by Lisa Kleypas
She saw from the hard flexing of his jaw that he was gritting his teeth. “Fine,” he said evenly. “But I want to point something out. For three years Ravenhill has gallivanted around Europe—and don't try to claim that his infernal promise to George was uppermost in his mind then. And what about your actions? You weren't thinking about the damn promise when you agreed to work for me—you know George wouldn't have approved. Hell, you and I both know he probably rolled over in his grave!”
“I accepted your offer because I didn't know if Ravenhill still desired to uphold his vows to George. I have Rose and her future to consider. When you appeared, and Ravenhill was nowhere to be found, it seemed the best choice at the time. And I don't regret it. When my employment with you is concluded, I will then be free to fulfill my obligations to George, if that turns out to be the best course of action.”
“All very sensible,” he observed in a soft but stinging tone. “Tell me this: If you decide to marry Ravenhill, will you let him share your bed?”
She colored at the question. “You have no right to ask such a thing.”
“You don't want him that way,” he said flatly.
“There is far more to a marriage than what occurs in the conjugal bed.”
“Is that what George told you?” he shot back. “I wonder…did you ever respond to him the way you do with me?”
The question filled her with outrage. Holly had never struck anyone in her life, but her hand moved of its own accord. As if she stood outside the scene, she watched the white flash of her glove as she slapped his face. The blow was pitifully soft, insignificant except as a gesture of rebuke. It didn't seem to bother Bronson in the slightest. In fact, she saw the satisfied gleam in his eyes, and she realized in a flash of despair that she had given him his answer. With a sob of distress, she sped away from him as fast as her feet would take her.
After a while Zachary returned to the ball, doing his best to appear composed while his body ached with frustrated desire. At last he knew what it was like to hold her in his arms and feel her mouth work sweetly under his. At last he knew the taste of her skin, the throb of her pulse against his lips. Absently taking a cup of some noxiously sweet liquid from a passing servant, Zachary stood at the side of the room and stared at the crowd until he located Holly's vivid red dress. She appeared miraculously carefree and self-possessed, chatting lightly with his sister Elizabeth and making introductions to the would-be suitors that approached them. Only the arcs of bright color at the crests of her cheeks betrayed her inner turmoil.
Zachary tore his gaze from her, knowing it would cause comment if he continued to stare at her so openly. But somehow he knew that she was aware of him, despite the fact that they were separated by a roomful of people. Blindly he turned his attention to the cup of punch in his hand. He drank it in a few impatient gulps, finding the taste to be cloying and medicinal. Various acquaintances came to stand next to him, most of them partners in business ventures, and he obligingly made polite conversation, smild at jokes he only half-heard, ventured opinions when he was barely aware of the subject matter. All his attention, his thoughts, his wilful soul, were focused on Lady Holland Taylor.
He was in love with her. Every dream, hope and ambition of his life combined was a tiny flame in comparison to the great conflagration of emotion that burned inside him. It terrified him that she held such immense power over him. He had never wanted to love anyone this way—it brought him no comfort or happiness, only the painful knowledge that he was almost certain to lose her. The thought of not having her, relinquishing her to another man, to the wishes of her departed husband, nearly brought him to his knees. Wildly he considered ways to lure her…There were things he could offer. Hell, he would personally build a great marble monument to the memory of George Taylor, if that was her price for accepting him.
Occupied with his frantic thoughts, Zachary didn't immediately notice the nearby presence of Ravenhill. Gradually he became aware of the tall blond man standing only a few feet away, a handsome solitary figure amid the vibrant clamor of the ball. Their gazes met, and Zachary stepped closer to him.
“Tell me,” Zachary said softly, “what kind of man would ask his best friend to marry his wife after he died? And what kind of man would inspire two seemingly sensible people to agree to such a damned stupid plan?”
The man's gray eyes surveyed him in a measuring stare. “A better man than you or I will ever be.”
