never anticipated the consequences. If he had only known…
“Are you going to cry, Mr. Bronson?” the child asked in concern, coming to stand beside his knees, staring into his downturned face.
He managed to smile at her. “Just a little on the inside,” he said raspily. He felt her little hand on his cheek, and he held utterly still as she kissed him on the nose.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bronson,” she whispered, and she left with her button string trailing dolefully behind her.
It was still morning when his carriage was finally prepared for his departure, and there was nothing keeping him at the estate. Nothing but his own tormented heart. Pondering all that had been said between he and Holly, he realized that there was nothing to be gained by further conversation. The choices had been set out, and Holly would either go or stay according to her own desires, with no interference from him.
However, there was one bit of unfinished business remaining. Ascertaining that Holly had taken Rose out to the garden, Zachary went up to her bedroom. The blond maid, Maude was there, her arms stacked high with folded garments as she walked from the armoire to the bed. She jumped a little as she saw him standing at the entrance to the room. “S-sir?” she questioned warily, setting the folded clothes in the corner of a trunk.
“I have something to ask of you,” he said curtly.
Clearly puzzled as to what he wanted, Maude turned to face him. He sensed her discomfort at being alone in the same room with him. This room, particularly, with Holly's clothes and possessions spread everywhere. There was a pile of objects on the bed: a hairbrush, a set of combs, an ivory box, a small frame covered in a leather case. He would have thought nothing of the frame, except that Maude discreetly tried to nudge it out of sight as she approached him. “Is there a chore I might do for ye, sir?” the maid asked uneasily. “Something I can fetch or mend or—”
“No, nothing like that.” His gaze strayed to the frame case. “What is that?”
“Oh, it's…well, something personal to Lady Holly, and…sir, she wouldn't like it if ye—” Maude spluttered with dismayed protests as Zachary reached over and plucked the frame case from the pile.
“A miniature?” he asked, deftly shaking the object from its leather casing.
“Yes, sir, but…you shouldn't, really…oh, dear.” Maude's pudgy cheeks reddened, and she sighed in patent discomfort as he stared at the little portrait.
“George,” Zachary said quietly. He had never seen a likeness of the man, had never wanted to before. It was only to be expected that Holly should carry a portrait of her late husband, for Rose's benefit as well as her own. However, Zachary had never asked to view a likeness of George Taylor, and Holly had certainly never volunteered to show him. Perhaps Zachary had expected that he would feel a pang of animosity at the sight of Taylor's face, but as he stared at the miniature, he was conscious only of a surprising feeling of pity.
He had always thought of George as a contemporary, but this face was impossibly young, adorned with sideburns that amounted to a bit of peach fuzz on either side of his cheeks. Zachary was startled by the realization that Taylor couldn't have been more than twenty-four when he died, almost a full ten years younger than Zachary was now. Holly had been wooed and loved by this handsome boy, with his golden blond hair and untroubled blue eyes, and a smile that hinted of mischief. George had died before he'd barely tasted of life, widowing a girl who had been even more innocent than he.
Try as he might, Zachary couldn't blame George Taylor for trying to protect Holly, arrange things for her, ensure that his infant daughter was taken care of. No doubt George would have been anguished at the thought of his wife being seduced and made miserable by the Zachary Bronsons of the world. “Dammit,” Zachary whispered, shoving the miniature back into its leather sheath. Scowling, he set the object on the bed.
Maude stared at him warily. “Is there aught I can do for ye, sir?”
He gave a single nod and reached inside his coat. “I want you to have this,” he muttered, extracting a small bag weighted with gold coins. To a servant of Maude's station, it amounted to a fortune. “Take it, and promise me that if there is ever anything Lady Holland needs, you'll send for me.”
The maid's face was blank with surprise. She took the bag, felt its weight in her hand, and stared at him with wide eyes. “Ye don't need to pay me to do that, sir.”
“Take it,” he insisted brusquely.
A reluctant smile curved her lips, and she dropped the little bag into her apron pocket. “Ye've been a good master, sir. Don't fret about Lady Holland and Miss Ro
se, I'll serve them faithfully, and send for ye if any trouble arises.”
“Good,” he said, and turned to leave. He paused and looked back at her as a question occurred to him. “Why did you try to hide the miniature from me, Maude?”
