Where Dreams Begin(64)

“I regret something as well,” Holly said quietly. “What I told you…that you were unable to love…I was wrong. I only said it because I was upset. I have no doubt that somebody you will indeed lose your heart to someone, although I can't imagine to whom.”

You, he thought with an inescapable stab of longing. You. Couldn't she see it? Or did she assume she was merely the target of his random lust, and no more special to him than any other woman?

In the taut silence, Zachary opened his eyes and watched as Holly picked up a glass bottle and shook a few drops of some clear liquid into her palm. “What is that?” he asked.

“Pomade.”

“I don't like pomade,” he muttered.

“Yes, I'm aware of that.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice. She rubbed her hands together, distributing the stuff evenly over her fingers and palms. “I'll only use a bit. But you can't go to a formal occasion with your hair falling over your forehead.”

Resigned, he sat still beneath her ministrations. He felt her damp fingers moving through his hair, gently rubbing the hot scalp beneath, smoothing the pomade through his rebellious black locks. “Everyone in your family has the same hair,” Holly commented, a smile lingering in her voice. “It has a will of its own. We had to use two entire racks of pins to make Elizabeth's hair behave.”

Racked with pleasure and exquisite tension, Zachary couldn't reply. The feel of her hands on his head, the soft massage of her fingertips, was nothing less than torture. She combed his hair neatly, guiding it back from his forehead, and by some miracle it stayed in place. “There,” Holly said in satisfaction. “Very gentlemanly indeed.”

“Did you ever do this for him?” Zachary heard himself ask hoarsely. “For George?”

Holly went still. When their gazes met, he saw the surprise in her warm brown eyes. Then she smiled faintly. “Well, no. I don't believe George ever had a hair out of place.”

Of course, Zachary thought. Among George Taylor's many other perfections, he'd had gentlemanly hair as well. Forcing his aching, stiff body to move, he stood and made certain his coat was buttoned to conceal the evidence of his arousal. He waited while Holly washed the traces of pomade from her hands and donned a pair of long, blinding white gloves that extended past her elbows. Such lovely elbows she had, not knobby or pointy at all, just a bit plump, perfect for nibbling.

He wondered if this was what married men did, if they were allowed to watch their wives' last preparations before going out for the evening. The scene felt cozy and intimate, and it made him hollow with yearning.

Suddenly he heard a gasp. Glancing in the direction of the sound, Zachary saw Holly's blond maid standing in the open doorway, her blue eyes as large and round as dinner plates. A lush red rose fell from her nerveless grasp onto the carpeted floor. “Oh…I didn't…”

“Come in, Maude,” Holly said calmly, as if Zachary's presence in her room were an everyday occurrence.

Recovering herself, the maid scooped up the fallen rose and brought it to her mistress. They conferred for a moment, and then the maid deftly pinned the fragrant blossom amid Holly's gleaming dark curls. Satisfied with the results, Holly glanced into the looking glass, touched the rose lightly, then turned toward Zachary.

“Shall we go, Mr. Bronson?”

He was both sorry and relieved to escort her from the room. It was a continuing struggle to master his raging desires, especially with her gloved hand tucked neatly in his arm, and the damned teasing swishing of her silk skirts around his legs. She was not an accomplished temptress, and he was well aware that her experience with men was limited. But he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. If having her were a mere question of money, he would have purchased entire countries for her.

Unfortunately, matters were not that simple. He could never offer her the genteel life she deserved and needed, the kind of life she'd had with George. If by some miracle she ever did accept him, Zachary knew that he would disappoint her time and again, until she finally grew to hate him. She would discover all the coarseness of his nature; she would find him increasingly repellent. She would find excuses to keep him from coming to her bed. No matter how well the union might begin, it would end in disaster. Because, as his mother had correctly pointed out, one did not mate a Thoroughbred with a donkey. Better to leave her alone and fix his attentions on some other, far more appropriate woman.

If only he could.

Stopping Holly midway down the grand staircase, Zachary descended two steps without her and turned so their faces were level. “My lady,” he said seriously, “the things I said about your mourning gowns…I'm sorry. I had no right to make such comments.” He paused with a hard, uncomfortable swallow. “Am I forgiven?”

Holly studied him with a faint smile. “Not yet.”

Her gaze was teasing, almost flirtatious, and Zachary realized with a sudden rush of delight that she enjoyed having the upper hand over him. She was so pert and adorable that it took all his power not to snatch her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Then what will you have me do?” he asked softly, and for the most delicious moment of his life, they stood smiling at each other.

“I'll let you know when I think of something, Mr. Bronson.” She walked down to his step and took his arm once more.