Zachary couldn't stop himself from sneering. “It seems that Lady Holland's paragon of a husband wants to control her from the grave.”
“He was trying to protect her,” Ravenhill said without apparent heat, “from men like you.”
The bastard's calmness infuriated Zachary. Ravenhill was so damned confident, as if he had already won a competition that Zachary hadn't even known about until it was over. “You think she'll go through with it, don't you?” Zachary muttered resentfully. “You think she'll sacrifice the rest of her life simply because George Taylor asked it of her.”
“Yes, that's what I think,” came Ravenhill's cool reply. “And if you knew her better, you'd have no doubt of it.”
Why? Zachary wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the painful question. Why was it a foregone conclusion that she would go through with her promise? Had she loved George Taylor so much that he could influence her even in death? Or was it simply a matter of honor? Could her sense of duty and moral obligation really impel her to marry a man she didn't love?
“I warn you,” Ravenhill said softly, “if you hurt or distress Lady Holland in any way, you'll answer to me.”
“All this concern for her welfare is touching. A few years late in coming, isn't it?”
The comment seemed to rattle Ravenhill's composure. Zachary felt a stab of triumph as he saw the man flush slightly.
“I've made mistakes,” Ravenhill acknowledged curtly. “I have as many faults as the next man, and I found the prospect of filling George Taylor's shoes damned intimidating. Anyone would.”
“Then what made you come back?” Zachary muttered, wishing there were some way to forcibly transport the man back across the Channel.
“The thought that Lady Holland and her daughter might need me in some way.”
“They don't. They have me.”
The lines had been drawn. They might as well have been generals of opposing armies, facing each other across a battlefield. Ravenhill's thin, aristocratic mouth curved in a contemptuous smile. “You're that last thing they need,” he said. “I suspect even you know that.”
He walked away. Zachary stood watching him, stonefaced and still, while inside he writhed in anguished fury.
Holly needed a drink. A large glass of brandy, one that would calm her overwrought nerves and allow her a few hours of sleep. She had not needed to take spirits since the first year of mourning George. The doctor had prescribed a nightly glass of wine in those days of turmoil, but it had not been enough. Only strong spirits had been sufficient to calm her, and so she had sent Maude on secretive missions to fetch her glasses of whiskey or brandy when the household had settled for the night. Knowing that George's family would not approve of a lady drinking, and also aware that they would be able to detect the lowering levels of liquor in the sideboard decanters, Holly had decided to smuggle a bottle to her own room. Using Maude as intermediary, Holly had gotten a footman to purchase brandy for her, and she had stored it in the drawer of her dressing table. Now thinking longingly of that long-ago brandy bottle, she dressed for bed and waited impatiently for the Bronson household to retire.
The carriage ride back home from the ball had been nothing short of hellish. Fortunately Elizabeth had been too excited by her own success, and the flattering attentions paid her by Jason Somers, to notice the seething silence between Holly and her brother. Paula had been aware of the tension, of course, and she had sought to cover it with a stream of light chatter. Holly had forced herself to ignore Bronson's brooding stare and had made small talk with P
aula, smiling and joking while inside her nerves were shattering.
When there wasn't sound or movement to be detected in the cavernous house, Holly took a candle in a small jeweled holder and crept from her room. As far as she knew, the easiest place to find brandy was in the library sideboard, where Bronson always kept a supply of excelent French vintage.
Descending the grand staircase in her bare feet, Holly held the candle high, starting a little as the tiny flame cast eerie shadows on the gilded walls. The large house, always so busy and bustling in the daytime, resembled a deserted museum at night. Cool drafts curled around her ankles, and she shivered, grateful for the warmth of the ruffled white pelisse that fastened over her thin nightgown.
Entering the library, Holly inhaled the familiar smell of leather and vellum, and passed the huge gleaming globe on her way to the sideboard. She set the candle on the polished mahogany surface and opened a cabinet door in search of a glass.
