by Lisa Kleypas
The door swung gently open, leaving Zachary's hand suspended in midair as he began to knock once more. Holly stood there, alone, wearing a gown that looked as if it were made of liquid flame.
Zachary gripped the doorframe with his hand to keep from falling backward. His gaze traveled over her, greedily absorbing every detail: the way her white breasts were pushed together and upward by the red silk bodice…the delicate angle of her collarbone…the soft shape of her throat, so enticing that his mouth watered in response. The startlingly simple red gown was elegant but provocative, displaying just enough of Holly's pale skin to threaten his sanity. He had never seen a woman more vibrantly, unreasonably beautiful in his life. The ice in his stomach dissolved as he was filled with a raging inferno of desire. And like a glass vessel that had been exposed to a radical change in temperature, his self-control threatened to shatter.
He stared into her velvety brown eyes. For once, he couldn't read her mood. She looked warm, utterly inviting, but when she spoke, her voice was crisp.
“Does this meet with your approval, Mr. Bronson?”
Unable to speak, Zachary managed a single nod. She was still angry with him, he thought numbly. Just why she had put on the red gown was a mystery. Perhaps she had somehow guessed that it was the worst possible punishment she could devise. He wanted her so badly that it hurt, a physical pain he felt everywhere in his body…and in one area especially. He longed to touch her, put his hands and mouth on her soft skin, bury his nose in the little valley between her breasts. If only he could take her to bed this very moment. If only she would let him worship her, pleasure her, the way he longed to.
Holly's gaze swept over him in feminine assessment, lingering on his face. “Come in, please,” she said, gesturing for him to enter the room. “Your hair is disheveled. I'll repair it before we leave.”
Zachary obeyed slowly. She had never invited him inside her room before—he knew it wasn't right, wasn't proper, but somehow the evening had become topsy-turvy. As he followed her trim, silk-covered form into the perfume-scented room, his brain rekindled sufficiently for him to remember his apology. “Lady Holly,” he began, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What I said to you downstairs…I shouldn't have…I regret…”
“Indeed, you should regret it,” Holly assured him, her voice tart but no longer outraged. “You were arrogant and presumptuous, though I don't know why I should have been surprised by such behavior, coming from you.”
Usually Zachary would have responded to such an admonition with a playful retort. Now, however, he agreed with a humble nod. The sound of her skirts swishing, the movement of her legs beneath the masses of silk, filled his mind with a hot, intoxicating fog.
“Sit there, please,” Holly said, gesturing to a tiny chair next to her dressing table. She picked up a silver-backed brush. “You're too tall for me when you stand.”
He complied immediately, although the spindly little chair wobbled and creaked under his weight. Unfortunately, his line of vision was now perfectly level with her breasts. He closed his eyes to keep from staring at the lush mounds, but nothing would still the writhing images in his head. It would be so easy to reach out and catch her body in his hands, and bury his face between her soft breasts. He began to perspire profusely. He was in a fever, burning for her. When she spoke, the sweet sound of her voice seemed to collect at the back of his neck and in his groin.
“I regret something as well,” Holly said quietly. “What I told you…that you were unable to love…I was wrong. I only said it because I was upset. I have no doubt that somebody you will indeed lose your heart to someone, although I can't imagine to whom.”
You, he thought with an inescapable stab of longing. You. Couldn't she see it? Or did she assume she was merely the target of his random lust, and no more special to him than any other woman?
In the taut silence, Zachary opened his eyes and watched as Holly picked up a glass bottle and shook a few drops of some clear liquid into her palm. “What is that?” he asked.
“Pomade.”
“I don't like pomade,” he muttered.
“Yes, I'm aware of that.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice. She rubbed her hands together, distributing the stuff evenly over her fingers and palms. “I'll only use a bit. But you can't go to a formal occasion with your hair falling over your forehead.”
Resigned, he sat still beneath her ministrations. He felt her damp fingers moving through his hair, gently rubbing the hot scalp beneath, smoothing the pomade through his rebellious black locks. “Everyone in your family has the same hair,” Holly commented, a smile lingering in her voice. “It has a will of its own. We had to use two entire racks of pins to make Elizabeth's hair behave.”
