Where Dreams Begin(43)

Holly had shaken her head in amusement, while inwardly she had reflected that no woman could remain indifferent to a man like Zachary Bronson.

There were days, however, when Bronson did not make her smile…days when he could be irascible and obstinate, venting his bad temper on everyone around him. It seemed at times that demons drove him. Even Holly was not exempt from his jeers or sarcasm, and it seemed that the cooler and more courteous she became, the higher it drove his flames of discontent. She guessed that there was something he wanted but had decided was not obtainable, and whatever it was, he suffered mightily from bitter longing. Just what the “something” was, whether social acceptability or perhaps a business deal that had eluded him, was impossible to discern. Holly was certain that it was not loneliness, as Bronson did not lack for the company of women. Like the rest of the household, she was well aware of his ceaseless nocturnal activities, his frequent coming and goings, the signs of excess drinking and debauchery that showed on his face after a particularly wild evening.

His appetites for entertainment and women began to bother Holly more and more. She rationalized that he was no different from many other men in this regard. There were many aristocratic men who behaved even worse, carousing all night and sleeping off their excesses during the daylight hours. The fact that Bronson somehow managed to roam all night and work during the day was proof of a remarkably energetic constitution. But she was not easily able to shrug off his womanizing, and in a moment of raw honesty she admitted to herself that her disapproval had far less to do with morality than her own personal feelings.

The thought of Bronson in another woman's arms made her feel strangely bleak. And unbearably curious. Every evening when he left the house for a night of womanizing, her imagination ran rampant. She knew somehow that Bronson's sexual activities were different in every way from the sweet, gentle interludes she had shared with George. Although her husband had not been a virgin on their wedding night, his experience in such matters had been greatly limited. In bed, George had been respectful and kind, loving rather than lustful, and despite his warm nature, he had believed that sexual intercourse was a pleasure that should not be indulged in too often. He had never visited her bedroom more than once a week. Such occasions had been all the sweeter and more special, never to be taken for granted by either of them.

Zachary Bronson, however, had all the self-restraint of a tomcat. The way he had kissed her in the conservatory was evidence of a sexual knowledge that went far beyond her own experience, or George's. Holly knew she should be repelled by this aspect of Bronson. If only she could suppress the dreams that sometimes awakened her at night, the same tangled, erotic images that had bothered her ever since George's death. Dreams of herself being touched, kissed, held na**d against a man's body…except that the images were more disturbing than ever before, because now the stranger in her dreams had a face. It was Zachary Bronson's dark features above her, his hot mouth possessing hers, his hands touching her intimately.

Holly would always wake from these dreams troubled and sweating, and she was hardly able to look at Bronson the next day without flushing scarlet. She had always thought herself above such base desires, had even felt sorry for people who seemed unable to master their physical passion. She had never been troubled by lust. But there was no other word for it, this sweet ache that sometimes overwhelmed her, this terrible preoccupation with Zachary Bronson…this awful wish that she could be one of the women he visited to satisfy his needs.

Eight

Although Holly wore a gray dress today, its drabness was relieved a bit by touches of raspberry-colored piping at the throat and wrists. It was the kind of garment a nun would have been comfortable in…except that there was a little two-inch dip at the throat of her high-necked dress. The opening was shaped like a keyhole to reveal a glimpse of tender, pale skin. Just that little flash of skin was enough to send Zachary's imagination careening wildly. He had never been so riveted by a place on a woman's neck. He wanted to press his mouth into the sweet hollow, smell her, lick her…Thoughts of the soft body beneath the smothering gray fabric were almost too much to bear.

“Mr. Bronson, you seem distracted today,” Holly said, and he dragged his gaze from her gown to her warm, whiskey-colored eyes. Such innocent brown eyes…He would swear that she had no idea how she affected him.

Holly's soft lips tilted with a smile. “I'm aware of your reluctance to do this,” she said. “However, you must learn to dance, and to do it well. The Plymouth ball is only two months away.”

“The Plymouth ball,” he repeated, arching his brows sardonically. “This is the first I've heard of it.”

“I thought it would be the perfect occasion to give your social skills an outing. It's an annual event hosted by Lord and Lady Plymouth, always at the height of the Season. I've been acquainted with the Plymouths for many years, and they are an exceedingly gracious family. I will discreetly prevail on the Plymouths to send invitations. We'll bring Elizabeth out into society that very night, and you…well, there is no doubt that you will encounter many well-bred young women, one of whom might possibly capture your interest.”

Zachary nodded automatically, although he knew that no woman on earth could capture his interest as intensely as Lady Holland Taylor had. He must have frowned or appeared disgruntled, for Holly gave him a reassuring smile. “I think you'll find that it's not as difficult as you might expect,” she said, evidently thinking that he was worried about the dance lessons. “We'll just take things one step at a time. And if it turns out that I am not able to teach you adequately, we will consult with Monsieur Girouard.”