Where Dreams Begin(46)

From everything Zachary had been told, George Taylor had been the perfect man. Handsome, well-heeled, honorable, respectable, gentlemanly and compassionate. It seemed that he had deserved a woman like Holly, every bit as much as Zachary did not deserve her. Zachary knew that he was none of the things George had been. Everything he could offer her, including his own heart, was tainted.

“If only” were the two words that Zachary most loathed in the English language. They rattled in his brain unmercifully. If only, if only…

He lost the rhythm of the waltz and stopped abruptly, causing Holly to bump into him. She gave a small, gasping laugh. “Oh…you stopped so suddenly, I—”

Muttering an apology, Zachary steadied her with his hands. Momentum had brought her small body against his. The feel of her, even in the confining layers of her gray gown, caused his senses to riot in wild pleasure. He tried to release her, to loosen his arm, but his rebellious muscles contracted until she was caught securely against him. Her breath was rapid from exertion, and he felt the soft movements of her br**sts against his chest. The moment seemed suspended in time. He waited for her to end it, to protest, but she was strangely silent. The silken fans of her lashes lifted, revealing a stricken gaze. Seared together in something that was becoming, undeniably, an embrace, they stared at each other with helpless fascination.

Eventually Holly averted her gaze, but her warm breath wafted over his chin. His mouth felt hot, dry, and he longed fiercely to press it on hers. He waited for the small hands on his shoulders to move…if she would raise one to his neck and urge him downward…if she would give only the slightest hint that she wanted him…but she remained frozen in his arms, neither shrinking away nor encouraging him.

An unsteady sigh escaped him, and he somehow unlocked his muscles, although his tortured body screamed a silent protest. His vision was slightly blurred. He wondered if Holly had any inkling of how close he was to snatching her up and carrying her somewhere. Anywhere. It seemed all the desire he had ever known was rushing through his body, collecting hotly in his groin. He wanted to feel her beneath him, to take his pleasure within her. And even more than that, he wanted her affection, her caresses, her whispers of love in his ears. He had never felt so much like a fool, desperately wanting something that was so clearly not for him.

All at once a cold, clear voice in his head pointed out that what he could not get from Holly, he would get from another woman. There were hundreds of women in London who would supply all the affection he wanted, for as long as he wanted. Gratefully Zachary seized on the idea like a drowning man reaching a raft. He did not need Lady Holland Taylor. He could get someone prettier, someone wittier, someone with eyes just as warm. There was nothing particularly special about her, and he would prove it to himself tonight, and the following night…whatever amount of time it required.

“I think that is enough for today,” Holly murmured, still appearing a bit dazed. “You've accomplished quite a lot, Mr. Bronson. I'm certain you'll master the waltz in very good time.”

Zachary responded with a bow, forcing a polite smile to his face. “Thank you, my lady. I'll see you for our next lesson on the morrow, then.”

“You won't be taking supper at home tonight?”

He shook his head. “I've planned to see friends in town this evening.”

There was a flicker in her eyes that betrayed her disapproval. He knew she didn't like his rampant socializing and sexual escapades, and he took sudden savage delight in displeasing her. Let her sleep in a chaste bed every night—he had no scruples about taking his own enjoyment where he could find it.

Holly made her way slowly to Rose's room, where her daughter and Maude were engaged in afternoon reading and playtime. She found it surprisingly difficult to bring her thoughts under control. Her mind kept summoning images of herself clasped in Zachary Bronson's arms, turning slowly in the mirrored ballroom while their joined reflections shimmered around them. Being so close to him, talking and laughing intimately for more than two hours, had ruffled her senses unbearably. She felt troubled, anxious, unhappy about something she could not identify. She was glad the dance lesson was over. There had been a delicious-awful moment when he had held her too closely and she had thought he might kiss her.

What if he had? What would her reaction have been? She was afraid to ponder that question. Bronson appealed to something deep and primitive within her. To a woman who had been taught that even her sexual attraction to her own husband should be contained within strict limits, the situation was alarming.

She should be repulsed by Bronson's coarseness, but instead she was drawn to him. He did not treat her as a fragile doll, or as a figure of sympathy. He provoked and teased and spoke bluntly to her. He made her feel vital and alive, and much too interested in the world outside her own. Instead of refining him, she was afraid just the reverse was happening: He was changing her, and none for the better.

Laughing a bit shakily, Holly passed a hand over her eyes, which felt sore and sensitive. A shower of sparks passed through her vision, and she caught her breath. “Oh, no,” she murmured, recognizing the signs that heralded one of her megrims. As always, the piercing ache was appearing for no discernible reason. Perhaps if she could lie down for a little while with a cool cloth over her forehead, she could avert the coming pain.

Using the banister to aid her progress, Holly ascended the stairs, squinting against the gathering ache in her temples and the back of her neck. As she reached the suite of rooms that she and Rose shared, she heard her daughter's voice.