by Lisa Kleypas
“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.
“Yes, I think so, too,” Paula said matter-of-factly. “But that doesn't make him right for you, milady, any more than you are right for him.”
The reassurance that Bronson's mother did not blame her for the situation should have made Holly feel better. Unfortuately, it didn't. Each time Holly saw Bronson, no matter how brief or casual the encounter, she was filled with longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She began to wonder if she could really live like this for the remainder of her promised year at the Bronson home. Devoting herself to Rose and to the Bronson women, she kept herself as busy as possible. And there was much to do, especially now that Elizabeth had made her entrance into society. The great hall was filled with constantly arriving bowers of roses and spring arrangements, and the silver tray near the door was loaded daily with cards from hopeful suitors.
As Holly had predicted, the combination of Elizabeth's beauty and fortune, not to mention her irrepressible charm, had attracted many men who seemed more than willing to overlook the circumstances of her birth. It required both Holly's and Paula's efforts to chaperone the daily visits and carriage drives and picnics as various gentlemen came to court Elizabeth. However, there was one caller in particular who seemed to capture the girl's interest most strongly—the architect, Jason Somers.
There were callers with bluer blood and greater wealth, but none that possessed Jason's self-confidence and charm. He was a robust man with more than his share of talent and ambition—a man not all that unlike Elizabeth's brother. From what Holly had observed, Jason was able to balance Elizabeth's exuberant spirit with his own steady strength. It was a good match, and promised to be a happy union, if all turned out as Holly hoped.
During one of Jason's morning visits, Holly happened to see the pair as he and Elizabeth returned from a walk in the garden.
“…besides, you're not tall enough for me…” Elizabeth was saying, her voice filled with effervescent laughter as they strode through the French doors and into a gallery of marble sculpture. Holly paused at the far end of the gallery where she happened to be walking. She was concealed by a towering winged rendition of some Roman god.
“Good God, woman, I'm hardly what anyone would call short,” Jason retorted. “And I'm a good two inches taller than you.”
“You are not!”
“Am too,” he insisted, and pulled her against him with an easy strength that made Elizabeth gasp. They were matched length-to-length, Elizabeth's slender form measured against Jason's larger one. “See?” Jason said, his voice suddenly husky. The amusement faded from the girl's face, and she fell abruptly silent, staring at the man who held her, her eyes filled with shy apprehension. Holly briefly considered interrupting the scene, knowing that Elizabeth was unused to such attentions from a man. But there was a look on Jason's face that Holly had never seen before, utterly tender and desirous. He bent his head to murmur something in her ear, and Elizabeth turned pink, one of her hands creeping up to his shoulder.
Holly's own face flushed a bit as she slipped away discreetly, allowing the two a measure of privacy. Oh, how long ago it seemed that she had been courted by George in the same manner, and how innocent and hopeful she had felt. But her memories were blurred now, and she no longer found pleasure in reminiscing. Her life with George had become a distant dream.
Filled with wistfulness, Holly spent the rest of the morning playing with Rose, and then left her daughter in Maude's care. She declined lunch, as she was too dispirited to eat a bite. Instead, she selected a novel from the library and carried it with her on a walk through the gardens. The sky was overcast, and the breeze was infused with a cool mist that caused Holly to shiver and pull her brown cashmere shawl more closely around her shoulders. Pausing first at a stone table, and then at a bench sided by flower-filled urns, she finally found a spot for reading, a summerhouse about twelve feet wide. The windows were covered in little wooden shutters, and inside it was lined with cushioned benches. The seats and backs of the benches were covered with a heavy twilled green fabric that held a faintly musty but not unpleasant scent.
Curling up on one of the cushions and drawing her feet up beneath her, Holly leaned back and began to read. Soon lost in the tale of a doomed love affair—was there any other kind?—Holly failed to noticed the rumblings of thunder in the sky. The light darkened from silver-white to gray, and rain began to patter heavily on the lawn and paved walkway outside. A few errant drops blew through the shutter and fell to Holly's shoulder, finally alerting her to the worsening weather outside. Looking up from the novel, she frowned.
“Bother,” she muttered, realizing that her novel reading was coming to an end. It was definitely time to return to the main house. But the rain was already heavy, and she wondered if the storm might lessen in a few minutes. Sighing, she closed the book in her lap and leaned her head against the wall as she watched the rain pelt the grassy earth and hedges. The vibrant smell of a heavy spring shower filled the summerhouse.
Her melancholy thoughts were soon interrupted as someone opened the door roughly and shouldered his way inside.
