That was his problem, Zachary realized. He had been born a few centuries too late. Instead of having to mince and prance his way into a society that was clearly too rarefied for him, he should have been able to dominate… fight…conquer.
As Zachary had seen Holly leave the ballroom, her small hand tucked against Ravenhill's arm, it had required all his will to appear collected. He had nearly trembled with the urge to snatch Holly into his arms and carry her away like a barbarian.
For a moment, the rational part of his brain had commanded him to let Holly go without a struggle. She had never been his to lose. Let her make the right decisions for herself, the comfortable decisions. Let her find the peace she deserved.
The hell I will, he had thought savagely. He had followed the pair, intent as a prowling tiger, letting nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. And now he found Holly sitting here alone in the garden, looking dazed and dreamy, and he wanted to shake her until her hair cascaded loose and her teeth rattled.
“What's going on?” he demanded. “You're supposed to be smoothing the way for Lizzie and telling me which girls to dance with, and instead I find you in the garden making calf eyes at Ravenhill.”
“I was not making calf-eyes,” Holly said indignantly, “I was remembering things about George, and…oh, I should return to Elizabeth—”
“Not yet. First I want an explanation of what is going on between you and Ravenhill.”
Her small, pale face wore an expression of consternation. “It's complicated.”
“Use very small words,” he suggested acidly, “and I'll try to follow along.”
“I'd rather discuss it later—”
“Now.” He caught her gloved elbows as she rose from the bench, and glared into her moonlit face.
“There's no need to be upset.” Holly gasped a little at the rough way he handled her.
“I'm not upset, I'm…” Realizing he was holding her too tightly, Zachary let go of her abruptly. “Tell me what you and Ravenhill were talking about, dammit.”
Although his grip couldn't possibly have hurt her, Holly cupped her hands around her elbows and rubbed them gently. “Well, it concerns a promise that I made long before you and I met.”
“Go on,” he muttered as she paused.
“On the day George died, he expressed his fear over what was going to happen to Rose and me. He knew he wasn't leaving us very much to live on, and although his family reassured him that they would take care of us, he was terribly troubled. Nothing I said would comfort him. He kept whispering that Rose needed a father to protect her, and that I…oh, dear…” Shivering at the bleak memory, Holly sat on the bench once more and blinked hard against the rising pressure of tears. Ducking her head, she used the tips of her gloves to blot the rivulets that leaked from her eyes.
Zachary swore and rummaged through the innumerable inside pockets of his coat for a handkerchief. He found his pocket watch, his extra pair of gloves, wads of money, a gold tobacco case and a small pencil, but the handkerchief proved elusive. Holly must have realized what he was searching for, as she suddenly choked on a watery giggle. “I told you to bring a handkerchief,” she said.
“I don't know where I put the damn thing.” He gave her one of his extra gloves. “Here, use this.”
She dabbed at her wet cheeks and nose, then held the object tightly in her hand. Although she hadn't invited him to sit beside her, Zachary straddled the bench and faced her, staring at her down-bent head. “Go on,” he said gruffly. “Tell me what George said.”
Holly sighed deeply. “He was afraid of what would happen to me…that without a husband I would be lonely, that I needed a man's guidance and affection…he was afraid I would make ill-advised decisions, and that others would take advantage of me. And so he asked for Vardon…er, Ravenhill. He trusted Ravenhill more than anyone in the world, and had faith in his judgment and sense of honor. Although Ravenhill might seem a bit cold on the surface, he is a kind man, and very fair and generous—”
“Enough about the wonders of Ravenhill.” Renewed jealousy fomented inside him. “Just tell me what George wanted.”
“He…” Holly took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, as if it were difficult to force the words out. “He asked us to marry each other after he was gone.”
A scalding silenced ensued, while Zachary wondered wildly if he had heard correctly. Holly refused to look at him.
