Where Dreams Begin(71)

“Damn the ball, we'll talk about this right now!”

“Don't raise your voice to me, Mr. Bronson.” Standing, she shook out her glimmering red skirts and adjusted her bodice. The moonlight played over the pearly skin of her bosom and sent coy shadows chasing down the lush valley between her br**sts. She was so beautiful and infuriating that Zachary had to clench his hands to keep from grabbing her. He rose to his feet, swinging one long leg over the bench in an easy move. He had never been angry and aroused at the same time before—it was a novel sensation, and not a pleasant one.

“Apparently Ravenhill didn't want the match as much as he indicated,” he pointed out in a low, grating voice. “It's been three deuced years since George died, and there's been no wedding. I'd say that's damn clear sign of unwillingness.”

“I thought so, too,” Holly confessed, rubbing her temples. “But when I spoke with him tonight, Vardon said that it has taken him a long time to sort things out in his mind, and he still wants to honor George's wishes.”

“No doubt he does,” Zachary snapped, “after having a look at you in that red dress.”

Holly's eyes widened, and her cheeks colored with annoyance. “I take offense at that remark. Vardon is not at all that kind of man—”

“Isn't he?” Zachary felt his face pulling into a ferocious sneer. “You have my guarantee, milady, that every man in that ballroom including Ravenhill would be damned happy to get under your skirts. Honor has nothing to do with what he wants from you.”

Horrified by his crudity, Holly skittered to the other side of the bench and glowered at him. Her gloved fingers twitched as if she were tempted to slap him. “Is it Ravenhill we're speaking of, or you?” Suddenly realizing what she had said, she clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him speechlessly.

“Now we're getting somewhere.” He started after her in a slow, deliberate stride. “Yes, Lady Holly…by now it's no great secret that I want you. I desire you, I understand you…hell, I even like you, which is something I've never said to a woman before.”

Clearly alarmed, Holly turned and fled down a path leading through the garden—not toward the house, but deeper toward the darkened lower lawns, where there was little chance of being seen or overheard. Good, Zachary thought in primitive satisfaction, abandoning all rationality. He followed her with no great haste, his long strides easily keeping pace with her short, frantic ones.

“You don't understand me at all,” Holly said over her shoulder, her breath coming in rapid bursts. “You don't know a thing about what I need or want—”

“I know you a thousand times better than Ravenhill ever will.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh, speeding through the entrance to a sculpture garden. “I've known Vardon for years, Mr. Bronson, whereas you and I have been acquainted for a matter of four and a half months. What could you possibly claim to know about me that he doesn't?”

“For one thing, you're the kind of woman who would kiss a stranger at a ball. Twice.”

Holly stopped dead in her tracks, her small body as straight and stiff as a ramrod. “Oh,” he heard her say softly.

Zachary came up behind her and stopped, waiting for her to gather the nerve to face him.

“All this time,” she said in a trembling voice, “you've known that I was the woman you kissed that night. And yet you've said nothing.”

“Neither have you.”

Holly turned then, forcing herself to look up at him, her face scarlet with shame. “I hoped you wouldn't recognize me.”

“I'll remember it until my dying day. The feel of you, the smell and taste of you—”

“Don't,” she said with a horrified gasp. “Hush, don't say such things—”

“From that moment on, I've wanted you more than I've ever wanted anyone.”

“You want every woman,” she cried. Evidently deciding on a strategic retreat, she backed away from him and edged around a white marble statue.

Zachary pursued her steadily. “What do you think has been keeping me home every evening of late? I get more satisfaction from sitting in the damn parlor and listening to you read poetry than I do from spending a night with the most skilled whores in London—”

“Please,” she said scornfully, “spare me your sordid compliments. Perhaps some women may appreciate your depraved charm, but I do not.”

“My depraved charms are not all lost on you,” he countered, reaching her just as she stumbled on a bit of gravel. He caught her from behind, his hands closing around her upper arms. “I've seen the way you look at me. I've felt the way you react when I touch you, and it's not disgust. You kissed me back that evening in the conservatory.”

“I was caught off guard! I was surprised!”

“Then if I kissed you again,” he said in a low voice, “you wouldn't respond? Is that what you're claiming?”

Although he couldn't see her face, he felt the tension in her muscles increase as she realized the trap she had just walked into. “Take my word for it, Mr. Bronson,” she said unsteadily. “I would not respond. Now please let me—”

He spun her around and locked her against his body, and bent his head.