She was startled to see Zachary Bronson, his large form shrouded in a sodden greatcoat. He brought a gust of fresh rain-laden wind with him, then closed the shuttered door with the back of his shoe. Swearing beneath his breath, he struggled with a huge dripping umbrella. Retreating back against a cushion, Holly watched him with a growing smile as he endeavored to fold the ungainly contraption. He was a handsome devil, she thought with a flicker of pleasure, her gaze drinking in the sight of his rain-washed face and his coffee-black eyes and his gleaming dark hair plastered to his well-shaped skull.
“I thought you were in town,” she said, raising her
voice above a long rumble of thunder.
“Came back early,” he replied shortly. “I managed to stay just ahead of the storm until it reached the estate.”
“How did you know I was out here?”
“Maude was worried—she said you were in the garden somewhere.” Triumphantly he closed the umbrella with a snap. “It was easy enough to find you—not many places to take shelter.” His dark gaze settled on her face, and he returned her smile with a flashing grin. “So I'm here to rescue you, milady.”
“I didn't even realize I needed rescuing,” Holly said. “I was completely absorbed in my book. Perhaps the rain will ease soon?”
As if in sarcastic response, the sky turned several shades darker, and earsplitting thunder accompanied a streak of lightning as it scored across the burgeoning sky. Holly laughed suddenly and glanced at Bronson, who was smiling. “Let me take you back to the house,” he said.
Holly shivered, staring at the torrential downpour. It seemed a very long way back to the house. “We'll be soaked,” she said. “And the lawn has undoubtedly turned to mud. Couldn't we just wait until it stops?” Extracting a dry handkerchief from her sleeve, she stood on her toes and dabbed at the rivulets of rain on Bronson's face. Suddenly he was expressionless, standing still beneath her ministrations.
“It won't stop for hours. And I don't trust myself to be alone with you for more than five minutes.” He removed his greatcoat and hung it around her shoulders. The garment was ridiculously large on her. “So unless you want to be ravished in the summerhouse,” he said brusquely, staring into her upturned face, “let's go.”
But neither of them moved.
Holly raised the handkerchief to his jaw, drying a few last drops of water that clung to his clean-shaven skin. She crushed the damp lace-trimmed linen in her fist, and clutched at the greatcoat to keep it from falling to the floor. She did not comprehend why being alone with him gave her such intense pleasure, why the sight of him and sound of his voice should be so comfortable and yet so stirring. The knowledge that their lives were only entwined for a temporary time caused her heart to ache. He had become important to her so quickly, so effortlessly.
“I've missed you,” she whispered. She had not intended to speak the words aloud, but they pressed forth of their own accord, hanging gently amid the splashing staccato of rain. She felt almost maddened by a yearning that was deeper than hunger, sharper than pain.
“I had to stay away,” Bronson said gruffly. “I can't be around you without…” Falling silent, he stared at her in grim misery. He did not move when Holly pushed the coat off her shoulders, or when she brought her body against his, or even when she slid her arms around his neck. She rubbed her face against the damp collar of his shirt, and hugged him fiercely. It seemed that for the first time in days she was able to breathe fully, the dull ache of loneliness finally lifting from her chest.
A muffled groan escaped him, and he turned his head to fit his mouth against hers. His arms went around her, holding her securely. The summerhouse dissolved in a blur around her, and the smell of rain was replaced by the masculine scent of Zachary's skin. She put her hands on his hot cheeks, his neck, and his grip tightened just short of crushing her, as if he were trying to pull her inside him.
Just this once…the wicked thought seized her and would not let go. Just once…she would live on it, remember, savor savor when the days of her youth were long past. No one would ever know.
The storm pounded on the wooden structure around them, but its force was nothing compared to the violent beating of her own heart. Frantically she pulled at the knot of his necktie, tugging it loose, then worked at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. Zachary held still, though his powerful chest moved in deep, labored breaths.
“Holly…” His voice was low and unsteady. “Do you know what you're doing?”
Recklessly she pushed the shirt open, baring him from neck to navel, and her breath stopped at the sight of him. He was a magnificent creature, his body a tightly knit masterpiece of muscle and sinew. Holly touched him in awed wonder, spreading her hands on his furry chest, sliding her fingertips through to the tough muscle beneath, then stroking the hard, rippled surface of his stomach. She found the sprinkling of hair around his navel, her fingertips investigating gently, and he made a sound of pained pleasure. Catching her wrist, he pulled her hand away, holding it to the side as he stared at her. “If you touch me again,” he said raggedly, “I won't be able to stop. I'll take you right here, Holly…do you understand?”