She blushed a little, but her gaze was direct and honest as she replied, “I wished to spare ye the sight of him, sir. I know how ye feel about Lady Holland, ye see.”
“You do?” he said neutrally.
The maid gave a vigorous nod. “She's a dear, gentle lady, and a man would have a heart of stone not to care for her.” Maude lowered her voice confidentially. “Betwixt ye and me, sir, I think that if my lady were free to choose any man for herself, she might well have set her cap for ye. 'Tis plain as day that she's fair taken with ye. But Master George took most of her heart with him to the grave.”
“Does she look at his miniature often?” Zachary asked, keeping his face expressionless.
Maude's round face puckered thoughtfully. “Not so often since we came to live on yer estate, sir. To my knowledge, she hasn't taken it out at all in the past month or so. Why, there was even a bit of dust that settled on it.”
For some reason the information comforted him.
“Farewell, Maude,” he replied, taking his leave.
“Good luck to ye, sir,” she said softly.
Returning from the garden, Holly went to her room and found her main sorting through a pile of carefully folded stockings. “What progress you've made, Maude,” she commented with a wan smile.
“Aye, milady. I'd be even further along except that the master came to the room and interrupted my chores.” The words were spoken casually, and Maude continued busily with her task.
Holly felt her jaw slacken with surprise. “He did?” she asked faintly. “Whatever for? Was he looking for me?”
“Nay, milady, he only bade me to take care of ye and Miss Rose, and I promised him I would.”
“Oh.” Holly reached for a linen underskirt and attempted to fold it efficiently, but it ended up in a wadded bundle that she clutched against her midriff. “How kind of him,” she whispered.
Maude slid her an amused, vaguely pitying glance. “I don't think it was kindness that moved him, milady. He looked as lovesick as a green lad. In fact, he wore the same expression as ye this very moment.” Seeing the damage that Holly's clutching fingers were inflicting on the neatly pressed underskirt, she clucked and reached out to rescue it.
Holly surrendered the garment without protest. “Do you have any notion where Mr. Bronson might be right now, Maude?”
“On his way to Durham, I would guess. He seemed in no mood to tarry, milady.”
Holly flew to the window, which afforded a view of the front of the mansion. She made a small sound of distress as she saw Bronson's huge black-lacquered carriage rolling away along the sprawling tree-lined drive that led to the main road. Her hand flattened on the pane of glass, palm pressed hard against the coolness. Her mouth trembled violently, and she fought to contain her emotions. He was gone, she thought, and soon she would be, too. It was all for the best. She was doing the right thing for herself, and for him, too. Best to let him start a marriage with a young, unspoiled girl with whom he could share all the “first” with: the first vows, the first wedding night, the first child…
And as for herself, she knew very well that once she returned to the Taylors, it might well be her fate to stay there forever. She did not intend to hold Ravenhill to his promise to marry her—it was hardly fair to deny him all chance of finding someone he truly loved.
“Back to where I started,” Holly whispered with a wobbly smile, thinking of how it would be to resume her life with her husband's family. Except that now she was sadder and a bit wiser, no longer so assured of her own moral infallibility.
She stared hard at the carriage until it reached the end of the drive and seemed to disappear in the mass of trees.
“All ye need is a bit of time, milady,” came Maude's comforingly matter-of-fact voice from behind her. “As ye well know, time takes care of pert' near everything.”
Holly swallowed and nodded wordlessly, but she knew that the maid was wrong in this instance. No amount of time would soften the passion she felt—a blinding need of body and soul—for Zachary Bronson.
Fifteen
The Taylors accepted Holly's return as a prodigal daughter being welcomed back into the fold. There were comments, of course, as none of them could resist airing their collective opinion that it had been a grave mistake for her to leave in the first place. She had left with a solid gold reputation and the admiration and respect of their entire wide circle of acquaintances, and she had returned sporting a great deal of tarnish. Financially, the association with Zachary Bronson had done her a great deal of good, but morally and socially, she had fallen.
Holly didn't care. The Taylors would be able to shield her from some, if not all, of the snubs that would come her way. And by the time Rose was eighteen and possessing of an enormous dowry, there would be suitors aplenty for her, and the long-ago scandal involving her mother would have faded.
