Where Dreams Begin(39)

A lengthy silence stretched between them, and then Bronson replied in a light, friendly tone, all intensity safely banked, “Let me help you.”

His hands cupped beneath her elbows, and he guided her to her feet. Once she had gained purchase, she found that the room had stopped its heady swaying. Relieved, Holly pushed herself away from his hard, inviting body and made her way to the door. “I'm perfectly able to go to my room unescorted,” she said, throwing him a beseeching glance.

“All right.” He came to open the door for her, glancing up and down her disheveled form.

“Mr. Bronson…this will be forgotten by tomorrow morning.” Her voice contained an anxious questioning lilt.

He gave a short nod, watching as she sped away as fast as her wobbling knees would allow.

“Like hell I will,” Zachary murmured as soon as Holly had disappeared from sight. He had gone too far with her—he had known it even as he was allowing himself to cross the invisible barriers between them—but he hadn't been able to stop himself. He couldn't seem to control his hunger for her. It was a special agony to be placed under the power of a virtuous woman. The only consolation was that she didn't seem to understand how completely he was in her thrall.

He chafed and fretted over the situation, having never experienced anything like this before. In his arrogant selfconfidence, he had always known that he could seduce any woman he wanted, no matter what her station. He was even certain that he could have Holly in his bed, given enough time to melt her defenses. But the moment he slept with her, he would lose her. There would be no way to convince her to stay afterward. And the extraordinary fact was, he wanted her company even more than he wanted to bed her.

Whenever Zach had imagined the woman that might finally capture his attention, his emotions, all his waking thoughts, he had always been certain she would be worldly, bold…his sexual equal. He had never considered the possibility of losing his heart and head to a demure widow. Inexplicably Holly worked on him like a drug, exciting and sweet, and like a drug, her absence left him with emptiness and craving.

He was no fool. It was obvious that Lady Holly was not meant for him. Better to pluck some far more available fruit on the tree. But there she hung, tempting and exquisite, always out of reach.

In an effort to quench the desperate craving in his loins, Zachary had turned to other women. As a member of the most exclusive, ridiculously high-priced brothel in town, he was able to purchase a night with any beautiful prostitute of his choice. Lately he had frequented the place almost nightly.

In the evenings Zachary would experience the simmering delight of being with Holly, just looking at her, reveling in the sound of her voice. Then, when she had retired to her solitary bed, he would ride to London and spend the next several hours in complete debauchery. Unfortunately the skill of a prostitute provided only temporary relief from his desire. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to recognize that true passion was not easily satisfied, that there was a difference between the needs of his c**k and the organ that resided two feet above it. It was not a welcome discovery.

“You're building another house?” Holly asked in surprise, standing beside a long library table as Bronson unrolled a set of plans and secured them at the corners with brass weights. “But where…and why?”

“I want the grandest country house England has ever seen,” Bronson said. “I've bought land in Devon—three estates that will be merged into one. My architect has drawn up plans for the house. I want you to see them.”

Holly regarded him with a wry smile. Like a coward, she had pretended not to remember the strange, seductive scene that had transpired the previous evening, and to her infinite relief, Bronson did not indicate by a word or glance that anything untoward had occurred. Instead, he had launched her into a discussion of one of his many developing projects. Privately she decided that her shocking behavior of the night before was all a result of too much wine, which she resolved to avoid in the future. “Mr. Bronson, I would very much like to see the plans, but I must warn you, I am not at all knowledgeable in such matters.”

“Yes, you are. You know what the aristocracy admires. Tell me your opinion of the place.”

His broad hand moved gently over the plans, smoothing out wrinkles and deftly weighting the paper. As Holly inspected the inked sketches of the various fronts of the house, she was very aware of Bronson standing at her side. He braced his hands on the plans and leaned over the drawings.

Holly tried to concentrate on the plans, but she was distracted by Bronson's nearness. She couldn't help noticing the way his upper arms bulged against the seams of his coat, the way his thick black locks curled on the back of his neck, the close-shaven grain of his beard on his swarthy skin. He was fastidious without being foppish, smelling of starch and soap rather than cologne, his clothes well tailored but cut a bit loose in an effort to conceal the swell of ungentlemanly muscles. Perhaps he was not ideally suited for the drawing room, but there was something powerfully attractive about his sheer manliness.

“What do you think?” he asked in a low rumble.

Holly concentrated for a long time before replying. “I think, Mr. Bronson,” she said slowly, “that the architect has designed what he thinks you wish to see.”

The house was ostentatious, wasteful, and too formal by far. It jutted in heavy awkwardness from the Devon landscape. Visible, yes. Grand, without question. But “elegant” and “appropriate” were not words that could ever be applied to this overweening homage to old-fashioned taste. “It's very large,” she continued, “and anyone who saw it would have no doubt that the owner was a man of great means. However…”