Where Dreams Begin(76)

She dragged her mouth from his. “You're making it impossible for me to think—”

“I don't want you to think.” He pulled her hand to the front of his trousers, fitting her lax fingers over the huge, hot ridge that arched against the taut fabric. Her eyes widened at the feel of him, and she dove her head against his chest to avoid his descending mouth. He kissed the frail skin beneath her ear instead, his lips roving downward to her throat. Although the rational part of Holly's mind—what was left of it—warned stridently against such reckless sensuality, she pressed her cheek to the intriguing curls on his chest. She was enthralled by his uncompromising masculinity, every powerful, coarse, thrilling detail of him. But he was not for her. Although opposites might attract, they did not make for good marriages. One's only chance for contentment was when like married like. And she had made a binding promise to her husband in the last minutes before he died.

The thought of George abruptly sent her hurtling back to reality, and she wrenched herself free of Zachary Bronson's arms.

She stumbled to a chair and sat down hard, her legs weak and trembling. To her relief, Bronson did not follow her. For a long time the only sounds in the library were the sharp inhalations of their breathing. Finally Holly found her voice. “I can't deny the attraction between us.” She paused and emitted a shaky laugh. “But surely you must know that we would never suit! I am meant for a small, quiet life—your way of living is too grand and fast for me. You would grow bored with me in a very short time, and you would long to be free of me—”

“No.”

“—and I would find it such a misery, trying to live with a man of your appetite and ambition. One of us would have to change, and that would cause terrible resentment, and the marriage would come to a bitter end.”

“You can't be certain of that.”

“I can't take such a risk,” she replied with absolute finality.

Bronson stared at her through the shadows, his head tilted a bit, as if he were relying on some sixth sense to penetrate her thoughts. He came to her and sank to his haunches before the chair. He startled her by reaching for her hand, his fingers closing over her small, cold fist. Slowly his thumb rubbed over her knotted knuckles. “There is something you're not telling me,” he murmured. “Something that makes you anxious…even afraid. Is it me? Is it my past, the fact that I was a fighter, or is it—”

“No,” she said with a laugh that caught hard in her throat. “Of course I'm not afraid of you.”

“I know fear when I see it,” he persisted.

Holly shook her head, refusing to debate the comment. “We must put this night behind us,” she said, “or I will have to take Rose and leave right away. And I don't wish to leave you or your family. I want to stay as long as possible and fulfill our agreement. Let us agree not to speak of this again.”

His eyes gleamed with black fire. “Do you think that's possible?”

“It has to be,” she whispered. “Please, Zachary, tell me you'll try.”

“I'll try,” he said tonelessly.

She drew a trembling breath. “Thank you.”

“You'd better leave now,” he said, unsmiling. “The sight of you in that nightgown is about to drive me mad.”

Were she not so miserable, Holly would have been amused by the remark. The tiers of ruffles that adorned her nightgown and pelisse made the ensemble far less revealing than an ordinary day gown. It was only Bronson's inflamed state of mind that made her seem desirable. “Will you be retiring now as well?” she asked.

“No.” He went to fill his glass, and answered her over his shoulder. “I have some drinking to do.”

Wrenched with unexpressed emotion, she tried to twist her mouth into a smile. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” He did not glance back at her, his shoulders held stiffly as he listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps.

Thirteen

For the next fortnight Holly saw almost nothing of Bronson, and she realized that he was deliberately putting distance between them until they were both able to resume their previous friendship. He threw himself into his work all day, going to his town offices, rarely returning home for dinner. He stayed out late in the evenings and arose in the mornings with bloodshot eyes and lines of strain on his face. This ceaseless activity was not mentioned by the other members of the Bronson household, but Holly sensed that Paula understood its cause.

“I want you to be assured, Mrs. Bronson,” Holly told her carefully one morning, “that I would never deliberately cause discomfort or unhappiness to anyone in your family—”

“My lady, it's not your fault,” Paula responded with her customary frankness, reaching over to give Holly's hand an affectionate pat. “You may be the first thing my son has ever truly wanted that he wasn't able to get. To my way of thinking, it's good for him to finally learn his limits. I've always warned him about reaching too high above his buttons.”

“Has he spoken to you about me?” Holly asked, flushing until even the tips of her ears felt hot.

“Not a word,” Paula said. “But there was no need. A mother always knows.”

“He is such a wonderful man,” Holly began to tell her earnestly, afraid that Paula might be under the misconception that she didn't think Zachary was good enough for her.