Racked with pleasure and exquisite tension, Zachary couldn't reply. The feel of her hands on his head, the soft massage of her fingertips, was nothing less than torture. She combed his hair neatly, guiding it back from his forehead, and by some miracle it stayed in place. “There,” Holly said in satisfaction. “Very gentlemanly indeed.”
“Did you ever do this for him?” Zachary heard himself ask hoarsely. “For George?”
Holly went still. When their gazes met, he saw the surprise in her warm brown eyes. Then she smiled faintly. “Well, no. I don't believe George ever had a hair out of place.”
Of course, Zachary thought. Among George Taylor's many other perfections, he'd had gentlemanly hair as well. Forcing his aching, stiff body to move, he stood and made certain his coat was buttoned to conceal the evidence of his arousal. He waited while Holly washed the traces of pomade from her hands and donned a pair of long, blinding white gloves that extended past her elbows. Such lovely elbows she had, not knobby or pointy at all, just a bit plump, perfect for nibbling.
He wondered if this was what married men did, if they were allowed to watch their wives' last preparations before going out for the evening. The scene felt cozy and intimate, and it made him hollow with yearning.
Suddenly he heard a gasp. Glancing in the direction of the sound, Zachary saw Holly's blond maid standing in the open doorway, her blue eyes as large and round as dinner plates. A lush red rose fell from her nerveless grasp onto the carpeted floor. “Oh…I didn't…”
“Come in, Maude,” Holly said calmly, as if Zachary's presence in her room were an everyday occurrence.
Recovering herself, the maid scooped up the fallen rose and brought it to her mistress. They conferred for a moment, and then the maid deftly pinned the fragrant blossom amid Holly's gleaming dark curls. Satisfied with the results, Holly glanced into the looking glass, touched the rose lightly, then turned toward Zachary.
“Shall we go, Mr. Bronson?”
He was both sorry and relieved to escort her from the room. It was a continuing struggle to master his raging desires, especially with her gloved hand tucked neatly in his arm, and the damned teasing swishing of her silk skirts around his legs. She was not an accomplished temptress, and he was well aware that her experience with men was limited. But he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. If having her were a mere question of money, he would have purchased entire countries for her.
Unfortunately, matters were not that simple. He could never offer her the genteel life she deserved and needed, the kind of life she'd had with George. If by some miracle she ever did accept him, Zachary knew that he would disappoint her time and again, until she finally grew to hate him. She would discover all the coarseness of his nature; she would find him increasingly repellent. She would find excuses to keep him from coming to her bed. No matter how well the union might begin, it would end in disaster. Because, as his mother had correctly pointed out, one did not mate a Thoroughbred with a donkey. Better to leave her alone and fix his attentions on some other, far more appropriate woman.
If only he could.
Stopping Holly midway down the grand staircase, Zachary descended two steps without her and turned so their faces were level. “My lady,” he said
seriously, “the things I said about your mourning gowns…I'm sorry. I had no right to make such comments.” He paused with a hard, uncomfortable swallow. “Am I forgiven?”
Holly studied him with a faint smile. “Not yet.”
Her gaze was teasing, almost flirtatious, and Zachary realized with a sudden rush of delight that she enjoyed having the upper hand over him. She was so pert and adorable that it took all his power not to snatch her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Then what will you have me do?” he asked softly, and for the most delicious moment of his life, they stood smiling at each other.
“I'll let you know when I think of something, Mr. Bronson.” She walked down to his step and took his arm once more.
Only to herself would Holly admit that she was surprised by the amount of eager attention her protégées were receiving at the Plymouth ball. She was thrilled by their success, and especially by the fact that they seemed to mix easily with the crowd. It seemed that her social instructions had made them more comfortable in their interactions with the ton, and the ton was appropriately impressed. “That Mr. Bronson,” she overheard one dowager saying to another, “seems to have improved somewhat. He is rising in the world, but I had not thought until tonight that his manners could keep pace with his advancement.”
