by Lisa Kleypas
Eight
Although Holly wore a gray dress today, its drabness was relieved a bit by touches of raspberry-colored piping at the throat and wrists. It was the kind of garment a nun would have been comfortable in…except that there was a little two-inch dip at the throat of her high-necked dress. The opening was shaped like a keyhole to reveal a glimpse of tender, pale skin. Just that little flash of skin was enough to send Zachary's imagination careening wildly. He had never been so riveted by a place on a woman's neck. He wanted to press his mouth into the sweet hollow, smell her, lick her…Thoughts of the soft body beneath the smothering gray fabric were almost too much to bear.
“Mr. Bronson, you seem distracted today,” Holly said, and he dragged his gaze from her gown to her warm, whiskey-colored eyes. Such innocent brown eyes…He would swear that she had no idea how she affected him.
Holly's soft lips tilted with a smile. “I'm aware of your reluctance to do this,” she said. “However, you must learn to dance, and to do it well. The Plymouth ball is only two months away.”
“The Plymouth ball,” he repeated, arching his brows sardonically. “This is the first I've heard of it.”
“I thought it would be the perfect occasion to give your social skills an outing. It's an annual event hosted by Lord and Lady Plymouth, always at the height of the Season. I've been acquainted with the Plymouths for many years, and they are an exceedingly gracious family. I will discreetly prevail on the Plymouths to send invitations. We'll bring Elizabeth out into society that very night, and you…well, there is no doubt that you will encounter many well-bred young women, one of whom might possibly capture your interest.”
Zachary nodded automatically, although he knew that no woman on earth could capture his interest as intensely as Lady Holland Taylor had. He must have frowned or appeared disgruntled, for Holly gave him a reassuring smile. “I think you'll find that it's not as difficult as you might expect,” she said, evidently thinking that he was worried about the dance lessons. “We'll just take things one step at a time. And if it turns out that I am not able to teach you adequately, we will consult with Monsieur Girouard.”
“No dancing master,” Zachary said gruffly, having taken an instant dislike to the man. He had watched the dance lessons with Elizabeth the previous morning and had strongly resisted Girouard's mistaken attempt to include him in the instructions.
Holly sighed as if her patience were being strained. “Your sister likes him well enough,” she pointed out. “Monsieur Girouard is a very talented dancing master.”
“He tried to hold my hand.”
“I assure you, it was with no other intention than to lead you through the steps of a quadrille.”
“I don't hold hands with other men,” Zachary said. “And that little frog-eater looked like he was going to enjoy it.”
Holly rolled her eyes and let the comment pass.
They stood alone in the sumptuously upholstered ballroom, the walls covered in pale green silk and acres of overwrought gilded carving. Rows of rich green malachite columns, fit for a Russian palace, filled the spaces between gold-framed mirrors that reached eighteen feet in height. It seemed remarkable that the ceiling could support the weight of the six massive chandeliers sparkling with carriage-loads of crystal drops. Since no music was necessary for Zachary to learn the basic patterns of various dances, the musicians' bower at the back of the room was empty.
Zachary saw his partner's reflection in many of the mirrors that surrounded them. Her gray gown was incongruous in such an ornate setting. What would Holly look like in a ball gown? He imagined her in some low-cut garment with bare shoulders, trimmed with the frothy stuff he had seen on womens' evening dresses lately: the pretty, round shapes of her breasts rising from the bodice…the glitter of diamonds on her pale skin. Her dark brown hair upswept to reveal jeweled earbobs clasped to her little ears—
“Do you remember the rules of ballroom etiquette that we discussed yesterday?” he heard her ask, and he forced his attention to the business at hand.
“Once I've asked a young lady to dance,” he said in a singsong tone, “I should not leave her until I've returned her to the chaperone. After the dance is finished, I ask if she will take some refreshment. If she says yes, I find a seat for her in the refreshment room and provide everything she needs, and stay with her as long as she cares to sit there.” He paused and asked with a slight scowl, “What if she wants to sit and fill her face for an hour? Or even longer?”
“You will remain with her until she is satisfied,” Holly said. “And then you will return her to the chaperone and bow, and offer thanks for the pleasure of her company. Furthermore, you must dance with the plain girls as well as the beautiful ones, and never dance more than twice with one particular partner. And in the event of a supper dance, you must offer to escort the chaperone to the dining table, and be as agreeable and charming as possible.”
Zachary sighed heavily.
“Now, on to the opening march,” Holly said briskly. “When you lead the march at your own ball, you must keep the pace slow and dignified. Follow the direction of the walls, and execute the change steps at the corners.” She leaned a bit closer to him and said in a conspiratorial manner, “A march is really just a walk around the room for all the ladies to display their finery. You can't make a mistake, Mr. Bronson. Just lead the couples around the sides and back through the center of the ballroom. And try to look a bit arrogant. It should pose very little problem for you.”
Her gentle teasing caused a surge of pleasure inside him. The idea of performing the staid, pretentious march at a ball usually made Zachary jeer and laugh. But the notion of parading around the room to display a woman like Holly on his arm…well, that had some merit. It was a territorial statement that he rather liked.
