Laughing a bit shakily, Holly passed a hand over her eyes, which felt sore and sensitive. A shower of sparks passed through her vision, and she caught her breath. “Oh, no,” she murmured, recognizing the signs that heralded one of her megrims. As always, the piercing ache was appearing for no discernible reason. Perhaps if she could lie down for a little while with a cool cloth over her forehead, she could avert the coming pain.
Using the banister to aid her progress, Holly ascended the stairs, squinting against the gathering ache in her temples and the back of her neck. As she reached the suite of rooms that she and Rose shared, she heard her daughter's voice.
“…no, that's not a trot, Maude! That's much too slow. This is a trot…”
Peeking around the doorframe, Holly watched as her daughter sat on the carpeted floor with the blond maidservant, the two of them surrounded by toys. Rose was holding one of the toys Bronson had given her, a little horse covered in leather. The horse had a cunning tail, a mane made of real horse hair and bright glass eyes. It pulled a miniature carriage and a group of dolls past buildings fashioned of blocks and books.
“Where are they going, darling?” Holly asked softly. “To the park, or to the shops on Regent Street?”
Rose looked up with a smile, her dark curls bouncing. “Mama,” she exclaimed, and returned her attention to the trotting horse. “They're going to the steel refinery.”
“The steel refinery,” Holly repeated with amusement.
A wry smile appeared on Maude's round face. “Yes, milady. Mr. Bronson has been telling Rose about the lives of working people, and what they do at the refineries and factories he owns. I tried to tell him that a child has no need of hearing such things, but he paid me no heed.”
Holly's first instinct was to be annoyed with Bronson. He had no right to talk to a sheltered child about the circumstances of the working class. On the other hand, it had never occurred to Holly that her daughter was growing up without an understanding of the differences between rich and poor, and why some people lived in fine homes while others lived in the streets and went hungry. “I suppose,” she said hesitantly, “that's not a bad thing. Rose should know a little something about the world…that most peoples' lives are different from her own…”
She rubbed her aching forehead as the pain intensified to continuous jabs. For the first time, she realized that Zachary Bronson was becoming more real, more influential to her daughter than George ever would. Bronson had played hunt-the-slipper and hide-and-seek with Rose, and had sampled the jam that she “helped” the cook make one rainy afternoon, and built her a house of playing cards as they sat on the floor in front of the fire. Things her father would never be able to do with her.
Bronson never ignored Rose or dismissed her questions as silly. In fact, he treated her as if she were equally valuable, if not more so, as any other member of the household. Most adults regarded children as merely half-formed people, undeserving of rights or privileges until they came of age. But Bronson was clearly fond of the child, and Rose was in turn becoming fond of him. It was another unexpected facet of a situation that bothered Holly on many levels.
“Oh, milady,” Maude said, staring at her intently. “It's yer megrims, isn't it? Ye're all white, and ye look ill down to yer toes.”
“Yes.” Holly let the doorframe support most of her weight and smiled wretchedly at her daughter. “I'm so sorry, Rose. I promised to take you for an afternoon walk, but I can't today.”
“Are you sick, Mama?” The little girl's face wrinkled with concern, and she jumped to her feet. She came to Holly and hugged her around the waist. “You should take your medicine,” she instructed, sounding like a miniature adult. “And draw the curtains together and close your eyes.”
Smiling despite her growing misery, Holly allowed the small tugging hand to guide her to her bedroom. Swiftly Maude pulled the heavy drapes closed, extinguishing all trace of light, and helped Holly to undress.
“Do we have the tonic that Dr. Wentworth left the last time?” Holly whispered, flinching as Maude unfastened the buttons at the back of her gown. The slightest movement in the room caused her head to throb violently. When she had had her last attack of megrims at the Taylor household, the family doctor had given her a bottle of tonic that had sent her into merciful oblivion.
“Of course,” Maude murmured, having enough experience with Holly's occasional megrims to keep her voice very soft. “I would never have left it behind, milady. I'll fetch ye a nice big spoonful as soon as ye're settled in bed.”
“Thank God.” Holly let out a whimpering sigh. “What would I do without you, Maude? Thank you, thank you for coming here to the Bronsons' estate with us. I wouldn't have blamed you for staying with the Taylors.”
