by Lisa Kleypas
“Damned if I can't,” he muttered tenderly against her breast, catching a flushed nipple between his teeth, and for a long time all conversation stopped.
Holly held Zachary's hand as they wandered along the wilderness walk of his estate garden. Her skirts brushed clumps of purple and white crocuses, while a light spring breeze stirred through yellow irises and gleaming white snowdrops that were strewn along the borders of the grassy walk. Long, thick ribbons of fragile yellow aconites led to vast groves of honeysuckle and Japanese apricot. Breathing deeply of the fragrant air, Holly felt happiness welling in her chest until it spilled into an irrepressible laugh. “Your house may be an architectural horror,” she said, “but oh, this garden is a glimpse of heaven.”
Zachary's hand tightened on hers, and she saw a smile cross his face. The afternoon had been the most blissful either of them had ever known, the hours filled with lovemaking and soft laughter, and even a few tears as they shared the secrets of their hearts. Now that they had reconciled, it seemed there were a thousand things to discuss, and not nearly enough time. However, Holly was eager to return to the Taylors' home and share with her daughter the news of her impending marriage. The Taylor family would be outraged, of course, and added to their unhappiness over the match would be the complete surprise of realizing that George's wife was rejecting his last wishes. They would hardly understand that the decision was not a cavalier one. She simply had no choice. The fact was, she couldn't live without Zachary Bronson.
“Stay with me,” Zachary said quietly. “I'll send for Rose, and you'll both live here while we arrange for the wedding.”
“You know I can't do that.”
He frowned and guided her carefully around a small marble and brass sundial set in the ground. “I don't want to let you out of my sight.”
Holly diverted his attention by bringing up the subject of the wedding ceremony, stressing that she wanted it to be accomplished with discretion and expediency. Unfortunately, it seemed that Zachary desired something far more grandiose. Upon hearing of his ideas for a large church, a thousand doves, a dozen trumpeters, a banquet for five hundred and various other appalling schemes, Holly firmly stated that she would have nothing to do with such an event.
“We'll have something private and very quiet, and above all, small,” she said. “It's the only choice, really.”
“I agree,” he said readily. “On second thought, we don't need to invite more than three hundred guests.”
Holly gave him an incredulous glance. “When I said ‘small,’ I had a different number in mind. Perhaps half a dozen.”
His jaw set obstinately. “I want all of London to know that I've won you.”
“They'll know,” she said dryly. “I'm sure the ton will talk of little else…and it's a certainty that none of my scandal-avoiding former friends would attend the wedding, extravagant or otherwise.”
“Nearly all of mine would,” he said cheerfully.
“Undoubtedly,” she agreed, knowing that he was referring to the crowd of ruffians, dandies and social climbers who ran the gamut from being bad ton to complete wastrels. “Nevertheless, the wedding will be as discreet as possible. You can save the doves and trumpeters and such for Elizabeth's wedding.”
“I suppose it would be faster that way,” he said grudgingly.
Holly stopped on the graveled path and smiled up at him. “We'll keep our wedding small, then, and get on with it.” She slid her arms around his lean waist. “I don't want to wait a day longer than necessary to belong to you.”
Needing no further encouragement, Zachary bent his head to kiss her thoroughly. “I need you,” he muttered, pressing her against his aroused loins to emphasize the fact. “Come back to the house with me now, sweet love, and let me—”
“Not again until we marry.” Breathing fast, she rested her ear against his thundering heart. Despite her own eagerness to make love with him, she wanted to wait until they were properly wed. “I've been compromised quite enough today, I should think.”
“Oh, no, you haven't.” His hands wandered over the bodice of her gown, and he kissed the side of her throat. With a coaxing murmur, he led her to an old stone wall covered with rare yellow camellias, and began to reach for the hem of her skirts.
“Don't you dare,” Holly warned with an unsteady laugh, skittering away from him. “A gentleman should treat his beloved with respect, and here you are—”
“The size of this cockstand is ample proof of my respect for you,” he interrupted, pulling her hand to his swollen crotch.
