“Just concentrate on maintaining the proper distance between us. If you hold me too tightly, you'll restrict my freedom of movement. If we stand too far apart, however, I won've have sufficient support.”
“I don't think I can do this,” Zachary said thickly. “You've taught me how to do the march, and I can muddle through a quadrille. Let's leave things at that.”
“Oh, but you must learn to waltz,” she coaxed. “You'll never be able to court a girl properly if you can't waltz.”
His succinct reply caused her to frown in sudden determination.
“Utter all the obscenities you like, Mr. Bronson. Nothing will deter me from teaching you to waltz. And if you prove to be uncooperative, I will send for Monsieur Girouard.”
The threat of the dancing master caused his scowl to deepen. “All right, dammit. What do I do next?”
“A waltz is composed of two steps, each lasting three beats. Now glide backward with your left foot—a little step, mind you—then draw the right foot back a bit beyond the left and turn toward the right…”
To say the least, it was a struggle at first. However, as Zachary concentrated on Holly's instructions and felt her glide with him in seemingly magical conformity, his lumbering steps became a bit more assured. It helped that she moved with him so easily, turning with the slightest pressure of his hand. It helped also that she seemed to be herself, although he couldn't fathom why she should like to stumble through a waltz with him.
“Keep your arm steady,” she warned, her eyes sparkling as she stared into his set face. “You're moving it like a pump handle.”
As she had probably intended, the comment distracted him from counting. He raised one brow in a sardonic glance that usually withered the recipient. “All I can concentrate on at the moment, my lady, is trying not to maim you with one misplaced step.”
“You're doing very well, actually,” she said. “Don't tell me you've never tried to waltz before.”
“Never.”
“You're surprisingly agile. Most beginners rest too much of their weight on their heels.”
“Boxing,” Zachary said, pulling her in another half-turn. “If you have lead feet in the rope ring, there's no way to duck and dodge.”
Although he had not intended the comment to be amusing, Holly seemed to be greatly entertained. “I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you.”
Staring into her smiling, rosy-cheeked face, Zachary experienced a painfully sweet sensation, an ache that had less to do with the body than the spirit. She was the most adorable woman he had ever known. Not for the first time, he felt acute envy for George Taylor for having been loved by her. For having the right to touch and kiss her whenever he had wanted. For having had her turn to him for all of her needs. For being loved by her still.
From everything Zachary had been told, George Taylor had been the perfect man. Handsome, well-heeled, honorable, respectable, gentlemanly and compassionate. It seemed that he had deserved a woman like Holly, every bit as much as Zachary did not deserve her. Zachary knew that he was none of the things George had been. Everything he could offer her, including his own heart, was tainted.
“If only” were the two words that Zachary most loathed in the English language. They rattled in his brain unmercifully. If only, if only…
He lost the rhythm of the waltz and stopped abruptly, causing Holly to bump into him. She gave a small, gasping laugh. “Oh…you stopped so suddenly, I—”
Muttering an apology, Zachary steadied her with his hands. Momentum had brought her small body against his. The feel of her, even in the confining layers of her gray gown, caused his senses to riot in wild pleasure. He tried to release her, to loosen his arm, but his rebellious muscles contracted until she was caught securely against him. Her breath was rapid from exertion, and he felt the soft movements of her breasts against his chest. The moment seemed suspended in time. He waited for her to end it, to protest, but she was strangely silent. The silken fans of her lashes lifted, revealing a stricken gaze. Seared together in something that was becoming, undeniably, an embrace, they stared at each other with helpless fascination.
Eventually Holly averted her gaze, but her warm breath wafted over his chin. His mouth felt hot, dry, and he longed fiercely to press it on hers. He waited for the small hands on his shoulders to move…if she would raise one to his neck and urge him downward…if she would give only the slightest hint that she wanted him…but she remained frozen in his arms, neither shrinking away nor encouraging him.
An unsteady sigh escaped him, and he somehow unlocked his muscles, although his tortured body screamed a silent protest. His vision was slightly blurred. He wondered if Holly had any inkling of how close he was to snatching her up and carrying her somewhere. Anywhere. It seemed all the desire he had ever known was rushing through his body, collecting hotly in his groin. He wanted to feel her beneath him, to take his pleasure within her. And even more than that, he wanted her affection, her caresses, her whispers of love in his ears. He had never felt so much like a fool, desperately wanting something that was so clearly not for him.
All at once a cold, clear voice in his head pointed out that what he could not get from Holly, he would get from another woman. There were hundreds of women in London who would supply all the affection he wanted, for as long as he wanted. Gratefully Zachary seized on the idea like a drowning man reaching a raft. He did not need Lady Holland Taylor. He could get someone prettier, someone wittier, someone with eyes just as warm. There was nothing particularly special about her, and he would prove it to himself tonight, and the following night…whatever amount of time it required.
“I think that is enough for today,” Holly murmured, still appearing a bit dazed. “You've accomplished quite a lot, Mr. Bronson. I'm certain you'll master the waltz in very good time.”
Zachary responded with a bow, forcing a polite smile to his face. “Thank you, my lady. I'll see you for our next lesson on the morrow, then.”
“You won't be taking supper at home tonight?”
He shook his head. “I've planned to see friends in town this evening.”
There was a flicker in her eyes that betrayed her disapproval. He knew she didn't like his rampant socializing and sexual escapades, and he took sudden savage delight in displeasing her. Let her sleep in a chaste bed every night—he had no scruples about taking his own enjoyment where he could find it.
Holly made her way slowly to Rose's room, where her daughter and Maude were engaged in afternoon reading and playtime. She found it surprisingly difficult to bring her thoughts under control. Her mind kept summoning images of herself clasped in Zachary Bronson's arms, turning slowly in the mirrored ballroom while their joined reflections shimmered around them. Being so close to him, talking and laughing intimately for more than two hours, had ruffled her senses unbearably. She felt troubled, anxious, unhappy about something she could not identify. She was glad the dance lesson was over. There had been a delicious-awful moment when he had held her too closely and she had thought he might kiss her.
What if he had? What would her reaction have been? She was afraid to ponder that question. Bronson appealed to something deep and primitive within her. To a woman who had been taught that even her sexual attraction to her own husband should be contained within strict limits, the situation was alarming.