“An' let you and Rose come to this outlandish place alone?” Maude's low murmur was threaded with a smile. “Truth be told, milady, I rather like it here.”
The dress slipped to the floor, followed by a set of light stays and her stockings. Left only in her chemise and pantaloons, Holly crawled into bed. She bit her lips to stifle a groan of discomfort, and eased herself back to the pillow. “Maude,” she whispered, “you've had so little time off. I'll remedy that when I'm better again.”
“Don't ye worry about a thing,” the stout maid soothed. “Just rest yer head, an' I'll be back with yer medicine.”
Dressed in a crisp blue coat and gray trousers, with a fresh black silk cravat wrapped around his throat, Zachary strode down the grand staircase as he headed out for his evening's entertainment. His mood was one not of anticipation, but determination. All the sensations roused from the afternoon's dance lesson still seethed in his body, demanding to be sated. He was primed for a good hard romp with a willing woman, and after that, perhaps a few hours of cards and drinking. Anything to help him forget how it had felt to hold Holly in his arms.
As he reached the landing midway down the stairs, however, his rapid steps slowed and halted at the sight of the disconsolate figure of Rose sitting on one of the carpeted steps. The sight of her, like a prim little doll in her ruffled muslin dress, plump calves encased in thick white stockings, tiny hands filled with her ever-present button string, made him smile. How different she was from the way his sister Elizabeth had been at this age. Rose was wellmannered, introspective, sweetly earnest, whereas Elizabeth had been a spirited little hellion. Holly had done a splendid job so far of sheltering her daughter in a safe, well-ordered existence, but in Zachary's opinion, Rose needed the influence of a father. Someone to help her understand about the world beyond park railings and neat brick-walled gardens, about children who did not wear clothes with lace collars, and people who toiled and sweated for their bread. About the ordinary business of living. However, Rose was not his daughter, and it was not his right to venture any opinions about her upbringing.
He stopped a few steps beneath her and stared at her quizzically. “Princess,” he said with a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “why are you sitting here by yourself?”
Rose heaved a sigh, her pudgy hands sifting through the glittering buttons on the string. Locating her favorite, the perfume button, she lifted it to her nose and smelled. “I'm waiting for Maude,” she said glumly. “She's giving Mama her medicine, and then we're to take supper in the nursery.”
“Medicine,” Zachary repeated, frowning. Why in hell did Holly have need of medicine? She had been perfectly fine not two hours ago when they had ended their dance lesson. Had she met with some kind of accident?
“For her megrims.” The child rested her chin in her hands. “And now there's no one to play with. Maude will try, but she's too tired to be much fun. She'll put me to bed early. Oh, I don't like it when Mama is ill!”
Zachary regarded the child with a thoughtful scowl, wondering if it was possible for someone to develop megrims, an incapacitating case of them, in a mere two hours. What had caused them? All thoughts of his evening activities vanished abruptly. “Princess, you stay here,” he muttered. “I
'm going to visit your mother.”
“Will you?” Rose looked at him hopefully. “Can you make her better again, Mr. Bronson?”
The innocent faith in the question somehow twisted his heart and made him laugh at the same time. He reached down and clasped his hand gently over the top of her dark head. “I'm afraid not, Rose. But I can make certain she has everything she needs.”
He left her and ascended the stairs two at a time. Reaching Holly's room just as Maude was exiting, he noted the tension and concern on the maid's face. The peppery sting of anxiety filled his chest. “Maude,” he said gruffly, “what the devil is the matter with Lady Holland?”
Quickly the heavyset blonde jerked a finger to her lips in a signal to keep quiet. “One of her megrims again, sir,” she said in a whisper. “They come on very quick-like, an' any sound or smell or light causes her dreadful pain.”
“What brings them on?”
“I don't know, sir. She's had them every now and again ever since Mr. Taylor passed on to his reward. It usually lasts a day, perhaps a bit more, and then she's back to herself.”
“I'll send for a doctor,” Zachary said decisively.