“And you must never, never march with two ladies at once,” Holly admonished.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the change steps at the corners would be impossible, and for another…” She stopped, seeming to forget what she had been about to say as their gazes met. Blinking slowly, as if she were distracted, she forced herself to continue. “It's an honor that a gentleman does to one particular lady.” She reached for his arm and took it lightly. “Let us proceed to the first corner.”
They walked with great dignity, while Zachary was absurdly conscious of the sound his feet made on the gleaming parqueted floor. Upon reaching the corner, they paused while Holly explained the change steps. “I will release your arm and take your hand, and you will guide me from your left side to your right…” She began to execute the movement as she spoke, and Zachary obliged her. Their hands touched, and the feel of her cool little fingers sliding against his palm caused Zachary to catch his breath.
Holly stopped in apparent confusion and snatched her hand back with a slight gasp. She must have felt it, too, the exciting leap of sensation that resulted from the touch of their hands. Zachary stood staring at her down-bent head, dying to clasp his palms over her sleek, dark hair and tilt her face upward. He would never forget how it had felt to kiss her, the way her lips had clung to his, the sweet interior of her mouth, the vulnerable sound of her breathing.
“We…” Holly said unsteadily, “we should be wearing gloves. Ladies and gentlemen always wear gloves when they dance.”
“Shall I send someone to fetch them?” Zachary was surprised by the raspiness of his own voice.
“No, I…I suppose that won't be necessary.” She took a deep breath, appearing to compose herself. “Always bring an extra pair of gloves to a ball,” she murmured. “A gentleman should never offer a soiled glove to a lady.”
Not looking at him, she reached for his hand once more. Their bare fingers clasped for a brief, electric moment, and she guided him through the change steps.
“It's been so long,” he heard her say in near-whisper. “I've almost forgotten how to do this.”
“You haven't danced since George?” he asked.
She shoo
k her head in wordless response.
This was his particular idea of hell, Zachary reflected silently, his mind and body on fire as the lesson on marching proceeded. He was grateful for the fashionably long hem of his coat that draped over the front of his trousers. If Holly had any inkling of how aroused he was, how close he was to crushing her against him and defiling her with his hands, mouth and every conceivable part of his body, she would probably run screaming from the ballroom.
However, the march wasn't nearly as bad as the quadrille, a tedious pattern of glissades and chassés, and all manner of foppish footwork. And the waltz turned out to be the most excruciating torment man—or woman—had ever devised.
“Stand just a little to my right,” Holly said, her thick lashes lowering over her eyes, “and put your right arm around my waist. Firmly, but not too tightly.”
“Like this?” Carefully Zachary fitted his arm around the neat curve of her waist, feeling unaccountably awkward. He, of all men, was well accustomed to holding a woman in his arms, but this experience was different from all others. He had never touched someone as fine as she, had never wanted so keenly to please a woman. For once her emotions were difficult to read, and he wondered if she disliked being so close to him. After all, she had been used to dancing in the slim, elegant arms of aristocratic men, not brawny, low-bred bruisers like himself. His hands felt like big paws, his feet as large and heavy as carriage wheels.
Her left hand came to rest gently on his right shoulder. His tailor had stripped every bit of padding from the shoulder of his coat in an effort to make him appear smaller, but unfortunately nothing could conceal the brutish swell of muscle.
Holly took his left hand in her right…Her fingers felt dainty and crushable. She was so light and sweet in his arms that it caused a pang of yearning inside him. “The man guides his partner with this hand,” she said, her face upturned. “You mustn't hold my fingers too tightly…your grasp must be firm and steady, but gentle. And keep your arm just a bit rounded.”
“I'm afraid I'm going to step on you,” he muttered.
“Just concentrate on maintaining the proper distance between us. If you hold me too tightly, you'll restrict my freedom of movement. If we stand too far apart, however, I won've have sufficient support.”
“I don't think I can do this,” Zachary said thickly. “You've taught me how to do the march, and I can muddle through a quadrille. Let's leave things at that.”
“Oh, but you must learn to waltz,” she coaxed. “You'll never be able to court a girl properly if you can't waltz.”
His succinct reply caused her to frown in sudden determination.
“Utter all the obscenities you like, Mr. Bronson. Nothing will deter me from teaching you to waltz. And if you prove to be uncooperative, I will send for Monsieur Girouard.”
The threat of the dancing master caused his scowl to deepen. “All right, dammit. What do I do next?”
“A waltz is composed of two steps, each lasting three beats. Now glide backward with your left foot—a little step, mind you—then draw the right foot back a bit beyond the left and turn toward the right…”
To say the least, it was a struggle at first. However, as Zachary concentrated on Holly's instructions and felt her glide with him in seemingly magical conformity, his lumbering steps became a bit more assured. It helped that she moved with him so easily, turning with the slightest pressure of his hand. It helped also that she seemed to be herself, although he couldn't fathom why she should like to stumble through a waltz with him.
“Keep your arm steady,” she warned, her eyes sparkling as she stared into his set face. “You're moving it like a pump handle.”
As she had probably intended, the comment distracted him from counting. He raised one brow in a sardonic glance that usually withered the recipient. “All I can concentrate on at the moment, my lady, is trying not to maim you with one misplaced step.”
