Horrified, she broke away with a muffled cry, and at this first sign of unwillingness, the stranger released her. His encompassing arms fell from her as she stumbled toward the sheltering shadows of the conservatory. She finally stopped in the lee of the winged statue wedged against the stone wall, where there was no further retreat possible. He followed her, though he made no move to touch her again, stopping so close that she could almost feel the animal heat emanating from his body.
“Oh,” she whispered shakily, wrapping her arms around herself, as if she could contain the sensations that continued to spill from every nerve. “Oh.”
It was too dark for them to see each other's faces, but the man's large form was silhouetted by the shimmer of moonlight. He was wearing evening clothes—he must be a guest at the ball. But he did not have the slender, elegant build of a gentleman with abundant leisure time. He had the tremendous, iron-hard muscles of a day laborer. His shoulders and chest were too deep, his thighs too developed. Aristocratic gentlemen did not usually possess such obvious muscles. They preferred to distinguish themselves from those who had to earn a living through physical labor.
When he spoke, the gravelly undertone of his voice seemed to set off pleasurable vibrations along her spine. His accent lacked the clicking precision that a nobleman would have possessed. He was from the lower classes, she realized. How could such a man be attending a ball like this?
“You're not the lady I was expecting.” He paused and added with a touch of gruff amusement, fully cognizant of the fact that it was too late for apologies, “I am sorry.”
Holly strove to reply coolly, although there was a betraying tremor in her voice. “Quite all right. You merely assaulted the wrong woman. I'm certain the same mistake could have happened to any lurker in the shadows.”
She sensed that her response had surprised him, that he had expected her to erupt in a fit of hysterics. A soft catch of laughter escaped him. “Well. Maybe I'm not as sorry as I thought.”
As she saw his hand lift slowly, she thought he meant to take her in his arms again.
“Don't touch me,” she said, shrinking back until her shoulders were pressed flat against the wall. Instead, he braced his hand on the stone beside her head and leaned closer, until she felt imprisoned by the muscular cage of his body.
“Should we introduce ourselves?” he asked.
“Definitely not.”
“At least tell me this…are you taken?”
“Taken?” Holly repeated blankly, shrinking backward until her shoulder blades met the hard wall.
“Married,” he clarified. “Betrothed. Otherwise committed to someone.”
“Oh, I…yes. Yes, I am.” A widow she might be, but she was as married to George's memory as she had been to him during his life. At the thought of George, Holly wondered bleakly how her life had come to this, that her splendid, beloved husband should be gone and she was here in the shadows, talking with a stranger who had practically assaulted her.
“Forgive me,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “I had arranged to meet with someone else…a lady who is obviously not able to keep her promise. When I saw you coming through the doors, I mistook you for her.”
“I…I wanted to be alone somewhere while my carriage was brought 'round.”
“Leaving the ball early? I don't blame you. These affairs are damned dull.”
“They don't have to be,” she murmured, remembering the way she had once laughed and danced and flirted with George until the early hours of the morning. “It depends on one's choice of companionship. With the right partner, an evening like this could be…magical.”
The wistfulness must have been evident in her voice, for he reacted unexpectedly. She felt the heat of his fingertips brush her shoulder, throat, until he found the side of her face and curved his palm against her cheek. She should have jerked away from the touch, but she was shocked by the pleasure of his warm, cradling hand on her face.
“You're the sweetest thing I've ever touched,” came his voice from the darkness. “Tell me who you are. Tell me your name.”
Holly took a deep gulp of air and pushed away from the wall, but there was nowhere to go. His powerful masculine form was everywhere, surrounding her, and without intending to, she walked straight into his arms. “I must go,” she gasped. “My carriage is waiting.”
“Let it wait. Stay with me.” One hand clasped her waist, the other slid behind her back, and a shudder of unwilling excitement went through her. “Are you frightened?” he asked as he felt the involuntary tremor.
“N-no.” She should be protesting, fighting to break free of him, but there was an insidious delight in being held against his hard, sheltering body. She kept her hands between them, when all she wanted was to fold herself inside his embrace and lay her head on his broad chest. A trembling laugh escaped her. “This is madness. You must release me.”
“You can walk out of my arms anytime you want.”
But she still didn't move. They stood together, breathing, clasped in awareness and stirring passion while a few sweet strains of music drifted to them from the ballroom. The ball seemed another world away.
The stranger's hot breath fanned her ear and stirred the little wisps of hair around it. “Kiss me again.”
“How dare you suggest—”
“No one will know.”
“You don't understand,” she whispered shakily. “This isn't like me…. I don't do these things.”