by Lisa Kleypas
Horrified, she broke away with a muffled cry, and at this first sign of unwillingness, the stranger released her. His encompassing arms fell from her as she stumbled toward the sheltering shadows of the conservatory. She finally stopped in the lee of the winged statue wedged against the stone wall, where there was no further retreat possible. He followed her, though he made no move to touch her again, stopping so close that she could almost feel the animal heat emanating from his body.
“Oh,” she whispered shakily, wrapping her arms around herself, as if she could contain the sensations that continued to spill from every nerve. “Oh.”
It was too dark for them to see each other's faces, but the man's large form was silhouetted by the shimmer of moonlight. He was wearing evening clothes—he must be a guest at the ball. But he did not have the slender, elegant build of a gentleman with abundant leisure time. He had the tremendous, iron-hard muscles of a day laborer. His shoulders and chest were too deep, his thighs too developed. Aristocratic gentlemen did not usually possess such obvious muscles. They preferred to distinguish themselves from those who had to earn a living through physical labor.
When he spoke, the gravelly undertone of his voice seemed to set off pleasurable vibrations along her spine. His accent lacked the clicking precision that a nobleman would have possessed. He was from the lower classes, she realized. How could such a man be attending a ball like this?
“You're not the lady I was expecting.” He paused and added with a touch of gruff amusement, fully cognizant of the fact that it was too late for apologies, “I am sorry.”
Holly strove to reply coolly, although there was a betraying tremor in her voice. “Quite all right. You merely assaulted the wrong woman. I'm certain the same mistake could have happened to any lurker in the shadows.”
She sensed that her response had surprised him, that he had expected her to erupt in a fit of hysterics. A soft catch of laughter escaped him. “Well. Maybe I'm not as sorry as I thought.”
As she saw his hand lift slowly, she thought he meant to take her in his arms again.
“Don't touch me,” she said, shrinking back until her shoulders were pressed flat against the wall. Instead, he braced his hand on the stone beside her head and leaned closer, until she felt imprisoned by the muscular cage of his body.
“Should we introduce ourselves?” he asked.
“Definitely not.”
“At least tell me this…are you taken?”
“Taken?” Holly repeated blankly, shrinking backward until her shoulder blades met the hard wall.
“Married,” he clarified. “Betrothed. Otherwise committed to someone.”
“Oh, I…yes. Yes, I am.” A widow she might be, but she was as married to George's memory as she had been to him during his life. At the thought of George, Holly wondered bleakly how her life had come to this, that her splendid, beloved husband should be gone and she was here in the shadows, talking with a stranger who had practically assaulted her.
“Forgive me,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “I had arranged to meet with someone else…a lady who is obviously not able to keep her promise. When I saw you coming through the doors, I mistook you for her.”
“I…I wanted to be alone somewhere while my carriage was brought 'round.”
“Leaving the ball early? I don't blame you. These affairs are damned dull.”
“They don't have to be,” she murmured, remembering the way she had once laughed and danced and flirted with George until the early hours of the morning. “It depends on one's choice of companionship. With the right partner, an evening like this could be…magical.”
The wistfulness must have been evident in her voice, for he reacted unexpectedly. She felt the heat of his fingertips brush her shoulder, throat, until he found the side of her face and curved his palm against her cheek. She should have jerked away from the touch, but she was shocked by the pleasure of his warm, cradling hand on her face.
“You're the sweetest thing I've ever touched,” came his voice from the darkness. “Tell me who you are. Tell me your name.”
Holly took a deep gulp of air and pushed away from the wall, but there was nowhere to go. His powerful masculine form was everywhere, surrounding her, and without intending to, she walked straight into his arms. “I must go,” she gasped. “My carriage is waiting.”
“Let it wait. Stay with me.” One hand clasped her waist, the other slid behind her back, and a shudder of unwilling excitement went through her. “Are you frightened?” he asked as he felt the involuntary tremor.