Holly knew she should have rebuked him, but instead she found herself pressing close against his long, sturdy form. “You're impossibly vulgar,” she said against his ear.
Zachary cupped her hand more tightly around himself. “That's one of the things you like best about me,” he whispered, and she couldn't help smiling.
“Yes.”
He nuzzled into the little space between her lace-edged neckline and the soft, warm skin of her throat. “Let me take you to the summerhouse. Just for a few minutes. No one will know.”
Reluctantly she wriggled away from him. “I'll know.”
Zachary shook his head with a groaning laugh, turning to brace his hands on the flower-covered wall. Dropping his head, he breathed deeply, striving to master his rampaging desire. As Holly approached him hesitantly, he glanced sideways with smoldering black eyes. “All right, then,” he said in a softly threatening tone underlaid with smoke. “I won't touch you again until our wedding night. But you may be sorry you made me wait.”
“I already am,” she confessed, and their smiling gazes locked for a long moment.
Although Zachary had intended to send for Jason Somers the very next day, the young man surprised him with an early morning call. Zachary had slept deeply for the first night in a month and awakened at the hour of eight, unusually late for him. He couldn't remember when he had felt so relaxed. It seemed that after decades of striving and struggling, he had finally reached the pinnacle he had sought. Perhaps for the first time in his life he could truly be happy…and the reason was at once extraordinary and commonplace. He was in love. He had finally relinquished his heart to someone and found that she loved him in return. It seemed too miraculous to be true.
In the midst of his solitary breakfast, the visitor was announced, and Zachary bade the housekeeper to show the young man in. Grim, handsome, pale and dressed as if he were attending a funeral, Somers appeared as the tragic hero of some overblown romance. Zachary actually felt a prickle of something that might have been remorse as he recalled his last meeting with the fellow, during which he had met Somers's earnest request for Elizabeth's hand with a quiet, crushing denial. No doubt Somers remembered every detail of the unpleasant scene, which would account for his resolute expression. It was the expression, in fact, of a valiant knight daring to approach an evil dragon in his lair.
Unshaven and still wearing his dressing robe, Zachary sat at a table in the breakfast room and gestured for Somers to join him. “Pardon my appearance,” he said mildly, “but it is a bit earlier than the usual visiting hour. Will you take some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Somers remained standing.
Relaxing in his chair, Zachary took a long, hot swallow of his coffee. “Convenient that you should choose this day to call on me,” he remarked, “as I had planned to send for you this morning.”
“Had you?” Somers's green eyes narrowed intently. “Why is that, Mr. Bronson? Something to do with the Devon estate, I suppose?”
“No, actually. It concerns the matter we discussed the other day.”
“As I recall, there was no discussion,” Somers said flatly. “I asked for your consent to marry Elizabeth, and you refused.”
“Yes,” Zachary cleared his throat gruffly. “Well, I—”
“You've left me no choice, sir.” Although Somers flushed slightly with obvious nervousness, his voice was steady as he continued. “Out of respect for you, I came to inform y
ou in person that I intend to marry Elizabeth with or without your approval. And despite what you or anyone else thinks, I'm not doing it because I have an eye on your damned fortune. I happen to love your sister. If she'll have me, I'm going to provide for her, work like hell for her and treat her with all the respect and gentleness a man can give his wife. And if you require more than that of any man, you can go to the devil.”
Zachary felt his brows lift slightly. He couldn't help but be impressed by the young man—it wasn't often that someone dared to stand up to him this way. “If I may ask,” he said quietly, “why do you love Elizabeth?”
“She's my perfect match in every way that matters.”
“Not socially,” Zachary pointed out.
“I said,” came the young man's calm reply, “in every way that matters. I don't give a damn what her social status is.”
The answer satisfied Zachary. His instincts told him that Somers was a decent man who truly loved Elizabeth. “Then you have my approval to marry Lizzie—if you'll do one thing for me.”
Somers seemed too stunned to reply at first. “What is it?” he eventually asked in a suspicious tone.