“Surely you don't mean to say you would consider him for your daughter?” came her companion's astonished reply. “I mean, he is quite common, after all.”
“Indeed, I would,” came the emphatic reply. “He has clearly taken it upon himself to study polite accomplishments, and the results are rather pleasing. And although the man may be a bit common, his fortune is quite uncommon.”
“True, true,” the other dowager agreed distractedly, as they stared at Bronson's distant figure from behind their fans, like soldiers siting a military target.
While Bronson mingled among the crowd, Holly kept company with Elizabeth and Paula. Even before the dancing had begun, Elizabeth had been introduced to at least a dozen young men, all of whom apparently found her sufficiently dazzling to merit their notice. Her dance card, tucked into a paper-thin silver case that tied around her gloved wrist with a pink ribbon, would have been completely filled, except that Holly had cautioned her to reserve a few. “You'll want to rest every now and again,” Holly had murmured into the girl's ear, “and besides, you might encounter a gentleman that you will want to save an extra dance for.”
Elizabeth had nodded obediently, appearing a bit dazed by the scene. Lord and Lady Plymouth's cavernous drawing room accommodated at least three hundred guests, with a good two hundred more milling in the surrounding circuit of rooms and galleries. The home was called Plymouth Court, as it was constructed around a spectacular stone and marble courtyard filled with fruit trees and exotic flowers. It was an old, settled residence, formerly a defensive castle that had progressively been expanded during the last century into a large and luxurious home. In the drawing room, pools of abundant light from the overhead chandeliers and the open fire in the great marble hearth combined to reflect off the apricot-painted walls. The crowd was bathed in a glow that caused a king's ransom worth of jewelry to sparkle madly. Dowagers and nervous young girls sat on giltframed furniture covered with figured silk upholstery, while groups of friends stood together against a backdrop of faded but priceless Flemish tapestries.
Holly's nose tingled pleasantly with the familiar, unique smell of a ball. It was a mixture of scents, predominantly the tang of the waxed and milk-washed dance floor and the perfume of flowers, mixed with traces of cologne, sweat, pomade and lit beeswax candles. During her three years' absence from all social events, she had forgotten this smell, but it brought back a hundred pleasant memories of herself and George.
“It all seems unreal,” Elizabeth whispered, after another gentleman had introduced himself and requested a place on her dance card. “The ball is so beautiful…and everyone is being so nice to me. I can't believe how many destitute young men want to put their hands on a share of Zach's fortune.”
“Do you think that's the reason they all want to dance and flirt with you?” Holly asked with a fond smile. “Because of your brother's money?”
“Of course.”
“Some of the gentlemen that have approached you are hardly destitute,” Holly informed her. “Lord Wolriche, for example, or that nice Mr. Barkham. They both come from families of considerable means.”
“Then why have they asked me to dance?” Elizabeth muttered, clearly perplexed.
“Perhaps because you're pretty and intelligent and spirited,” Holly suggested, and laughed as the girl rolled her eyes in disbelief.
Another man approached, this time someone familiar. It was Holly's cousin, Mr. Jason Somers, the architect that visited Zachary weekly to consult about plans and materials for the planned country estate. During these visits, Elizabeth often attended the meetings to give her unsolicited opinions regarding Somers's work, and he always responded with appropriate sarcasm. Holly had been privately amused by the encounters, suspecting that the pair's bickering concealed an underlying attraction. She wondered if Bronson had arrived at the same conclusion, but she had not yet mentioned the subject to him.
Although Bronson appeared to have respect and appreciation for Somers's architectural talents, he had not yet expressed any opinions on the young man's character. Was Jason Somers the kind of man Bronson would welcome as a brother-in-law? Holly couldn't see why not. Jason was handsome, talented and from a good family. However, he was a professional man and not possessed of a great fortune…yet. It would take time and many sizable commissions before he gained the wealth that a man of his gifts deserved.