Although there wasn't a sound or movement in the room, something alerted her to the fact that she wasn't alone. Uneasily she turned to survey her surroundings, and gasped as she saw Bronson seated in a deep leather armchair, his long legs stretched before him. He stared at her intently, his ophidian eyes unblinking. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though his coat had been removed and his waistcoat and necktie hung loose. His white shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing a wealth of thick black hair. An empty brandy snifter was held loosely in his fingers, and she surmised that he had been drinking for some time.
Holly's heart jerked violently. Air left her lungs in a swift rush, making it impossible for her to speak. Unsteadily she leaned back against the sideboard, gripping the edge with her hands for support.
Slowly Bronson rose to his feet and approached her. He glanced at the open door of the sideboard, understanding immediately what she wanted. “Allow me,” he said, his voice a velvety rumble in the stillness, and he pulled out a snifter and a brandy decanter. Pouring until the snifter was a third full, he held it by the stem and used the candle flame to warm the glass bowl. An expert swirl or two, and he handed the warmed vintage to her.
Holly took the snifter and drank at once, wishing that her hand wasn't trembling visibly. She couldn't help staring at the place where his shirt hung open. George had had a smooth chest, which she had always found attractive, but the sight of Zachary Bronson in an unbuttoned shirt filled her mind with lurid, disquieting thoughts. She wanted to rub her mouth and face amid those springy dark curls, wanted to press her bare breasts against them…
A flaming blush covered her from head to toe, and she gulped brandy until it made her cough.
Bronson returned to his chair and sat heavily. “Are you going to marry Ravenhill?”
The brandy snifter nearly fell from Holly's hand.
“I asked you a question,” he said thickly. “Are you going to marry him?”
“I don't know the answer to that.”
“Of course you do. Tell me, damn you.”
“I…” Her entire body seemed to wilt in defeat. “It is possible I will.”
Bronson did not seem surprised. A soft, ugly laugh broke from him. “You'll have to explain why. I'm afraid that common bruisers like myself have trouble understanding these upper-class arrangements.”
“I promised George,” Holly said carefully, feeling no small amount of apprehension as she stared at him. Bronson looked so…well, malevolent…as he sat there in the darkness. Handsome, black-haired and larger than life, he could have been Lucifer seated on his throne. “If you find anything about me that is worthy of admiration or affection, then you would not wish me to behave in a way that is less than honorable. I have been raised never to break my word, once it has been given. I know that some people think a woman's sense of honor is not as strong as a man's, but I have always tried—”
“My God, I don't doubt your honor,” he said roughly. “What I'm saying—what should be clear to everyone—is that George should never have asked for such a promise.”
“But he did, and I gave it.”
“Just like that.” Bronson shook his head. “I wouldn't have believed it of you—you, the only woman I've ever known who is willing to stand up to me in a temper.”
“George knew what would happen to me without him,” she said. “He knew I would never willingly marry again. He wanted me to have the protection of a husband and, more importantly, for Rose to have a father. And Ravenhill's values and beliefs were similar to his, and George knew that Rose and I would never be mistreated by his best friend—”
“Enough,” Zachary interrupted harshly. “I'll tell you what I think about good old Saint George. I think he didn't want you to ever fall in love again. And locking you into a marriage with a cold fish like Ravenhill was George's way of making certain that he would remain your one and only love.”
Holly whitened at the accusation. “What a horrible thing to say. You are completely wrong, you know absolutely nothing about my husband or his friend—”
“I know you don't love Ravenhill. I know you never will. If you're so intent on marrying a man you don't love, then take me.”
Of all the things she might have expected him to say, that was the biggest surprise of all. Clumsy with astonishment, Holly finished her brandy and set the empty snifter on the sideboard behind her. “Are you proposing to me?” she asked in a whisper.
