Where Dreams Begin

by Lisa Kleypas

  And sometimes he asked about George. About their marriage…even what it had been like to give birth.

  “You know I can't discuss such a thing with you,” Holly protested.

  “Why not?” Bronson's alert black eyes were softened by the light of the fire. They were sitting in the private family parlor, a cozy jewel box of a room that was swathed in rich olive velvet. It seemed that the world outside this small, elegant room was very far away. Holly knew that it was wrong for the two of them to be secluded in this intimate atmosphere. Too close…too private. However, she couldn't seem to make herself leave. There was a wicked part of her that wanted to stay despite the dictates of propriety.

  “You know very well that it's indecent,” she told him. “I fault you very much for asking such a question.”

  “Tell me,” he insisted lazily, lifting a wine goblet to his mouth. “Were you a good little soldier or a screaming banshee?”

  “Mr. Bronson!” She threw him a look of utter rebuke. “Have you no delicacy at all? Or even a thimbleful of respect for me?”

  “I respect you more than I've ever respected another human being, my lady,” he said readily.

  Holly shook her head, fighting the reluctant smile that pulled at her lips. “I was not a good soldier,” she admitted. “It was horribly painful and difficult, and worst of all was that it only lasted twelve hours and everyone said it was an easy birth, and I was given hardly any sympathy at all.”

  His laughter contained a trace of delight at her rueful complaint. “Would you have had more children? If George had lived?”

  “Of course. A married woman has no choice in such matters.”

  “Doesn't she?”

  Perplexed, she met his shrewd gaze. “No, I…What do you mean?”

  “I mean there are ways to prevent unwanted pregnancy.”

  Holly regarded him with horrified silence. Good women shunned any discussion of such matters. In fact, the subject was so forbidden that there had never been a mention of it between she and George. Oh, there had been whispers she had inadvertently heard from other women, but she had promptly removed herself from the vicinity of such inappropriate discussion. And here was this unscrupulous man daring to say such things to her face!

  “Now I truly have offended you,” Bronson remarked, trying to look penitent, but she sensed the amusement lurking just beneath his facade. “Forgive me, my lady. There are times I forget someone could be so sheltered.”

  “It's time that I retired for the evening,” Holly said with great dignity, deciding that her only recourse was to ignore the distasteful exchange as if it had never occurred. “Good night, Mr. Bronson.” She rose to her feet, and Bronson followed immediately.

  “There's no need to leave,” he coaxed. “I'll behave from now on. I promise.”

  “It's late,” Holly said firmly, retreating to the door. “Again, sir, good night—”

  Somehow he reached the threshold before she did, without any appearance of haste. His large hand pressed lightly on the door, closing it with a quiet click. “Stay,” he murmured, “and I'll open a bottle of that Rhenish wine you liked so much the other evening.”

  Frowning, Holly turned to face him. She was prepared to point out that a gentleman did not argue with a lady when she wished to leave, nor would it be proper for them to remain in the room with the door closed. But as she stared into his dark, teasing eyes, she found herself relenting. “If I stay, we'll find some proper subject to discuss,” she said warily.

  “Anything you like,” came his prompt reply. “Taxes. Social concerns. The weather.”

  She wanted to smile as she saw his deliberately bland expression. He looked like a wolf trying to pretend he was a sheep. “All right, then,” she said, and returned to the settee. He brought her a fresh glass of wine, something dark and full-bodied, and she sipped the rich vintage with deep appreciation. She had come to like the outrageously expensive wines he stocked, which was unfortunate, as they would someday no longer be available to her. In the meantime, however, she might as well enjoy the benefits of residing at his estate: the wines, the beautiful artwork, and most sinfully luxurious of all…his company.

  Several years ago she would have been frightened of being alone with a man like Zachary Bronson. He did not treat her with the carefully protective courtesy she had always been given by her father, and the polite young gentleman who had courted her, and the impeccable man she had married. Bronson used coarse language in front of her, and discussed subjects no lady should be interested in, and did not try to conceal the more unpleasant facts of life.