“I have another project for you.”
Somers shook his head immediately. “I won't spend the rest of my career taking commissions from you and being accused of nepotism. I respect my own abilities too much for that. I'll do well enough designing for other men—and I'll recommend another architect to suit you.”
“It's a humble project, actually,” Zachary said, ignoring the refusal. “I'm tearing down some tenement slums on a block of real estate I own on the east side of town. I want you to design a new one, like nothing that currently exists. A large building to house dozens of families—rooms with windows—decent housing where they can cook and eat and sleep. And a facade attractive enough that a man can enter or exit the place without shame. On top of all that, I want it to be economical, so that others will be inspired to imitate it. Can you do something like that?”
“Yes, I could,” Jason replied quietly, seeming to grasp the importance of the idea, the number of lives it could change. “And I will, although I may not want my name attached to the project. You see—”
“I understand,” Zachary said without rancor. “You'll never get commissions from the aristocracy if they perceive that you design for the commoners as well.”
Somers regarded him curiously, a strange expression entering his green eyes. “I've never met a gentleman in your position who gave a damn about the living conditions of the ordinary man.”
“I am an ordinary man,” Zachary pointed out. “I just happen to have had a bit more luck than most.”
A half-smile played on Somers's lips. “I'll reserve opinion on that, sir.”
Taking it for granted that the arrangement was settled, Zachary unlaced his fingers and drummed them idly on the desk. “You know, Somers, you could do worse than spend the rest of your career accepting my commissions. With your talent and my money—”
“Oh, no.” A sudden laugh escaped the younger man, and he regarded Zachary with the first flicker of real friendliness. “I respect you, Bronson. But I won't be owned by you. I don't want your money. I just want your sister.”
A hundred admonitions came to Zachary's mind, concerning how he wanted his sister to be treated, about all that Elizabeth needed and deserved, about the dire consequences if Somers ever disappointed her. But as he stared into Jason Somers's handsome, self-assured young face, the words remained locked inside him. Zachary realized he could no longer control every detail of his family's life or manage every minute of their days. It was time for each of them—including himself—to lead their own lives. A strange feeling came over him as he contemplated the novelty of handing his sister into someone else's care, and trusting that she would be happy and loved.
“All right,” he said, rising from the desk and extending a hand. “Take Lizzie with my blessing.”
“Thank you.” They shook hands heartily, and Somers seemed unable to repress a grin.
“Regarding the dowry,” Zachary said, “I would like to—”
“As I told you,” Somers interrupted, “I don't want the dowry.”
“It's for Elizabeth,” Zachary said. “A woman should have a bit of independence in a marriage.” Not only was this his personal view, but he had witnessed such circumstances in ton marriages, when wives who had come into the union with their own property and money were accorded far more consideration by their husbands. Moreover, women were legally entitled to keep their own property when their husbands died, regardless of what the deceased's will might stipulate.
“Very well. I want whatever is best for Elizabeth, naturally. If you don't mind, Bronson, I'll take my leave now. Regardless of the matters you and I should still discuss, I'd like to share the good news with your sister.”
“Thank you,” Zachary replied in a heartfelt tone. “I'm damn tired of being painted as the unloving ogre she has accused me of being for the past few days.” As Zachary exchanged a bow with Somers and watched the architect stride toward the door, one last thought occurred to him. “Oh, Somers…I trust you'll have no objections if I arrange the wedding.”
“Arrange it however you like,” Somers replied without breaking stride, clearly eager to find Elizabeth.
“Good,” Zachary muttered in satisfaction, and seated himself at his desk. Picking up his pen, he dipped it in an inkwell and began to make a list. “One thousand doves for the church, five orchestras for the reception…fireworks, a dozen trumpeters—no, better make that two dozen…”
Seventeen
As Holly had expected, none of the Taylors could bring themselves to attend the small chapel wedding held on the Bronson estate. Understanding their feelings about her marriage to Bronson, and their disappointment over her failure to carry out George's wishes, Holly did not blame them at all. In time, she thought, they might come to forgive her, especially when they saw how Rose would benefit from the alliance. And Rose, certainly, had made little secret of her joy.