“You're doing very well, actually,” she said. “Don't tell me you've never tried to waltz before.”
“Never.”
“You're surprisingly agile. Most beginners rest too much of their weight on their heels.”
“Boxing,” Zachary said, pulling her in another half-turn. “If you have lead feet in the rope ring, there's no way to duck and dodge.”
Although he had not intended the comment to be amusing, Holly seemed to be greatly entertained. “I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you.”
Staring into her smiling, rosy-cheeked face, Zachary experienced a painfully sweet sensation, an ache that had less to do with the body than the spirit. She was the most adorable woman he had ever known. Not for the first time, he felt acute envy for George Taylor for having been loved by her. For having the right to touch and kiss her whenever he had wanted. For having had her turn to him for all of her needs. For being loved by her still.
From everything Zachary had been told, George Taylor had been the perfect man. Handsome, well-heeled, honorable, respectable, gentlemanly and compassionate. It seemed that he had deserved a woman like Holly, every bit as much as Zachary did not deserve her. Zachary knew that he was none of the things George had been. Everything he could offer her, including his own heart, was tainted.
“If only” were the two words that Zachary most loathed in the English language. They rattled in his brain unmercifully. If only, if only…
He lost the rhythm of the waltz and stopped abruptly, causing Holly to bump into him. She gave a small, gasping laugh. “Oh…you stopped so suddenly, I—”
Muttering an apology, Zachary steadied her with his hands. Momentum had brought her small body against his. The feel of her, even in the confining layers of her gray gown, caused his senses to riot in wild pleasure. He tried to release her, to loosen his arm, but his rebellious muscles contracted until she was caught securely against him. Her breath was rapid from exertion, and he felt the soft movements of her breasts against his chest. The moment seemed suspended in time. He waited for her to end it, to protest, but she was strangely silent. The silken fans of her lashes lifted, revealing a stricken gaze. Seared together in something that was becoming, undeniably, an embrace, they stared at each other with helpless fascination.
Eventually Holly averted her gaze, but her warm breath wafted over his chin. His mouth felt hot, dry, and he longed fiercely to press it on hers. He waited for the small hands on his shoulders to move…if she would raise one to his neck and urge him downward…if she would give only the slightest hint that she wanted him…but she remained frozen in his arms, neither shrinking away nor encouraging him.
An unsteady sigh escaped him, and he somehow unlocked his muscles, although his tortured body screamed a silent protest. His vision was slightly blurred. He wondered if Holly had any inkling of how close he was to snatching her up and carrying her somewhere. Anywhere. It seemed all the desire he had ever known was rushing through his body, collecting hotly in his groin. He wanted to feel her beneath him, to take his pleasure within her. And even more than that, he wanted her affection, her caresses, her whispers of love in his ears. He had never felt so much like a fool, desperately wanting something that was so clearly not for him.
All at once a cold, clear voice in his head pointed out that what he could not get from Holly, he would get from another woman. There were hundreds of women in London who would supply all the affection he wanted, for as long as he wanted. Gratefully Zachary seized on the idea like a drowning man reaching a raft. He did not need Lady Holland Taylor. He could get someone prettier, someone wittier, someone with eyes just as warm. There was nothing particularly special about her, and he would prove it to himself tonight, and the following night…whatever amount of time it required.
“I think that is enough for today,” Holly murmured, still appearing a bit dazed. “You've accomplished quite a lot, Mr. Bronson. I'm certain you'll master the waltz in very good time.”
Zachary responded with a bow, forcing a polite smile to his face. “Thank you, my lady. I'll see you for our next lesson on the morrow, then.”
“You won't be taking supper at home tonight?”
He shook his head. “I've planned to see friends in town this evening.”
There was a flicker in her eyes that betrayed her disapproval. He knew she didn't like his rampant socializing and sexual escapades, and he took sudden savage delight in displeasing her. Let her sleep in a chaste bed every night—he had no scruples about taking his own enjoyment where he could find it.
Holly made her way slowly to Rose's room, where her daughter and Maude were engaged in afternoon reading and playtime. She found it surprisingly difficult to bring her thoughts under control. Her mind kept summoning images of herself clasped in Zachary Bronson's arms, turning slowly in the mirrored ballroom while their joined reflections shimmered around them. Being so close to him, talking and laughing intimately for more than two hours, had ruffled her senses unbearably. She felt troubled, anxious, unhappy about something she could not identify. She was glad the dance lesson was over. There had been a delicious-awful moment when he had held her too closely and she had thought he might kiss her.
What if he had? What would her reaction have been? She was afraid to ponder that question. Bronson appealed to something deep and primitive within her. To a woman who had been taught that even her sexual attraction to her own husband should be contained within strict limits, the situation was alarming.
She should be repulsed by Bronson's coarseness, but instead she was drawn to him. He did not treat her as a fragile doll, or as a figure of sympathy. He provoked and teased and spoke bluntly to her. He made her feel vital and alive, and much too interested in the world outside her own. Instead of refining him, she was afraid just the reverse was happening: He was changing her, and none for the better.