“N-no.” She should be protesting, fighting to break free of him, but there was an insidious delight in being held against his hard, sheltering body. She kept her hands between them, when all she wanted was to fold herself inside his embrace and lay her head on his broad chest. A trembling laugh escaped her. “This is madness. You must release me.”
“You can walk out of my arms anytime you want.”
But she still didn't move. They stood together, breathing, clasped in awareness and stirring passion while a few sweet strains of music drifted to them from the ballroom. The ball seemed another world away.
The stranger's hot breath fanned her ear and stirred the little wisps of hair around it. “Kiss me again.”
“How dare you suggest—”
“No one will know.”
“You don't understand,” she whispered shakily. “This isn't like me…. I don't do these things.”
“We're strangers in the darkness,” he whispered back. “We'll never be together like this again. No, don't pull away. Show me how an evening can be magical.” His lips brushed the rim of her ear, unexpectedly soft and entreating.
The situation was far beyond Holly's ordinary experience. She had never understood why women behaved recklessly in these matters, why they would take risks and break vows for the sake of fleeting physical pleasure…but now she knew. No one in her life had ever affected her like this. She felt empty and frustrated, she wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up in his embrace. It had been easy to be virtuous when she had always been sheltered from temptation. Now she truly understood the weakness of her own character. She tried to bring George's image to mind, but to her despair, she couldn't summon his face. There was only the star-filled night, and the gleam of moonlight in her dazed eyes, and the solid reality of a stranger's body.
Breathing hard, she turned her head, just a small movement, but it brought her mouth against the burning heat of his. Dear Lord, he knew how to kiss. He used his hand to urge her head to his shoulder, anchoring her firmly as his lips slanted over hers. The feel of his mouth was exquisite as he possessed her with slow, teasing kisses, using the tip of his tongue to entice her. She surged against him in an awkward movement, wobbling on her toes as she tried to press herself deeper into the hard masculine shelter of his body. He steadied her, one arm sliding around her back, the other locking around her hips. It had been so long since she had felt physical pleasure of any kind, much less this voluptuous abandonment.
The searching kisses become deeper, more sensuously aggressive, and Holly answered helplessly, while for some reason the sensation of being held in passion made her eyes sting and water. She felt a few tears leak from the outside corners of her eyes and slide to her trembling chin, while she continued to respond to him with a sort of desperate yearning that she couldn't begin to control.
His gentle fingers slid to her cheek and felt the wetness there. Slowly his mouth withdrew from hers, leaving it moist and kiss-softened. “Ah,” he breathed, his lips dragging tenderly over the wet surface of her skin. “Sweet lady…tell me why a kiss makes you cry.”
“I'm sorry,” she gasped. “Let me go. I never should have…” She struggled away from him, relieved that he made no attempt to follow her as she fled back to the parlor and toward the main rooms. It seemed her feet could not take her fast enough away from the scene, the memory of which she knew would cause her both shame and guilty pleasure for the rest of her life.
Lady Bellemont, a pretty, vivacious woman of forty-five, giggled as she was led to the window of her own front parlor by a strong masculine hand on her arm. She was accustomed to receiving the greatest deference from every man of her acquaintance except for this one, who seemed to treat countesses and serving maids alike. It intrigued her to be handled so familiarly by this tall and charismatic male, who seemed not to recognize the great social barrier that existed between them. Despite the disapproval of her husband and friends, or perhaps because of it, she had decided to become friends with him. After all, a woman should never be too predictable.
“All right,” Lady Bellemont said with a laughing sigh, “show me who has managed to excite so much interest in you.”
Together they stared at the row of carriages and the bustling assortment of footmen outside, while the waltz music from the nearby drawing room swirled through the open doorway of the parlor. The small guest who was currently departing turned to thank the footman who helped her into the carriage. The golden light from the outside lamps caught her full in the face.