She moved toward him, pressed herself to his bare skin, buried her face amid the thick black curls on his chest. She felt his resistance break, his large body shuddering as he wrapped his arms around her. His mouth sought hers urgently, extracting sensations that were indecent in their sheer sweetness. A series of swift, light tugs, and the carved bone buttons of her bodice were released, the garment sagging to her elbows. After unhooking her stays, Zachary took hold of the tape that fastened the top of her chemise, wound it around his finger, and pulled. Her breasts spilled free, white and pink, the tips already contracted from the coolness of the summerhouse. Filling his hands with the round, soft weights, Zachary cradled the sensitive peaks within his palms.
“Hurry,” she said in agitation. “Zachary, please, I…I need you.” Now that she had abandoned herself in passion, she had lost all shame, all restraint. She wanted him over her, inside her, the heat of him couched between her legs.
Hushing her with his mouth, Zachary shrugged off his shirt and waistcoat, baring his gleaming sculptured shoulders. He sat on the green cushions and pulled her to his lap. Reaching beneath her skirts, he spread her knees apart and guided them to either side of his hips. Holly turned scarlet with excitement and apprehension as she settled onto his loins and felt the swollen hardness of his erection straining beneath his trousers. She could feel the immense shape of him burning against the delicate veil of her drawers. Hooking his hands beneath her arms, Zachary brought her forward and kissed the space between her breasts. She cradled his dark head in her arms, and gasped as she felt his mouth close around a tender, peaked nipple. The strokes of his tongue were soft and hot. He moved to her other breast and she felt the gentle pressure of his teeth as he tugged at her aching flesh.
Quiet, incoherent sounds filtered from her throat, and she slid lower on his body, thrusting her damp breasts into the wiry curls of his chest. The coarse silken hair teased her, stimulated her, and she rubbed herself against him with a moan of pleasure. Later she would be mortified at her own wanton actions…much later. For now there was only Zachary, his sleek muscled body, his amorous, marauding mouth, and she was going to savor every moment with him.
His hands slipped beneath her skirts, and he fondled the round curves of her bottom. His touch became gentle, almost lazy, drifting over her body with maddening slowness. Shakily she urged him once more to hurry, while in the back of her mind she was appalled by her own desperate need. Suddenly Zachary laughed, the sound soft and low in his throat. He untied the tape of her drawers and pulled the garment down her hips. She moved awkwardly to help him, feeling light-headed as the drawers were stripped away.
“T-tell me what to do,” she begged, anxiously aware of her lack of knowledge. This reckless encounter in the midst of an afternoon storm was entirely different from the peaceful nighttime interludes she had shared with George. Zachary Bronson was so terribly experienced—jaded, even—that there seemed no possible way she could satisfy him.
“Are you asking how to please me?” His lips moved tenderly over the rim of her ear. “You don't even have to try.”
She pressed her red face against his shoulder, breathing fitfully as he widened the spread of her legs over his hips. Peals of thunder continued to rip across the sky, but the noise had lost the power to startle her. All her being was focused on the man who held her, his hard body beneath her, the masculine hand that fondled her so gently. His fingertips drew across the fragile crease of her thigh where it met t
he softer skin of her groin. He stroked the feathery whorls of hair, searching for the place where her intimate flesh parted…He found the small, secretive cove that moistened eagerly at his touch. All her muscles tightened, and she sat suspended over him in trembling astonishment. Her forehead dug into the sinewy surface of his shoulder, and she groaned his name.
She had never been taught any sort of bedroom etiquette, but she and George had both shared the same instinctive understanding that most married couples did—a gentleman accorded his wife the highest respect at all times, even in the conjugal embrace. He would refrain from touching her in indecent ways, and he would not seek to encourage her passions. Her character was to be kept untainted, and though a man should make love to his beloved with kindness, he should never touch or speak to her lewdly.
Apparently no one had ever informed Zachary Bronson of these facts. He whispered words of love and lust in her ear while he played with her unmercifully, his fingertips circling the tiny sensitive peak hidden between the folds of her sex. Aroused and perspiring, she pushed herself farther into his hand, and she gasped as she felt his finger slip inside her.
A strange, burning agitation spread throughout her body, and she twisted against him, her hands opening and closing against his shoulder, her open mouth pressing to his neck in beseeching kisses. His throat hummed with a crooning noise, and she felt the incredible tautness of his body, his muscles tightly bunched with compressed energy. Slowly, as if he were wary of frightening her, he drew away his hand and tugged at the fastenings of his trousers. She felt the hard, heavy spring of his released flesh, and her body jerked as she felt the first scalding touch of him. He positioned her wider and wedged himself against her damp opening.
Holly quivered as she felt him ease inside her, stretching her delicate flesh. She let out a faint whistling breath through her teeth.