“I didn't want to be thrust upon Ravenhill, as an unwanted obligation,” she finally whispered. “But he assured me that the match was sensible, and much desired on his side. That it would serve to honor George's memory, and at the same time secure a good future for all three of us—me, Rose, and himself.”
“I've never heard of such a damned foolish arrangement,” Zachary growled, rapidly revising his opinion of George Taylor. “Obviously you both recovered your senses and broke off the agreement, and a good thing, too.”
“Well, we haven't exactly broken it off.”
“What?” Unable to stop himself, Zachary grasped her jaw in one hand and forced it upward, revealing her face. Her tears had dried, leaving her cheeks moist and flushed and her eyes glittering. “What do you mean, you haven't broken it off? Don't tell me you have some idiotic notion of actually going through with it.”
“Mr. Bronson—” Holly squirmed away from him uncomfortably, seeming surprised by his reaction to the news. She handed back his wet glove, which he shoved into a pocket. “Let us return to the ball, and we'll discuss this matter at a more appropriate time—”
“Damn the ball, we'll talk about this right now!”
“Don't raise your voice to me, Mr. Bronson.” Standing, she shook out her glimmering red skirts and adjusted her bodice. The moonlight played over the pearly skin of her bosom and sent coy shadows chasing down the lush valley between her breasts. She was so beautiful and infuriating that Zachary had to clench his hands to keep from grabbing her. He rose to his feet, swinging one long leg over the bench in an easy move. He had never been angry and aroused at the same time before—it was a novel sensation, and not a pleasant one.
“Apparently Ravenhill didn't want the match as much as he indicated,” he pointed out in a low, grating voice. “It's been three deuced years since George died, and there's been no wedding. I'd say that's damn clear sign of unwillingness.”
“I thought so, too,” Holly confessed, rubbing her temples. “But when I spoke with him tonight, Vardon said that it has taken him a long time to sort things out in his mind, and he still wants to honor George's wishes.”
“No doubt he does,” Zachary snapped, “after having a look at you in that red dress.”
Holly's eyes widened, and her cheeks colored with annoyance. “I take offense at that remark. Vardon is not at all that kind of man—”
“Isn't he?” Zachary felt his face pulling into a ferocious sneer. “You have my guarantee, milady, that every man in that ballroom including Ravenhill would be damned happy to get under your skirts. Honor has nothing to do with what he wants from you.”
Horrified by his crudity, Holly skittered to the other side of the bench and glowered at him. Her gloved fingers twitched as if she were tempted to slap him. “Is it Ravenhill we're speaking of, or you?” Suddenly realizing what she had said, she clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him speechlessly.
“Now we're getting somewhere.” He started after her in a slow, deliberate stride. “Yes, Lady Holly…by now it's no great secret that I want you. I desire you, I understand you…hell, I even like you, which is something I've never said to a woman before.”
Clearly alarmed, Holly turned and fled down a path leading through the garden—not toward the house, but deeper toward the darkened lower lawns, where there was little chance of being seen or overheard. Good, Zachary thought in primitive satisfaction, abandoning all rationality. He followed her with no great haste, his long strides easily keeping pace with her short, frantic ones.
“You don't understand me at all,” Hol
ly said over her shoulder, her breath coming in rapid bursts. “You don't know a thing about what I need or want—”
“I know you a thousand times better than Ravenhill ever will.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh, speeding through the entrance to a sculpture garden. “I've known Vardon for years, Mr. Bronson, whereas you and I have been acquainted for a matter of four and a half months. What could you possibly claim to know about me that he doesn't?”
“For one thing, you're the kind of woman who would kiss a stranger at a ball. Twice.”
Holly stopped dead in her tracks, her small body as straight and stiff as a ramrod. “Oh,” he heard her say softly.
Zachary came up behind her and stopped, waiting for her to gather the nerve to face him.
“All this time,” she said in a trembling voice, “you've known that I was the woman you kissed that night. And yet you've said nothing.”
“Neither have you.”