Bronson came to her, not stopping until he had crowded her against the sideboard. “Why not? George wanted you to be protected and cared for. I can do that. And I could be a father to Rose. She doesn't know who the hell Ravenhill is. I'll take care of the two of you.” He slid his hand beneath the sheath of her hair, sifting gently through the long brown locks. Holly closed her eyes and bit back a whimper of pleasure as she felt his fingers curve around the back of her neck. It seemed that her whole body responded to his touch. There was a mortifying, expectant twitch in the private place between her thighs, and she was shamed by the carnal need that pulsed so strongly inside her. She had never longed to be physically possessed by a man as much as she did this moment. “I could give you things you never even thought to want before,” Bronson whispered. “Forget about your damned promises, Holly. That's all in the past. It's time to think of the future now.”
Holly shook her head and parted her lips to argue. His head lowered swiftly, and he took her mouth, making her groan in pleasure as his tongue sank deeply inside her. He kissed her with a passionate expertise that sent every rational thought scattering. His mouth teased and twisted over hers, while she strained upward in helpless response. His warm hands, separated from her body by only thin layers of muslin, slid over her with shocking boldness, cupping over the shapes of her breasts, the slopes of her hips, even the full curves of her buttocks. She gasped as he squeezed her bottom gently, pulling her hips upward against his. As he kissed her, he rubbed her insistently against the rock-hard protrusion of his arousal, and Holly nearly swooned at the sensation. Not even her husband had dared to fondle her so blatantly.
She dragged her mouth from his. “You're making it impossible for me to think—”
“I don't want you to think.” He pulled her hand to the front of his trousers, fitting her lax fingers over the huge, hot ridge that arched against the taut fabric. Her eyes widened at the feel of him, and she dove her head against his chest to avoid his descending mouth. He kissed the frail skin beneath her ear instead, his lips roving downward to her throat. Although the rational part of Holly's mind—what was left of it—warned stridently against such reckless sensuality, she pressed her cheek to the intriguing curls on his chest. She was enthralled by his uncompromising masculinity, every powerful, coarse, thrilling detail of him. But he was not for her. Although opposites might attract, they did not make for good marriages. One's only chance for contentment was when like married like. And she had made a binding promise to her husband in the last minutes before he died.
The thought of George abruptly sent her hurtling back
to reality, and she wrenched herself free of Zachary Bronson's arms.
She stumbled to a chair and sat down hard, her legs weak and trembling. To her relief, Bronson did not follow her. For a long time the only sounds in the library were the sharp inhalations of their breathing. Finally Holly found her voice. “I can't deny the attraction between us.” She paused and emitted a shaky laugh. “But surely you must know that we would never suit! I am meant for a small, quiet life—your way of living is too grand and fast for me. You would grow bored with me in a very short time, and you would long to be free of me—”
“No.”
“—and I would find it such a misery, trying to live with a man of your appetite and ambition. One of us would have to change, and that would cause terrible resentment, and the marriage would come to a bitter end.”
“You can't be certain of that.”
“I can't take such a risk,” she replied with absolute finality.
Bronson stared at her through the shadows, his head tilted a bit, as if he were relying on some sixth sense to penetrate her thoughts. He came to her and sank to his haunches before the chair. He startled her by reaching for her hand, his fingers closing over her small, cold fist. Slowly his thumb rubbed over her knotted knuckles. “There is something you're not telling me,” he murmured. “Something that makes you anxious…even afraid. Is it me? Is it my past, the fact that I was a fighter, or is it—”
“No,” she said with a laugh that caught hard in her throat. “Of course I'm not afraid of you.”
“I know fear when I see it,” he persisted.
Holly shook her head, refusing to debate the comment. “We must put this night behind us,” she said, “or I will have to take Rose and leave right away. And I don't wish to leave you or your family. I want to stay as long as possible and fulfill our agreement. Let us agree not to speak of this again.”
His eyes gleamed with black fire. “Do you think that's possible?”
“It has to be,” she whispered. “Please, Zachary, tell me you'll try.”