  He kept her wine glass liberally filled as they talked, and as the night deepened, Holly curled into the corner of the settee and let her head droop to the side. Why, I've drunk too much, she thought in surprise, and somehow did not experience the horror or embarrassment that should have accompanied such a realization. Ladies never drank too much, only allowed themselves a few drops of watered-down wine now and then.

  Contemplating her nearly empty glass in puzzlement, Holly moved to set it on the small table beside the settee. The room seemed to sway suddenly, and the glass began to tilt in her hand. Deftly Bronson reached out, caught the wobbling crystal stem and set it aside. As Holly stared at his handsome face, she felt rather light-headed and loose-tongued, and strangely relieved and free in the way she always felt when Maude had helped her out of a particularly confining gown at bedtime.

  “Mr. Bronson,” she said, her words seeming to float aimlessly out of her mouth, “you've let me drink far too much of that wine…As a matter of fact, you encouraged me, which was very wrong of you.”

  “You're not all that intoxicated, my lady.” His mouth twitched with amusement. “You're just a little more relaxed than usual.”

  The statement was patently untrue, but for some reason it reassured her. “It's time I retired for the evening,” she announced, lurching upward from the settee. The room seemed to spin, and she felt herself falling, sinking through the air as if she had stepped off a cliff. Bronson reached out and caught her easily, stopping the wayward tumble. “Oh—” Holly clutched at his forearms as he steadied her. “I seem to be a trifle dizzy. Thank you. I must have tripped on something.” She bent to peer fuzzily at the carpet, searching for the object that had impeded her, and she heard Bronson's soft chuckle.

  “Why are you laughing?” Holly demanded as he lowered her back to the settee.

  “Because I've never seen anyone get so tipsy from three glasses of wine.” She made a move to rise, but he sat beside her, preventing the halfhearted attempt at escape. His hip was perilously close to hers, causing her to shrink hard against the back of the settee. “Stay with me,” Bronson murmured. “The night is half-gone already.”

  “Mr. Bronson,” she asked suspiciously, “are you trying to compromise me?”

  His white teeth flashed in a grin, as if he were teasing her, but there was a disturbing hot glimmer in his gaze. “I could be. Why not spend the next few hours with me on this settee?”

  “Talking?” she asked faintly.

  “Among other things.” He touched the curve of her jaw with his forefinger, leaving a streak of fire along the sensitive curve. “I promise you would enjoy it. And afterward we'll blame it on the wine.”

  She could hardly believe he had dared to suggest something so outrageous. “Blame it on the wine,” she repeated in indignation, and giggled suddenly. “How many times have you used that phrase in the past, I wonder?”

  “This is the first time,” he assured her easily. “I rather like it, don't you?”

  She frowned at him. “You've propositioned the wrong woman, Mr. Bronson. There are a hundred reasons why I would never do that with you.”

  “Tell me a few.” His black eyes were wickedly inviting.

  She waggled an unsteady finger in his face. “Morality…decency…self-respect…the responsibility to set an example for my daughter…not to mention the fact that any indiscretion with you would make it impossi
ble for me to stay.”

  “Interesting,” he mused. Holly inched backward as he leaned over her, until her head was resting heavily on the arm of the settee and she was stretched out beneath him.

  “What's interesting?” she asked, drawing a deep breath, and then another. The air in the room had become very warm. Her arm felt heavy as she reached up to push back a strand of hair that clung to her damp forehead. She let her elbow rest above her head, moist palm turned upward. She had drunk far too much…she was intoxicated…and while this fact did not especially bother her at present, she knew in the back of her mind that it would be a matter of great concern to her later.

  “You listed every reason except the one that truly matters.” Bronson's face was very close, and his mouth—surely the most tantalizing mouth she had ever seen, full-lipped and wide and promising—was so close that she felt his breath gently touch her cheek. The smell of his breath was pleasantly infused with wine and his own intimate flavor. “You forgot to say that you don't desire me.”