Holly turned then, forcing herself to look up at him, her face scarlet with shame. “I hoped you wouldn't recognize me.”
“I'll remember it until my dying day. The feel of you, the smell and taste of you—”
“Don't,” she said with a horrified gasp. “Hush, don't say such things—”
“From that moment on, I've wanted you more than I've ever wanted anyone.”
“You want every woman,” she cried. Evidently deciding on a strategic retreat, she backed away from him and edged around a white marble statue.
Zachary pursued her steadily. “What do you think has been keeping me home every evening of late? I get more satisfaction from sitting in the damn parlor and listening to you read poetry than I do from spending a night with the most skilled whores in London—”
“Please,” she said scornfully, “spare me your sordid compliments. Perhaps some women may appreciate your depraved charm, but I do not.”
“My depraved charms are not all lost on you,” he countered, reaching her just as she stumbled on a bit of gravel. He caught her from behind, his hands closing around her upper arms. “I've seen the way you look at me. I've felt the way you react when I touch you, and it's not disgust. You kissed me back that evening in the conservatory.”
“I was caught off guard! I was surprised!”
“Then if I kissed you again,” he said in a low voice, “you wouldn't respond? Is that what you're claiming?”
Although he couldn't see her face, he felt the tension in her muscles increase as she realized the trap she had just walked into. “Take my word for it, Mr. Bronson,” she said unsteadily. “I would not respond. Now please let me—”
He spun her around and locked her against his body, and bent his head.
Twelve
Holly made a startled sound and went utterly still, paralyzed by the sensations that swept over her. Bronson kissed her in the shocking way she remembered from before, whole-mouthed, hungry, with a raw desire that made it impossible for her to withhold a response. The night seemed to close around them, the marble statuary standing like silent sentinels to ward away intruders. Bronson's dark head moved over hers, his mouth gentle but urgent, his tongue searching her in deep, hot sweeps. Her entire body seemed to burn. Suddenly she could not seem to press close enough to him. She reached inside his coat, where the heat of his body had collected, and the layers of linen were warm and male-scented. The smell of him was the most compelling fragrance she had ever encountered: salt and skin, cologne and the tang of tobacco. Stirred and excited, she pulled her lips from his and pressed her face into his shirtfront. She breathed raggedly, while her arms clutched around his hard waist.
“Holly,” he muttered, sounding as shaken as she was. “My God…Holly…” She felt his big hand close around the back of her neck, flexing slowly. He tilted her head back, and his mouth covered hers once more. It wasn't enough to merely let him explore her mouth, she wanted to taste him in return. She pushed her tongue into his hot, brandy-flavored mouth. Not enough…not nearly enough. Moaning, she stood on her toes, pushing herself up at him, but he was too big for her, too tall, and she gasped in frustration.
Scooping her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, Bronson carried her farther into the sculpture garden, where there was something round and flat—a stone table, perhaps, or a sundial. He sat with her in his lap, one immense arm braced behind her shoulders and neck, while his mouth continued to devour hers in delicious forays. She had never experienced such raw physical pleasure before. Compelled to touch him, she tore frantically at her right glove until it fell away. Her shaking hand groped for his hair and slid into the thick waves at the back of his neck. His muscles jumped and flexed beneath her bare fingers, his nape turning rock-hard, and he groaned into her mouth.
Breaking the kiss, Bronson bent over her, nuzzling the tender skin beneath her jaw, finding the vulnerable areas along the side of her throat. She felt his tongue touch her skin, and the sensation caused her to squirm and shiver in his lap. His mouth lingered at the hollow at the very base of her neck, where a pulse throbbed wildly.
Her gown had become disarranged, the bodice slipping so that it barely covered the tips of her breasts. Feeling the perilous down-slide of red silk, Holly came to her senses with a startled murmur, crossing her gloved arm over her nearly exposed breasts. “Please…” Her lips felt hot and swollen, making it difficult to speak. “I shouldn't…oh, we must stop this!”