Lady Bellemont heard the man beside her catch his breath. “There,” he said, his voice deepening. “That one. In the dark blue gown. Tell me who she is.”
The face belonged to Lady Holland Taylor, a young woman who was well-known to Lady Bellemont. Somehow it seemed that the grief of widowhood, which usually took such a toll on a woman's beauty, had only enhanced Lady Holland's looks. Her figure, which had always tended toward plumpness, was now trim and tidy. The severity of her hairstyle, gleaming brown locks pulled tightly into a coil atop her head, only served to emphasize the uncommon prettiness of her features…a straight little nose, a soft, ripe-looking mouth, and clear brown eyes the color of scotch whiskey. Since her husband's death, the sparkling liveliness of her character had been replaced by an air of quiet melancholy. She had the perpetual expression of being absorbed in some beautiful, sad dream. And after all she had lost, who could blame her?
Men would have swarmed around the attractive young widow like bees in the vicinity of a particularly lush flower. However, Lady Holland seemed to wear an invisible sign proclaiming “touch-me-not.” Lady Bellemont had observed the widow's behavior this evening, wondering if she was interested in catching another husband. But she had refused all offers to dance and had seemed oblivious to the various men who endeavored to attract her attention. Clearly the widow did not want another man, not now, and likely not ever.
“Oh, my dear friend,” Lady Bellemont murmured to the man beside her, “for once your taste is impeccable. But that lady is not for you.”
“She's married,” he said rather than asked, his black eyes as expressionless as slate.
“No, Lady Holland is widowed.”
He glanced at Lady Bellemont with an interest that seemed casual, but she sensed the tremendous fascination coiled beneath his calm exterior. “I've never seen her before.”
“That is not surprising, my dear. Lady Holland's husband passed on to his reward three years ago, just before you arrived on the scene. This is the first social event she has attended since coming out of mourning.”
As Lady Holland's carriage pulled away from the mansion and rolled along the drive, the man's gaze flickered back to the vehicle and held until it was gone from sight. He reminded Lady Bellemont of a cat staring at a bird that had ascended too far in the air for him to reach. She sighed in friendly sympathy, having come to understand his ambitious nature. He would be forever reaching for things he was not born to possess and would never be able to have.
“George Taylor was the epitome of everything a gentleman should be,” Lady Bellemont remarked in an effort to explain the situation. “Intelligent, handsome and born to an exceptional family. He was one of three sons born to the late Viscount Taylor.”
“Taylor,” he repeated, not especially familiar with the name.
“Their breeding and bloodlines are remarkable. George had the looks of the family, and more charm than should be allotted to one man. I believe every woman who met him fell a little bit in love with him…but he adored his wife, and made no secret of it. They had an extraordinary marriage, one that could never be equaled. It has been confided in me by one of the Taylors that Holly will surely never marry again, as any future relationship would be inferior to what she once had with George.”
“Holly,” he repeated softly.
“A pet name used by family and very close friends.” Lady Bellemont frowned a little, troubled by his apparent interest in Lady Holland. “My dear, I can assure you that there are many charming and attainable ladies present here tonight. Let me introduce you to a few who would be thrilled to receive your attention—”
“Tell me everything you know about Lady Holland,” he said, staring at her intently.
Lady Bellemont made a face and sighed. “Very well. Tomorrow you may come to tea and we'll discuss—”
“Now.”
“In the middle of a ball that I am giving? There is a time and a place for—” She broke off and laughed as she found herself being pulled unceremoniously to a nearby settee. “My dear, I find your masculine qualities quite charming, but it is possible to be a bit too masterful—”
“Everything,” he repeated, and flashed her a crooked grin of such roguish appeal that she felt her heart give an extra beat. “Please.”
And suddenly Lady Bellemont felt there was nothing she would rather do than spend the rest of the evening ignoring her social responsibilities and telling him anything and everything he wished to know.
