“It seems to be in good condition, actually.” Holly inspected the billows of glowing red silk in her arms. “But I wouldn't care if it was one big ball of wrinkles. I'm going to wear the blasted thing.”
Recognizing her determination, though clearly not approving, Maude sighed gustily and set to work on the back of the gray gown. When it became apparent that Holly's prim white chemise would peek out over the low-cut bodice of the red silk, Holly stripped off her top undergarment. “Ye're going without yer chemise?” Maude gasped, thunderstruck.
Although the servant had already seen her in every stage of undress, Holly blushed all over, until even her bare breasts were pink. “I don't have any chemises cut low enough to fit beneath this.” She struggled to pull the red gown over her torso, and Maude hastily moved to assist her.
When the gown was finally fastened and the red velvet sash was tied neatly at her waist, Holly went to the mahogany-framed looking glass. The succession of three mirrored ovals joined together afforded a complete view of her appearance. Holly was startled by the sight of herself clad in such rich color, the red strikingly vivid against her white skin. She had never worn anything quite as bold as this for George, a style that displayed the snowy curves of her breasts and the top third of her back. Her skirts moved in a fluid, rippling mass with each step she took, with each breath she drew. She felt vulnerable and exposed, and at the same time
strangely free and light. This was the kind of gown she had worn in all her forbidden daydreams, when she had longed to escape the dullness of her ordinary life.
“At the last ball I attended,” she commented, studying her reflection, “I saw ladies wearing gowns much more daring than this. Some of them were practically backless. This looks almost modest by comparison.”
“'Tisn't the style, milady,” Maude replied, flatly. “'Tis the color.”
Continuing to stare at herself in the mirror, Holly realized that the gown was too spectacular to require further ornamentation. She removed all her jewelry: the diamond bracelet George had given her upon the birth of their child, the glittering earbobs that had been a wedding present from her parents and the sparkling clips that adorned her upswept hair. Everything except the simple gold band of her wedding ring. She handed the items to the maid. “There's a flower arrangement in the upstairs family parlor,” she said, “and I believe it has some fresh red roses in it. Would you fetch me one, Maude?”
Maude paused before complying. “Milady,” she said quietly, “I hardly recognize ye.”
Holly's smile wavered, and she took a deep breath. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Maude? What would my husband have said, if he had ever seen me like this?”
“I think Master George would have loved to see ye in that red gown,” Maude replied thoughtfully. “He was a man, after all.”
Eleven
Approaching Holly's door , Zachary knocked gingerly with two knuckles of his right hand. There was no sound or response from within. Sighing, he wondered if she might have already retired to bed. It was only to be expected that she would not want to see him tonight. Silently he berated himself, wondering why he hadn't been able to keep his own damned mouth shut. While he wasn't necessarily a ladies' man, he had a certain way with women, and he had known better than to make a negative comment about Holly's appearance. Now she was probably weeping by herself in a corner of her room, too hurt and furious to even consider attending—
The door swung gently open, leaving Zachary's hand suspended in midair as he began to knock once more. Holly stood there, alone, wearing a gown that looked as if it were made of liquid flame.
Zachary gripped the doorframe with his hand to keep from falling backward. His gaze traveled over her, greedily absorbing every detail: the way her white breasts were pushed together and upward by the red silk bodice…the delicate angle of her collarbone…the soft shape of her throat, so enticing that his mouth watered in response. The startlingly simple red gown was elegant but provocative, displaying just enough of Holly's pale skin to threaten his sanity. He had never seen a woman more vibrantly, unreasonably beautiful in his life. The ice in his stomach dissolved as he was filled with a raging inferno of desire. And like a glass vessel that had been exposed to a radical change in temperature, his self-control threatened to shatter.
He stared into her velvety brown eyes. For once, he couldn't read her mood. She looked warm, utterly inviting, but when she spoke, her voice was crisp.
“Does this meet with your approval, Mr. Bronson?”
Unable to speak, Zachary managed a single nod. She was still angry with him, he thought numbly. Just why she had put on the red gown was a mystery. Perhaps she had somehow guessed that it was the worst possible punishment she could devise. He wanted her so badly that it hurt, a physical pain he felt everywhere in his body…and in one area especially. He longed to touch her, put his hands and mouth on her soft skin, bury his nose in the little valley between her breasts. If only he could take her to bed this very moment. If only she would let him worship her, pleasure her, the way he longed to.
Holly's gaze swept over him in feminine assessment, lingering on his face. “Come in, please,” she said, gesturing for him to enter the room. “Your hair is disheveled. I'll repair it before we leave.”
Zachary obeyed slowly. She had never invited him inside her room before—he knew it wasn't right, wasn't proper, but somehow the evening had become topsy-turvy. As he followed her trim, silk-covered form into the perfume-scented room, his brain rekindled sufficiently for him to remember his apology. “Lady Holly,” he began, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What I said to you downstairs…I shouldn't have…I regret…”
“Indeed, you should regret it,” Holly assured him, her voice tart but no longer outraged. “You were arrogant and presumptuous, though I don't know why I should have been surprised by such behavior, coming from you.”
Usually Zachary would have responded to such an admonition with a playful retort. Now, however, he agreed with a humble nod. The sound of her skirts swishing, the movement of her legs beneath the masses of silk, filled his mind with a hot, intoxicating fog.
“Sit there, please,” Holly said, gesturing to a tiny chair next to her dressing table. She picked up a silver-backed brush. “You're too tall for me when you stand.”
He complied immediately, although the spindly little chair wobbled and creaked under his weight. Unfortunately, his line of vision was now perfectly level with her breasts. He closed his eyes to keep from staring at the lush mounds, but nothing would still the writhing images in his head. It would be so easy to reach out and catch her body in his hands, and bury his face between her soft breasts. He began to perspire profusely. He was in a fever, burning for her. When she spoke, the sweet sound of her voice seemed to collect at the back of his neck and in his groin.
“I regret something as well,” Holly said quietly. “What I told you…that you were unable to love…I was wrong. I only said it because I was upset. I have no doubt that somebody you will indeed lose your heart to someone, although I can't imagine to whom.”
You, he thought with an inescapable stab of longing. You. Couldn't she see it? Or did she assume she was merely the target of his random lust, and no more special to him than any other woman?
In the taut silence, Zachary opened his eyes and watched as Holly picked up a glass bottle and shook a few drops of some clear liquid into her palm. “What is that?” he asked.
“Pomade.”
“I don't like pomade,” he muttered.
“Yes, I'm aware of that.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice. She rubbed her hands together, distributing the stuff evenly over her fingers and palms. “I'll only use a bit. But you can't go to a formal occasion with your hair falling over your forehead.”