He seemed not to hear her, his lips beginning a searing sojourn over her chest. He nibbled and licked at the edge of her collarbone, moving to the plump valley between her breasts. Closing her eyes in despair, Holly bit back a protest as she felt him tug at her bodice, his strong fingers working at the fabric. She would stop him soon, soon, but for now the moment was unbearably sweet, and neither shame nor honor could influence her.
She gasped as her breast popped free of the red silk covering, the nipple budding at the caress of the cool midnight breeze. Bronson ripped off his glove, and his large, bare hand cupped tenderly around the soft mound, his thumb passing over the hardening crest. Holly kept her eyes closed, unable to believe what was happening. She felt his mouth touch her, kissing all around the sensitive nipple, circling and teasing but avoiding the center, until finally she groaned and arched to push it into his mouth. His lips closed around her, tugging, his tongue stroking the aching tip with delicate skill.
Writhing upward, she held his dark head in her arms, while erotic sensation pulsed in every tender place of her body. Her breath came in strange little sobs, her lungs straining against the compression of her stays. Her clothes seemed to bind her too tightly. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted his taste, his touch, as she had never wanted anything before in her life.
“Zachary,” she gasped in his ear, “please stop. Please.”
His hand returned to her breast, covering and gently shaping the fullness, his palm rough against her skin. He rubbed his mouth over hers in fierce half-kisses, until her lips were soft and wet and pliant beneath his. Then he raised her enough to whisper in her ear, and while his voice was tender, his words were savage. “You're my woman, and no man or God or ghost will ever take you from me.”
Anyone who had the slightest knowledge of Zachary Bronson and what he was capable of would have been alarmed. Holly went rigid with terror, not just at the prospect of being claimed so utterly, but by the flicker of fiercely joyous response she felt inside. She had striven her entire life to be moderate, reasonable, civilized, and she had never dreamed it possible that this could happen to her.
She struggled from his lap in such a panicked flurry that he was forced to release her. Her feet gained purchase, and she stood unsteadily. To her surprise, her legs were so weak that she might have fallen, had Bronson not stood and caught her waist in his hands. Blushing furiously, she restored her bodice, hiding the naked flesh that gleamed in the moonlight.
“I suspected this might happen,” she said, struggling to regain some form of composure. “Kn-knowing of your reput
ation with women, I knew you might someday make an advance to me.”
“What just happened between us was not an ‘advance,’” he said thickly.
She did not look at him. “If I am to remain as a guest in your household, we must forget this incident.”
“Incident,” he repeated scornfully. “This has been building between us for months, since the first time we met.”
“It has not,” she countered, while her heart hammered in her throat, nearly choking her into silence. “I won't deny that I find you attractive, I…any woman would. But if you are under the misconception that I would become your mistress—”
“No,” he said, his huge hands coming to the sides of her face, fingers curving around the back of her skull. He urged her face upward, and Holly quailed at the look in his dark, passionate eyes. “No, I never thought that,” he said, his voice turning raspy. “I want more from you than that. I want—”
“Don't say anything else,” Holly begged, closing her eyes tightly. “We've both gone mad. Let me go this instant. Now, before you make it impossible for me to stay at your estate any longer.”
Although she hadn't expected the words to affect him, they seemed to make great impact. There was a long, taut silence. Slowly his hands eased their possessive grip and dropped away. “There's no reason for you to leave my home,” he said. “We'll handle this however you like.”
The clutch of panic began to ease from her throat. “I—I want to ignore this as if it never happened.”
“All right,” he said at once, although his gaze was frankly skeptical. “You set the rules, my lady.” He stooped and retrieved her discarded glove, and handed it to her. Flushing, she fumbled to pull it back over her arm.
“You must promise not to interfere in the matter between Ravenhill and me,” she managed to say. “I invited him to call on me. I do not wish for him to be turned away or treated rudely when he visits. I will make all decisions about my future—and Rose's—without any help from you.”