Where Dreams Begin(92)

“I remember the way.” Holly gave her a brilliant smile. “I'll just slip upstairs unaccompanied. Please, would you tell me where Mr. Bronson is, so that I may be able to avoid disturbing him?”

“I believe he is in his room, my lady.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Burney.”

Holly walked into the house, which had the atmosphere of a mausoleum. The massive central hall, with its towering gold columns and silver-coffered ceiling and flower-scented air, was gleaming and dark. Not a single soul was visible amid the opulent gloom. Afraid that she might encounter Paula or Elizabeth and be distracted from her mission, Holly ascended the great staircase as rapidly as her feet would allow. The exertion, not to mention her own trepidations, caused her heart to pound wildly in her chest, until she felt its reverberations in every limb. The thought of seeing Zachary again caused such excitement inside her that she nearly felt ill. Trembling all over, she went to his door, which had been left slightly ajar. She considered knocking, then decided against it, as she did not want to give him the opportunity of shutting her out.

Gently she pushed the door open, and it gave a faint, almost unnoticeable squeak. She had never actually stepped inside Zachary's bedroom during the period of her residence at the estate. Rich blue brocade and velvet draped the massive mahogany bed. Dark cherrywood paneling gleamed from the light shed by the row of four towering rectangular windows. Zachary was standing at one of the windows, having parted a fringed velvet curtain to stare down at the front drive. He held a glass of liquor in his hand. His hair was still wet and gleaming from a morning bath, and the scent of shaving soap lingered in the air. He was dressed in a plum silk robe that reached nearly to the floor, bare feet protruding from beneath the hem. Holly had forgotten how impossibly large he was. She was glad his back was still turned, so he wouldn't see the yearning shiver that ran through her.

“What did she say?” he asked in a low growl, evidently thinking she was Mrs. Burney.

Holly fought to keep her voice steady. “I'm afraid she insisted on seeing you.”

Zachary's broad back stiffened, muscles bulging beneath the thin covering of silk as he realized the identity of the intruder. It seemed to take him a moment to find his voice. “Get out,” he said quietly, without heat. “Go back to Ravenhill.”

“Lord Ravenhill has no claim on me,” she whispered, her throat clenching, “nor I on him.”

Slowly Zachary turned around. There was a slight tremor in his fingers that sent the amber liquid in his glass sloshing against the sides. He took a deep swallow of the liquor, his cold black gaze never leaving her. He looked composed, though his face was undeniably haggard. There were circles beneath his eyes, and the healthy bronze color of his skin had turned ashen from too much time spent drinking indoors. Holly's gaze swept over him hungrily, and she ached to run to him, stroke and soothe and hold him. Please, God, don't let him send me away, she thought desperately. She hated the way he looked at her, the black eyes that had once been filled with teasing warmth and passion now so flat and indifferent. He regarded her as if she were a stranger…as if he had no feeling left for her.

“What does that mean?” He spoke in a monotone, as if the subject held no interest for him.

Marshaling her courage, Holly closed the door and approached him, then stopped a few feet away. “Lord Ravenhill and I agreed to remain friends, but there will be no wedding. I told him that I could not keep my promise to George, because…” She paused and nearly shriveled from dismay as she saw Zachary's complete lack of reaction to the news.

“Because,” he prompted in a monotone.

“Because my heart is otherwise engaged.”

A long, nerve-wracking silence followed her admission. Oh, why didn't he say something? Why did he look so callous and indifferent?

“That was a mistake,” he finally said.

“No.” She stared at him beseechingly. “My mistake was in leaving here…leaving you…and I've come to explain things and ask you—”

“Holly, don't.” Zachary let out a taut breath and shook his head. “You don't have to explain a damned thing. I understand why you left.” A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “After a month of reflection—and swilling like a pig at his trough—I accepted your decision. You made the best choice. You were right—it would have come to a bad end between us. God knows it's better to preserve a few enjoyable memories and leave things as they are.”

The finality in his voice stunned Holly. “Please,” she said unsteadily, “don't say another word. Just listen to me. I owe you the complete truth, and after you hear it—if you still want to send me away—then I will go. But I won't leave until I've said my piece, and you'll stand right there and listen, and if you don't…”

“If I don't?” he asked with a ghost of his old smile.

“Then I'll never let you have a moment's peace,” she threatened in suppressed panic. “I'll follow you everywhere I'll shout at the top of my lungs.”

Zachary finished his drink and went to the night table, where a bottle of brandy awaited. The sight gave Holly a tiny thrill of hope. He wouldn't still be drinking if he had lost all feeling for her, would he? “All right,” he said brusquely, refilling his glass. “Say your piece. You have my attention for the next five minutes, after which I want your troublesome little arse off my estate. Agreed?”