Jason greeted Holly, Paula and Elizabeth with a courtly bow, but his gaze lingered on Elizabeth's suddenly flushed face. He was strikingly handsome in his black dress coat, his lanky from elegant in the crisp evening clothes, his chestnut hair gleaming with brown and gold lights beneath the bright chandeliers. Although his alert green eyes gave nothing away, Holly noted the faint tide of color that touched the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose as he stared at Elizabeth. He was fascinated by the girl, Holly thought, and she glanced at Paula to see if she, too, had noticed. Paula returned the glance with a faint smile.
“Miss Bronson,” Jason said to Elizabeth with extreme casualness, “are you enjoying the evening so far?”
Elizabeth fiddled with the silver dance card and made a show of adjusting the ribbon around her wrist. “Very much, Mr. Somers.”
Staring at Elizabeth's down-bent head, with all the silky dark curls confined with pins, Jason spoke a bit gruffly. “I thought I should approach you before every place on your dance card was filled—or is it already too late?”
“Hmmm…let me see…” Elizabeth flipped back the silver lid and consulted the tiny pages, deliberately drawing out the moment. Holly bit back a smile, knowing that Elizabeth had followed her advice and saved a few spaces for just an occasion such as this. “I suppose I could squeeze you in somewhere,” Elizabeth said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “The second waltz, perhaps?”
“The second waltz it is,” he said. “I'll be interested to discover if your dancing skills are more advanced than your architectural taste.”
Elizabeth responded to the little jab by turning to Holly and adopting a look of round-eyed puzzlement. “Is that an example of witty repartee, my lady?” she asked, “or is he by chance saving that for later?”
“I believe,” Holly said with a soft laugh, “that Mr. Somers is attempting to provoke you.”
“Really.” Elizabeth turned back to Jason. “Does that technique usually attract many girls, Mr. Somers?”
“I'm not trying to attract all that many,” he said with a sudden grin. “Only one, in fact.”
Smiling, Holly watched as Elizabeth clearly wondered if she was the one he wished to attract.
Jason turned to Paula and inquired if he might procure her some refreshment. When Paula refused with a shy smile, Jason looked back at Eliz
abeth. “Miss Bronson, may I escort you to the refreshment table for a cup of punch before the dancing begins?”
Elizabeth nodded, a pulse beating visibly in her throat as she took his arm.
As the pair walked away, Holly thought that they were an exceedingly well-matched pair, both of them attractive, tall and slim. It was possible that Jason, with all his youthful energy and self-confident manliness, was the perfect foil for Elizabeth. The girl needed to be courted and charmed and swept off her feet. She needed someone to banish the streak of cynicism and self-doubt that kept her from feeling worthy of a man's love.
“Look at them,” Holly murmured to Paula. “A handsome pair, are they not?”
Paula managed to look both worried and hopeful at the same time. “My lady, do you think a man as fine as that would ever want to marry a girl like Lizzie?”
“I would hope—expect—that any man of good sense would want someone as special as Elizabeth. And my cousin is no fool.”
Lady Plymouth, a heavyset, cheerful woman with a florid complexion, approached them with a delighted exclamation. “My dear Mrs. Bronson,” she said, taking Paula's hands in her plump ones and pressing warmly. “I have no wish to rob Lady Holland of your company, but I simply must steal you away for a little while. I have some friends I would like to introduce you to, and then, of course, we must visit the refreshment table. These events become so fatiguing unless one has sufficient sustenance.”
“Lady Holland,” Paula said, helplessly looking back over her shoulder as she was dragged away, “if you don't mind…?”
“Go on,” Holly urged with a smile. “I'll watch over Elizabeth when she returns.” She felt a rush of gratitude toward Lady Plymouth, having privately asked her to introduce Paula to a few ladies who would be most likely to receive her. “Mrs. Bronson is quite shy,” Holly had confided to Lady Plymouth, “but she is the most pleasantnatured lady in the world, full of common sense and good will…If only you might take her under your wing and show her around.” Her appeal had apparently touched Lady Plymouth's kind heart. Also, Lady Plymouth was hardly averse to receiving the gratitude of a man like Zachary Bronson for being kind to his mother.
