Where Dreams Begin(5)

The searching kisses become deeper, more sensuously aggressive, and Holly answered helplessly, while for some reason the sensation of being held in passion made her eyes sting and water. She felt a few tears leak from the outside corners of her eyes and slide to her trembling chin, while she continued to respond to him with a sort of desperate yearning that she couldn't begin to control.

His gentle fingers slid to her cheek and felt the wetness there. Slowly his mouth withdrew from hers, leaving it moist and kiss-softened. “Ah,” he breathed, his lips dragging tenderly over the wet surface of her skin. “Sweet lady…tell me why a kiss makes you cry.”

“I'm sorry,” she gasped. “Let me go. I never should have…” She struggled away from him, relieved that he made no attempt to follow her as she fled back to the parlor and toward the main rooms. It seemed her feet could not take her fast enough away from the scene, the memory of which she knew would cause her both shame and guilty pleasure for the rest of her life.

Lady Bellemont, a pretty, vivacious woman of forty-five, giggled as she was led to the window of her own front parlor by a strong masculine hand on her arm. She was accustomed to receiving the greatest deference from every man of her acquaintance except for this one, who seemed to treat countesses and serving maids alike. It intrigued her to be handled so familiarly by this tall and charismatic male, who seemed not to recognize the great social barrier that existed between them. Despite the disapproval of her husband and friends, or perhaps because of it, she had decided to become friends with him. After all, a woman should never be too predictable.

“All right,” Lady Bellemont said with a laughing sigh, “show me who has managed to excite so much interest in you.”

Together they stared at the row of carriages and the bustling assortment of footmen outside, while the waltz music from the nearby drawing room swirled through the open doorway of the parlor. The small guest who was currently departing turned to thank the footman who helped her into the carriage. The golden light from the outside lamps caught her full in the face.

Lady Bellemont heard the man beside her catch his breath. “There,” he said, his voice deepening. “That one. In the dark blue gown. Tell me who she is.”

The face belonged to Lady Holland Taylor, a young woman who was well-known to Lady Bellemont. Somehow it seemed that the grief of widowhood, which usually took such a toll on a woman's beauty, had only enhanced Lady Holland's looks. Her figure, which had always tended toward plumpness, was now trim and tidy. The severity of her hairstyle, gleaming brown locks pulled tightly into a coil atop her head, only served to emphasize the uncommon prettiness of her features…a straight little nose, a soft, ripe-looking mouth, and clear brown eyes the color of scotch whiskey. Since her husband's death, the sparkling liveliness of her character had been replaced by an air of quiet melancholy. She had the perpetual expression of being absorbed in some beautiful, sad dream. And after all she had lost, who could blame her?

Men would have swarmed around the attractive young widow like bees in the vicinity of a particularly lush flower. However, Lady Holland seemed to wear an invisible sign proclaiming “touch-me-not.” Lady Bellemont had observed the widow's behavior this evening, wondering if she was interested in catching another husband. But she had refused all offers to dance and had seemed oblivious to the various men who endeavored to attract her attention. Clearly the widow did not want another man, not now, and likely not ever.

“Oh, my dear friend,” Lady Bellemont murmured to the man beside her, “for once your taste is impeccable. But that lady is not for you.”

“She's married,” he said rather than asked, his black eyes as expressionless as slate.

“No, Lady Holland is widowed.”

He glanced at Lady Bellemont with an interest that seemed casual, but she sensed the tremendous fascination coiled beneath his calm exterior. “I've never seen her before.”

“That is not surprising, my dear. Lady Holland's husband passed on to his reward three years ago, just before you arrived on the scene. This is the first social event she has attended since coming out of mourning.”

As Lady Holland's carriage pulled away from the mansion and rolled along the drive, the man's gaze flickered back to the vehicle and held until it was gone from sight. He reminded Lady Bellemont of a cat staring at a bird that had ascended too far in the air for him to reach. She sighed in friendly sympathy, having come to understand his ambitious nature. He would be forever reaching for things he was not born to possess and would never be able to have.

“George Taylor was the epitome of everything a gentleman should be,” Lady Bellemont remarked in an effort to explain the situation. “Intelligent, handsome and born to an exceptional family. He was one of three sons born to the late Viscount Taylor.”

“Taylor,” he repeated, not especially familiar with the name.

“Their breeding and bloodlines are remarkable. George had the looks of the family, and more charm than should be allotted to one man. I believe every woman who met him fell a little bit in love with him…but he adored his wife, and made no secret of it. They had an extraordinary marriage, one that could never be equaled. It has been confided in me by one of the Taylors that Holly will surely never marry again, as any future relationship would be inferior to what she once had with George.”

“Holly,” he repeated softly.