  “Well, that…that's a given,” she faltered.

  “Is it?” Rather than look offended, he seemed faintly amused. “I wonder, Lady Holly, if I could possibly make you want me.”

  “Oh, I don't think…” Her voice was extinguished into a feeble gasp as she saw his head lower toward hers, and her body tingled with a shock of realization. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting, waiting…and she felt his mouth descend to the delicate inside of her wrist. The velvet slide of sensation sent an erotic shiver down her arm, and her fingers twitched involuntarily. He let his mouth linger on the soft, thin skin of her wrist, encouraging the tiny pulse to beat madly. Holly's entire body drew tight as a bow, and she wanted to lift her knees and curl around him. Her lips felt swollen and warm, tautly anticipating the pressure of his kiss. He lifted his head and stared at her with eyes as dark as hellfire.

  Reaching for something nearby, he held it before her. The crystal wine glass glittered in the firelight, a few remaining sips of burgundy liquid swirling in the bottom. “Finish the wine,” he suggested softly, “and let me have my way with you. And in the morning we'll both pretend that you don't remember.”

  It frightened her, the extent to which she was tempted by the sinful offer. He was mocking her, she thought dizzily…surely he couldn't truly be propositioning her. He was waiting to see what her response would be, and then no matter what she said, no or yes, he would make jest of her.

  “You're wicked,” she whispered.

  The smile had left his eyes. “Yes.”

  Breathing shakily, she passed a hand over her eyes as if trying to clear away the wine-soaked fogginess. “I…I want to go upstairs. Alone.”

  A lengthy silence stretched between them, and then Bronson replied in a light, friendly tone, all intensity safely banked, “Let me help you.”

  His hands cupped beneath her elbows, and he guided her to her feet. Once she had gained purchase, she found that the room had stopped its heady swaying. Relieved, Holly pushed herself away from his hard, inviting body and made her way to the door. “I'm perfectly able to go to my room unescorted,” she said, throwing him a beseeching glance.

  “All right.” He came to open the door for her, glancing up and down her disheveled form.

  “Mr. Bronson…this will be forgotten by tomorrow morning.” Her voice contained an anxious questioning lilt.

  He gave a short nod, watching as she sped away as fast as her wobbling knees would allow.

  “Like hell I will,” Zachary murmured as soon as Holly had disappeared from sight. He had gone too far with her—he had known it even as he was allowing himself to cross the invisible barriers between them—but he hadn't been able to stop himself. He couldn't seem to control his hunger for her. It was a special agony to be placed under the power of a virtuous woman. The only consolation was that she didn't seem to understand how completely he was in her thrall.

  He chafed and fretted over the situation, having never experienced anything like this before. In his arrogant selfconfidence, he had always known that he could seduce any woman he wanted, no matter what her station. He was even certain that he could have Holly in his bed, given enough time to melt her defenses. But the moment he slept with her, he would lose her. There would be no way to convince her to stay afterward. And the extraordinary fact was, he wanted her company even more than he wanted to bed her.

  Whenever Zach had imagined the woman that might finally capture his attention, his emotions, all his waking thoughts, he had always been certain she would be worldly, bold…his sexual equal. He had never considered the possibility of losing his heart and head to a demure widow. Inexplicably Holly worked on him like a drug, exciting and sweet, and like a drug, her absence left him with emptiness and craving.

  He was no fool. It was obvious that Lady Holly was not meant for him. Better to pluck some far more available fruit on the tree. But there she hung, tempting and exquisite, always out of reach.

  In an effort to quench the desperate craving in his loins, Zachary had turned to other women. As a member of the most exclusive, ridiculously high-priced brothel in town, he was able to purchase a night with any beautiful prostitute of his choice. Lately he had frequented the place almost nightly.

