Excerpt of Where Dreams Begin by Lisa Kleypas

Chapter One London, 1830

She had to escape.

The rumble of sophisticated chatter, the blaze of
chandeliers that splashed hot wax onto the dancers below
and the profusion of smells that heralded the lavish supper
to come, all overwhelmed Lady Holly Taylor. It had been a
mistake to attend a grand social event so soon after
George's death. Of course, most people would not consider
three years to be "soon." She had gone through the year and
a day of Deep Mourning, barely venturing from the house
except to take garden walks with her small daughter Rose.
She had worn black bombazine and covered her hair and face
with veils that symbolized her separation from her husband
and the unseen world. She had taken most of her meals
alone, covered all mirrors in the house with black crepe
and written letters on black-banded paper, so that every
interaction with the outside world would bear the sips of
her grief.

Second Mourning had come next. She had still worn all-black
clothing, but had relinquished the protective veil. Then,
on the third year after George's death, Holly had undergone
Half Mourning, which had allowed her to wear gray or mauve,
and to participate in small, inconspicuous women's
activities, such as tea with relatives or close female
friends.

Now that all stages of mourning were finished, Holly had
emerged from the dark and comforting shelter of the
grieving period into a bright social world that had become
terribly unfamiliar. True, the faces and the scene were
exactly as she remembered ... except that George was no
longer with her. She felt conspicuous in her aloneness,
uncomfortable in her new identity as the Widow Taylor. Like
everyone else, she had always regarded widows as somber
figures to be pitied, women who wore an invisible mantle of
tragedy no matter what their outward attire suggested. Now
she understood why so many widows who attended events like
this always looked as though they wished they were
somewhere else. People approached her with sympathetic
expressions, offered a small cup of punch or a few
consoling words and left with a discreet air of relief, as
if a social duty had been performed and they were now free
to enjoy the ball. She herself had done the same thing to
widows in the past, wanting to be kind and yet reluctant to
be affected by the desolation in their eyes.

Somehow it had not occurred to Holly that she would feel so
isolated in the midst of a large gathering. The empty space
beside her, where George should have been, seemed like a
painfully obvious gap. Unexpectedly, a feeling akin to
embarrassment came over her, as if she had stumbled into a
place where she did not belong. She was half of something
that had once been whole. Her presence at the ball only
served as a reminder that a dearly loved man had been lost.

Her face felt stiff and cold as she inched her way along
the wall toward the door of the drawing room. The sweet
riot of melody the musicians played did not cheer her, as
her friends bad hopefully suggested. The music only seemed
to mock her.

Once Holly had danced as lightly and swiftly as the other
young women here tonight, feeling as if she were flying in
George's protective arms. They had been made for each
other, and people had once commented with admiring smiles.
She and George had been similar in size, with her own
diminutive stature matched by her husband's less-than-
towering frame. Although George had been average in height,
be had been wonderfully fit, and so very handsome with his
golden brown hair and alert blue eyes, and a dazzling smile
that was never long in hiding. He had loved to laugh,
dance, talk ... no ball or crush or dinner party had ever
been complete without him.

Well-meaning friends had pressured her to come here
tonight, intending that this should begin the days of
freedom from the smothering rituals of mourning. But she
wasn't ready...not tonight...perhaps not ever.

Her gaze scored across the crowd, locating various members
of George's family as they socialized and ate delicacies
from gilded Sevres porcelain plates. His older brother,
William, Lord Taylor, was escorting his wife to the drawing
room, where a quadrille was about to begin. Lord and Lady
Taylor were a well-suited couple, but their tepid affection
did not begin to approach the genuine love that she and
George had shared. It seemed that everyone in George's
family -- his parents, his brothers, and their wives -- had
finally recovered from his death. Enough that they could
take part in a ball, laugh and eat and drink, allow
themselves to forget that the most beloved member of the
family was in an early grave. Holly did not blame them for
their ability to carry on, now that George was gone...in
fact, she envied them. How wonderful it would be to escape
the invisible mantle of grief that covered her from head to
toe. If not for her daughter Rose, she would never have a
moment's respite from the constant ache of loss.

"Holland," came a murmur from nearby, and she turned to see
George's youngest brother, Thomas. Although Thomas had the
same attractive features, blue eyes and amber-streaked hair
that all the Taylor men shared, he lacked the mischievous
spark, the slow dazzling smile, the warmth and confidence
that had made George so irresistible. Thomas was a taller,
more somber version of his charismatic brother. He had been
a steady source of support ever since George's death from
typhoid fever.

"Thomas," Holly said brightly, forcing a smile to her stiff
lips, "are you enjoying the ball?"

"Not especially," he replied, while sympathy flickered in
the azure depths of his eyes. "But I believe I'm navigating
it better than you, my dear. There's a pinched look on your
face, as though one of your megrims is starting."