Holly made no effort to contact Ravenhill, knowing that the rumors of her new location would reach him quickly enough. He came calling not a week after she had moved back to the Taylor home, and he was welcomed eagerly by Thomas and William and their wives. Tall and blond and prosperous-looking, Ravenhill had the appearance of a knight coming to rescue a damsel in distress. As she joined him in the Taylors' formal receiving room, Holly intended to tell him that she had no need of rescuing. However, he soon let her know in his to-the-point way that George's last wishes was also his own.
“So you've left the den of iniquity,” Ravenhill commented, his face serious except for the teasing glint in his gray eyes.
Holly couldn't suppress a sudden laugh as his irreverence caught her by surprise. “Be careful in your association with me, my lord,” she warned lightly. “Your reputation might be damaged.”
“After three years of unholy carousing in Europe, I assure you I have no reputation left to salvage.” Ravenhill's expression seemed to soften as Holly smiled at him. “I don't blame you for going to live with the Bronsons,” he said. “How could I, when it's my fault you were there? I should have come to you years ago, and taken care of you as I promised George I would.”
“Vardon, regarding that promise…” Holly stopped and stared at him helplessly, her cheeks reddening as her thoughts became too entangled to voice.
“Yes?” he prompted gently.
“I know we agreed to discuss it,” she said, distressed, “but now I think…there's no need…after all, you and I—”
Ravenhill hushed her gently, his long fingers touching her lips in a feather-light caress. Stunned, Holly did not move as he took her hands in a firm, warm grip. “Think of a marriage between intimate friends,” he said, “who have an agreement to always communicate honestly with each other. A couple who have the same ideals and interests. Who enjoy each others' company and treat each other with respect. That is what I want. There is no reason we can't have it together.”
“But you don't love me, Vardon. And I don't—”
“I want to give you the protection of my name,” he interrupted.
“But it's not enough to wash away the scandal and the rumors—”
“It's better than what you've got now,” he pointed out reasonably. “Besides, you're wrong about something. I do love you. I've known you since before you and George were married. I've never respected and liked a woman more. Furthermore, I believe the maxim that a marriage between friends is the best kind of all.”
Holly understood that he was not referring to the kind of love she'd had with George. Neither was he offering the passionate attachment she shared with Zachary Bronson. This was truly a marriage of convenience, one that would serve both their needs and satisfy George's last request.
“What if that is not enough for you?” she asked quietly. “You'll meet someone, Vardon…It could be weeks after
we are married, or years, but you will someday. A woman you would gladly die for. And you'll want to be with her desperately, and I'll be nothing but a millstone around your neck.”
He shook his head immediately. “I'm not made that way, Holly. I don't believe there's just one person or one true love for each of us. I've had love affairs—three years of them—and I'm damn tired of all the histrionics and obsessions and ecstasy and melancholy. I want some peace.” A self-mocking smile touched his lips. “I want to be a respectable married man—though God knows I'd never imagined myself saying that.”
“Vardon…” She stared down at the brocade of the settee, using a fingertip to trace the fleur-de-lis pattern worked in gold and burgundy threads. “You haven't asked why I left Mr. Bronson's employ so abruptly.”
A long speculative silence passed before he answered. “Do you want to tell me?” He didn't seem particularly eager to know the answer.
Holly shook her head, while a huff of laughter caught painfully in her throat. “Not really. But in light of your proposal, I feel obligated to confess something. I don't want to lie to you, and—”
“I don't need to hear your confessions, Holly.” Ravenhill caught at her hand and squeezed, his grip steady and comforting. he waited until she brought herself to look into his regretful, brooding gray eyes. “I don't want to hear them,” he continued, “because then I'd have to give you my confessions in return. It's not necessary, or productive. So you keep your past, and I'll keep mine. Everyone's allowed to have one or two secrets.”
Holly felt a warm surge of liking for him. Any woman would be fortunate to have such a husband. It was even possible for her to envision a marriage between them. They would be a bit more than friends, albeit a good deal less than lovers. But the situation felt odd and manufactured, and she frowned as she stared at him. “I want to do the right thing, if only I knew what it was,” she said.