  In the evenings Zachary would experience the simmering delight of being with Holly, just looking at her, reveling in the sound of her voice. Then, when she had retired to her solitary bed, he would ride to London and spend the next several hours in complete debauchery. Unfortunately the skill of a prostitute provided only temporary relief from his desire. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to recognize that true passion was not easily satisfied, that there was a difference between the needs of his cock and the organ that resided two feet above it. It was not a welcome discovery.

  “You're building another house?” Holly asked in surprise, standing beside a long library table as Bronson unrolled a set of plans and secured them at the corners with brass weights. “But where…and why?”

  “I want the grandest country house England has ever seen,” Bronson said. “I've bought land in Devon—three estates that will be merged into one. My architect has drawn up plans for the house. I want you to see them.”

  Holly regarded him with a wry smile. Like a coward, she had pretended not to remember the strange, seductive scene that had transpired the previous evening, and to her infinite relief, Bronson did not indicate by a word or glance that anything untoward had occurred. Instead, he had launched her into a discussion of one of his many developing projects. Privately she decided that her shocking behavior of the night before was all a result of too much wine, which she resolved to avoid in the future. “Mr. Bronson, I would very much like to see the plans, but I must warn you, I am not at all knowledgeable in such matters.”

  “Yes, you are. You know what the aristocracy admires. Tell me your opinion of the place.”

  His broad hand moved gently over the plans, smoothing out wrinkles and deftly weighting the paper. As Holly inspected the inked sketches of the various fronts of the house, she was very aware of Bronson standing at her side. He braced his hands on the plans and leaned over the drawings.

  Holly tried to concentrate on the plans, but she was distracted by Bronson's nearness. She couldn't help noticing the way his upper arms bulged against the seams of his coat, the way his thick black locks curled on the back of his neck, the close-shaven grain of his beard on his swarthy skin. He was fastidious without being foppish, smelling of starch and soap rather than cologne, his clothes well tailored but cut a bit loose in an effort to conceal the swell of ungentlemanly muscles. Perhaps he was not ideally suited for the drawing room, but there was something powerfully attractive about his sheer manliness.

  “What do you think?” he asked in a low rumble.

  Holly concentrated for a long time before replying. “I think, Mr. Bronson,” she said slowly, “that the architect has designed what he thinks you wish to see.”

  The house was ostentatious, w
asteful, and too formal by far. It jutted in heavy awkwardness from the Devon landscape. Visible, yes. Grand, without question. But “elegant” and “appropriate” were not words that could ever be applied to this overweening homage to old-fashioned taste. “It's very large,” she continued, “and anyone who saw it would have no doubt that the owner was a man of great means. However…”

  “You don't like it.”

  Their gazes met as they stood close together, and Holly felt a spill of warmth inside as she stared into his intent black eyes. “Do you like it, Mr. Bronson?” she managed to ask.

  He grinned at the question. “I have bad taste,” he said flatly. “My only virtue is that I know it.”

  She opened her mouth to argue the point, but closed it abruptly. When it came to matters of style, Bronson did indeed have appalling taste.

  A quiet laugh vibrated in his throat as he saw her expression. “Tell me what you would change about the house, my lady.”

  Lifting a corner of the top sketch and surveying the sprawling first-floor plan beneath, Holly shook her head helplessly. “I wouldn't know where to begin. And you must have gone to great expense to have these plans drawn up—”

  “That expense is nothing compared to having the damn place built.”

  “Yes, well…” Holly paused thoughtfully, chewing on her lower lip as she considered what to tell him. His gaze flickered to her mouth, and she gave an uneasy start. “Mr. Bronson, would it be too presumptuous of me to suggest another architect? Perhaps you might commission another set of plans based on a different concept and then decide which you prefer. I have a distant cousin, Mr. Jason Somers, who is becoming known and admired for his designs. He is a young architect with modern sensibilities, although I don't believe he's ever been given a project quite so large as this.”