Maude shook her head at once. “Pardon, sir, but there's no need for that. Lady Holland has seen a specialist, an' he said there's no cure for her kind of megrims, just to rest and take her medicine until she feels better.”
“I'm going to see her.”
The maid's broad face registered instant alarm. “Oh, sir, I do wish ye wouldn't trouble her! Lady Holland isn't fit to speak with anyone—she's in misery, and the medicine makes her a bit out of her head. And she's not…well, she's not properly attired.”
“I won't trouble her, Maude. Now go tend to Rose. She's sitting on the stairs by herself.” Ignoring the maid's protests, Zachary pushed his way past the door and entered the bedroom. Blinking, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness and shadows. He could hear the strained sound of Holly's breathing. A faint sickly-sweet scent hovered in the air, and he sniffed curiously. Making his way to the bedside, he found a bottle and a sticky spoon at the night table. Touching his finger to the spoon, he brought it to his lips and discovered the taste of opiate-laced syrup.
Holly stirred beneath the light sheet, sensing someone's presence in the room. Her eyes and forehead were covered with a damp cloth. “M-Maude?” she whispered.
Zachary hesitated before replying. “I thought you would come away from our dance lesson with your feet hurting,” he murmured, “not your head.”
The soft rumble of his voice caused her to twitch. “Oh…Mr. Bronson…you must leave at once.” She spoke groggily, clearly under the influence of the opiates. “I…I'm not dressed…and this tonic sometimes…makes me say things I don't usually mean to say…”
“In that case, I insist on staying.”
A faint gasp of laughter escaped her. “Please don't make me laugh…hurts dreadfully.”
Zachary lowered himself into the chair that had been placed by the bedside. The creak it made as it bore his weight made Holly flinch. As his gaze adapted to the lack of light, he stared at the luminous whiteness of her shoulders and the sweet curve where her throat flowed into the slope of her chest. “That medicine you're taking is full of opium, sweet lady. I would hate to see you become addicted to it. I've seen the healthiest of men turn into walking skeletons that way.”
“It's the only thing that helps,” she murmured, her mind clearly fogged with pain and drugs. “I'll sleep for a day or so…then the megrims will go away. No lessons tomorrow…forgive me…”
“Damn the lessons,” Zachary said softly.
“Your language,” she reproved with a weak sigh.
“How do the megrims start? Did I do something earlier—”
“No, no…never a reason. I start to see sparks and flashes. The pain starts on one side of my head, or my neck…it spreads until I'm sick and nauseous everywhere.”
Cautiously Zachary moved to the mattress and sat beside her. Holly mumbled a protest as she felt the bed give beneath him. “Mr. Bronson…please…leave me in peace.”
Zachary slid his fingers beneath her neck. The area between her nape and the base of her skull was so tight that he could feel the hard, contracted bands of muscle. Holly moaned at the exquisite pain of his touch. Using the fingertips of both hands, he rubbed the knotted muscles with extreme gentleness. A tear leaked out from beneath the cloth covering her eyes, and she released a quivering breath.
“Does this help?” Zachary whispered after a minute, feeling some of her tension ease.
“Yes, a little…”
“Shall I stop?”
Immediately one of her hands came to his wrist, her fingers curling around the side of it. “No, don't stop.”
He continued to massage her neck in silence, while her breathing deepened and lengthened until he thought she might have gone to sleep. After a while she surprised him by speaking, her voice blurred and soft.
“The megrims started after George passed away. First one happened when I spent a day reading letters…people were so kind…they shared their memories…everyone said how surprised they were…no one surprised as I, though.” Her tone was absent, detached, as if she spoke from the heart of a dream. “Such a healthy man. Not quite so robust as you, but still…very fit. Then the fever came, and George could keep nothing down but tea. He took to his bed for a week. He lost weight so quickly…the bones stood out on his face. The second week I became frightened when his mind began to wander. He seemed to know he was dying…he began to prepare. One day he sent for his dearest friend, Ravenhill…known since boyhood. He made Ravenhill and me promise…”
She sighed, seeming to float away in memory.
“What promise?” Zachary asked, staring at her lax mouth intently. “What did he make you promise?”