“Are you going to be my papa now?” the child had asked Zachary, sitting with her arms looped around his neck. She had flown to him with shrill cries of delight when Holly had brought her to visit the estate, and he had swung her in the air until her little petticoats and white stockings had been a white blur. Touched by the obvious happiness of the pair, Holly had felt a great settling of comfort and peace inside. If she had had any lingering doubts about the rightness of this new life for her daughter, they dissolved at the sight of Rose's beaming face. The child would be spoiled, undoubtedly, but she would also be loved wholeheartedly.
“Is that what you'd like?” Zachary said in answer to Rose's question.
She wrinkled her face thoughtfully, and her doubtful gaze flickered to Holly before returning to Zachary. “I should like very much to live in your big house,” she replied with all the candor of a young child, “and I don't mind that Mama will marry you. But I don't want to call you Papa. It would make my papa in heaven sad, I think.”
The words stunned Holly, and she fumbled for a reply. Helplessly she watched as Zachary touched the little girl's round chin and turned her face toward him. “Then call me whatever you like,” he said matter-of-factly. “But believe me, princess, I'm not going to replace your papa. I'd be a fool to try, fine man that he was. I just want to take care of you and your mother. I imagine—I hope—that your papa will be somewhat relieved to see that someone will be looking after you down here while he's unable.”
“Oh,” Rose said in obvious satisfaction. “I think that's all right, then, as long as we don't forget him. Isn't that right, Mama?”
“Yes,” Holly whispered, her throat tight with emotion, her cheeks flushed with happiness. She stared at Zachary with glittering brown eyes. “You're absolutely right, Rose.”
On the day of the wedding, they were accompanied by Elizabeth, Paula, and Jason Somers, as well as Holly's own bewildered parents. They had traveled from Dorset for the
occasion, and while they did not seem disapproving of the match, they were obviously astonished that their eldest daughter was marrying into a world so different from the one she had been destined for. “Mr. Bronson appears to be a decent man,” her mother whispered to her before the ceremony, “and his manners are pleasing enough, though they may lack polish…and I suppose he is fine-looking, albeit a bit too coarse to be considered truly handsome…”
“Mama,” Holly asked with a wry smile, long accustomed to the woman's diffidence, “are you trying to say that you approve of him?”
“I suppose I am,” her mother admitted, “although Mr. Bronson certainly bears no resemblance in appearance or character to your first husband.”
“Mama…” Impulsively Holly embraced her and smiled against the feathery plumes of her mother's hat. “In time you'll come to realize, as I have, that Mr. Bronson is a wonderful man in every regard. His character is a bit tarnished in some places, but in other places it shines more brightly than George's or my own.”
“If you say so,” her mother said doubtfully, and Holly laughed.
As they gathered in the chapel, Holly being flanked by Elizabeth and Rose, and Zachary by Jason Somers, who had agreed to stand up for him, they were all surprised by a last-minute addition to the wedding party. Holly smiled brilliantly as she saw Lord Blake, the earl of Ravenhill, enter the chapel. After stopping to make a precise bow, Ravenhill moved to stand beside Holly's parents. His warm gray eyes seemed to contain a quiet smile as he glanced at Holly and then at Zachary.
“What is he doing here?” Zachary asked beneath his breath.
Holly reached for his tense arm and held it lightly. “It's a very great favor,” she whispered back. “By attending our wedding, Lord Blake is publicly showing his support of our marriage.”
“More likely taking his last opportunity to ogle you.”
Holly cast Zachary a shaming glance, but he seemed not to notice her disapproval as his gaze wandered avidly over her gown. She was dressed in pale yellow gros de naples, a finely textured silk with a tiny bouquet of spring flowers pinned at the center of her straight banded neckline. The short puffed sleeves were overlaid with long transparent ones made of crêpe lisse. The effect was youthful and fragile, requiring no ornamentation save a few orange blossoms pinned in her dark upswept curls.