Holly crossed the threshold of the Taylor family mansion like a rabbit retreating to the safety of its burrow. Although the Taylors did not possess the abundance of funds necessary to keep the house perfectly maintained, Holly loved every elegant, gently worn inch of the place. The faded tapestries and frayed Aubusson carpets were comfortingly familiar. Sleeping under the ancient roof gave one the feeling of resting in a beloved grandparent's arms.
This dignified house fronted with pediments and columns and rows of small, neat windows was where George had lived as a child. It was easy to imagine the boisterous boy he must have been, running up and down the central staircase, playing on the gently sloped lawns outside, sleeping in the same nursery where Holly's own daughter Rose now rested.
Holly was glad that the townhouse where she and George had lived during their short, lovely marriage had been sold. That place contained the happiest and the most agonizing memories of her life. She would rather stay here, where her grief was dulled by pleasant images of George in his childhood. There were paintings of him as a boy, places where he had carved his name in the woodwork, trunks of toys and dusty books that must have occupied him for hours. His family…his mother, his two brothers and their wives, not to mention the servants that had attended George since infancy, were nothing but kind and loving. All the affection that had once been lavished on George, the favorite of the family, was now given to her and Rose. She could easily see spending the rest of her life here, in the mellow world the Taylors provided.
It was only at odd moments that Holly felt constrained by this perfect seclusion. There were times when she sat with her needlework and found herself drifting into strange, wild fantasies that she couldn't seem to control. There were also moments when she felt some irrepressible emotion that she had no means to release…she wanted to do something scandalous, scream in church, go somewhere in a shocking red dress and dance…or kiss a stranger.
“Dear Lord,” Holly whispered aloud, realizing that there was something wicked inside her, something that must be battened down and tightly secured. It was a physical problem, the need of a woman for a man, the dilemma that every widow faced when there was no longer a husband to visit her bed. She had loved George's caresses, and she had always anticipated the nights when he would come to her room and stay until morning. For the past three years, she had fought the unspeakable need she felt since his death. She confided her problem to no one, as she was well aware of society
's view on female desire. That it should not exist at all. Women must live as an example to men and use their virtue to tame a husband's base instincts. They must submit to their husbands, but never encourage a man's passion, and they certainly must not display any sign of physical desire themselves.
“Milady! How was the ball? Did ye enjoy yerself? Did ye dance? Were there people ye remembered from before?”
“Fine, yes, no, and many,” Holly replied, forcing herself to smile as her servant, Maude, appeared at the threshold of her two-room suite and welcomed her inside. Maude was the only maidservant that Holly had been able to retain after George's death. The others had either been absorbed into the Taylor household, or dismissed with good references and as much severance pay as Holly had been able to spare. Maude was an attractive, buxom woman in her early thirties, possessed of boundless energy and unfailing high spirits. Even her hair was exuberant, with blond curls springing insistently out of the tight coils she pinned it in. She worked hard each day, primarily serving as a nanny to Rose, and also functioning as lady's maid to Holly when necessary.
“Tell me how Rose is,” Holly said, heading to the small fire on the grate and extending her hands toward its inviting warmth. “Did she go to sleep easily?”
Maude laughed ruefully. “I'm sorry to say she didn't. She was chattering like a little bird about the ball, and how pretty ye look in yer blue gown.” She took Holly's pelisse and folded it neatly over her arm. “Although, if ye ask me, yer new gowns still look like mourning—they're all so frightfully dark. I wish ye'd had one made in yellow or that pretty light green all the fine ladies are wearing—”
“I've been wearing black and gray for three years,” Holly interrupted wryly, standing still as the maid began on the back buttons of her dark blue gown. “I can't sud denly burst into a rainbow of colors, Maude. One has to ease into these things slowly.”
“Ye're still mourning fer the poor master, milady.” The constricting gown eased from Holly's shoulders. “I think part of ye still wants to show it to the world, 'specially to any gentlemen that might wish to court ye.”