“Doesn't matter,” Holly mumbled. “I told him yes, anything to give him peace. I asked for one last kiss. He did…the sweetest kiss…though he was too weak to hold me. A little later his breathing changed…the doctor said it was the death rattle. I held George in my arms and felt the life pass out of him…held him for a long time till he was no longer warm.”
Zachary released her neck and drew the sheet protectively over her bare shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.
“Later I was angry with him,” Holly confessed, catching at his hand in a childlike gesture. “I've never told that to anyone.”
He was very still, enclosing her fingers in a gentle grip. “Why angry, sweet?”
“Because George…didn't fight at all. He just slipped away…accepted it…like a gentleman. Just slipped away and left me. Wasn't in his nature to fight. How could I blame him for that? But I did.”
I would have fought, Zachary thought, sternly locking the words inside himself. I would have gone toe to toe with the devil himself to stay with you and Rose. I would go down howling and kicking before I let go of what I had.
A weary smile touched her lips. “Now you know…what a bad woman I am.”
Zachary remained leaning over her, watching as she drifted to sleep. She was the best woman he had ever known. His entire being was consumed with one wish, that he could somehow protect her from ever knowing another moment of unhappiness. He fought against the feeling she roused in him, this awful tenderness, but it spread until it had infiltrated every part of him. The desire to go out and find solace in another woman's body had vanished completely. All he wanted was to stay here in this dark room, guarding the sleep of Lady Holland Taylor while she dreamed of her dead husband.
Sorely troubled, Zachary moved off the bed. On impulse, he took Holly's limp hand and lifted it reverently to his lips. He kissed the backs of her fingers, the tender hollow of her palm. Nothing had ever felt as good as the silken texture of her skin against his mouth.
Setting her hand onto the covers with great care, Zachary cast a last wretched glance at her before leaving the room. He had to get out of this place, his own home. He felt confined, trapped, suffocated.<
br />
“Master?” Maude waited in the center of the hallway, staring at him with patent suspicion.
“Where is Rose?” Zachary asked curtly.
“She is in the family parlor, playing with Mrs. and Miss Bronson.” Maude frowned uneasily. “If I may ask, sir, what did you do in Lady Holland's room for so many minutes?”
“I ravished her while she was unconscious,” he said gravely. “it took a little longer than I expected.”
“Mr. Bronson,” the maid exclaimed in outrage, “that is a wicked thing to say!”
“Settle your feathers,” he said with a faint smile. “I merely stayed with Lady Holly until she went to sleep. You know I would slit my own throat before causing her any harm.”
Maude gazed at him speculatively. “Yes, sir,” she said after a moment, “I believe I do know that.”
The maid's remark caused Zachary to wonder uncomfortably if his feelings for Holly were becoming that obvious. Dammit, he thought savagely, and brushed past her as he strode away, overwhelmed by the need to escape.
Nine
There were clubs in London to suit any interest…clubs for gentlemen who were avid sportsmen, politicians, philosophers, drinkers, gamblers or skirt-chasers. There were clubs for the rich, the newly arrived, the intelligent, or the well-born. Zachary had been invited to join innumerable clubs that welcomed professional gentlemen, including highly successful merchants, barristers and entrepreneurs. However, he did not want to belong to one of those. He wanted to join a club that had no desire to accept him, a club that was so exclusive and aristocratic that members were allowed only if their grandfathers had once been admitted. Marlow's was the goal he had finally settled on.
At Marlow's a man had only to snap his fingers for something—a drink, a dish of caviar, a woman—and it was brought to him with discreet alacrity. Always the bestquality goods, in the finest surroundings, with never a mention of a man's preferences made to the outside world. The exterior of the club was unremarkable. It was located near the end of St. James's Street, one of a long line of gentlemen's retreats. The white stone and stucco facade was classical in design, pedimented and symmetrical and far from imposing. However, the interior was solidly, expensively English, every wall and ceiling covered in freshly rubbed mahogany, the floors plushly carpeted with a pattern of large octagons of crimson and brown. The leather furniture was heavy and sturdy, and the richly subdued light was spread by wrought-iron lamps and sconces. It had been designed to make a man feel comfortable, with nary a flower or frieze to be seen.