Resigned, he sat still beneath her ministrations. He felt her damp fingers moving through his hair, gently rubbing the hot scalp beneath, smoothing the pomade through his rebellious black locks. “Everyone in your family has the same hair,” Holly commented, a smile lingering in her voice. “It has a will of its own. We had to use two entire racks of pins to make Elizabeth's hair behave.”
Racked with pleasure and exquisite tension, Zachary couldn't reply. The feel of her hands on his head, the soft massage of her fingertips, was nothing less than torture. She combed his hair neatly, guiding it back from his forehead, and by some miracle it stayed in place. “There,” Holly said in satisfaction. “Very gentlemanly indeed.”
“Did you ever do this for him?” Zachary heard himself ask hoarsely. “For George?”
Holly went still. When their gazes met, he saw the surprise in her warm brown eyes. Then she smiled faintly. “Well, no. I don't believe George ever had a hair out of place.”
Of course, Zachary thought. Among George Taylor's many other perfections, he'd had gentlemanly hair as well. Forcing his aching, stiff body to move, he stood and made certain his coat was buttoned to conceal the evidence of his arousal. He waited while Holly washed the traces of pomade from her hands and donned a pair of long, blinding white gloves that extended past her elbows. Such lovely elbows she had, not knobby or pointy at all, just a bit plump, perfect for nibbling.
He wondered if this was what married men did, if they were allowed to watch their wives' last preparations before going out for the evening. The scene felt cozy and intimate, and it made him hollow with yearning.
Suddenly he heard a gasp. Glancing in the direction of the sound, Zachary saw Holly's blond maid standing in the open doorway, her blue eyes as large and round as dinner plates. A lush red rose fell from her nerveless grasp onto the carpeted floor. “Oh…I didn't…”
“Come in, Maude,” Holly said calmly, as if Zachary's presence in her room were an everyday occurrence.
Recovering herself, the maid scooped up the fallen rose and brought it to her mistress. They conferred for a moment, and then the maid deftly pinned the fragrant blossom amid Holly's gleaming dark curls. Satisfied with the results, Holly glanced into the looking glass, touched the rose lightly, then turned toward Zachary.
“Shall we go, Mr. Bronson?”
He was both sorry and relieved to escort her from the room. It was a continuing struggle to master his raging desires, especially with her gloved hand tucked neatly in his arm, and the damned teasing swishing of her silk skirts around his legs. She was not an accomplished temptress, and he was well aware that her experience with men was limited. But he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. If having her were a mere question of money, he would have purchased entire countries for her.
Unfortunately, matters were not that simple. He could never offer her the genteel life she deserved and needed, the kind of life she'd had with George. If by some miracle she ever did accept him, Zachary knew that he would disappoint her time and again, until she finally grew to hate him. She would discover all the coarseness of his nature; she would find him increasingly repellent. She would find excuses to keep him from coming to her bed. No matter how well the union might begin, it would end in disaster. Because, as his mother had correctly pointed out, one did not mate a Thoroughbred with a donkey. Better to leave her alone and fix his attentions on some other, far more appropriate woman.
If only he could.
Stopping Holly midway down the grand staircase, Zachary descended two steps without her and turned so their faces were level. “My lady,” he said
seriously, “the things I said about your mourning gowns…I'm sorry. I had no right to make such comments.” He paused with a hard, uncomfortable swallow. “Am I forgiven?”
Holly studied him with a faint smile. “Not yet.”
Her gaze was teasing, almost flirtatious, and Zachary realized with a sudden rush of delight that she enjoyed having the upper hand over him. She was so pert and adorable that it took all his power not to snatch her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Then what will you have me do?” he asked softly, and for the most delicious moment of his life, they stood smiling at each other.
“I'll let you know when I think of something, Mr. Bronson.” She walked down to his step and took his arm once more.
Only to herself would Holly admit that she was surprised by the amount of eager attention her protégées were receiving at the Plymouth ball. She was thrilled by their success, and especially by the fact that they seemed to mix easily with the crowd. It seemed that her social instructions had made them more comfortable in their interactions with the ton, and the ton was appropriately impressed. “That Mr. Bronson,” she overheard one dowager saying to another, “seems to have improved somewhat. He is rising in the world, but I had not thought until tonight that his manners could keep pace with his advancement.”
“Surely you don't mean to say you would consider him for your daughter?” came her companion's astonished reply. “I mean, he is quite common, after all.”
“Indeed, I would,” came the emphatic reply. “He has clearly taken it upon himself to study polite accomplishments, and the results are rather pleasing. And although the man may be a bit common, his fortune is quite uncommon.”
“True, true,” the other dowager agreed distractedly, as they stared at Bronson's distant figure from behind their fans, like soldiers siting a military target.
While Bronson mingled among the crowd, Holly kept company with Elizabeth and Paula. Even before the dancing had begun, Elizabeth had been introduced to at least a dozen young men, all of whom apparently found her sufficiently dazzling to merit their notice. Her dance card, tucked into a paper-thin silver case that tied around her gloved wrist with a pink ribbon, would have been completely filled, except that Holly had cautioned her to reserve a few. “You'll want to rest every now and again,” Holly had murmured into the girl's ear, “and besides, you might encounter a gentleman that you will want to save an extra dance for.”
Elizabeth had nodded obediently, appearing a bit dazed by the scene. Lord and Lady Plymouth's cavernous drawing room accommodated at least three hundred guests, with a good two hundred more milling in the surrounding circuit of rooms and galleries. The home was called Plymouth Court, as it was constructed around a spectacular stone and marble courtyard filled with fruit trees and exotic flowers. It was an old, settled residence, formerly a defensive castle that had progressively been expanded during the last century into a large and luxurious home. In the drawing room, pools of abundant light from the overhead chandeliers and the open fire in the great marble hearth combined to reflect off the apricot-painted walls. The crowd was bathed in a glow that caused a king's ransom worth of jewelry to sparkle madly. Dowagers and nervous young girls sat on giltframed furniture covered with figured silk upholstery, while groups of friends stood together against a backdrop of faded but priceless Flemish tapestries.
Holly's nose tingled pleasantly with the familiar, unique smell of a ball. It was a mixture of scents, predominantly the tang of the waxed and milk-washed dance floor and the perfume of flowers, mixed with traces of cologne, sweat, pomade and lit beeswax candles. During her three years' absence from all social events, she had forgotten this smell, but it brought back a hundred pleasant memories of herself and George.
“It all seems unreal,” Elizabeth whispered, after another gentleman had introduced himself and requested a place on her dance card. “The ball is so beautiful…and everyone is being so nice to me. I can't believe how many destitute young men want to put their hands on a share of Zach's fortune.”
“Do you think that's the reason they all want to dance and flirt with you?” Holly asked with a fond smile. “Because of your brother's money?”
“Of course.”
“Some of the gentlemen that have approached you are hardly destitute,” Holly informed her. “Lord Wolriche, for example, or that nice Mr. Barkham. They both come from families of considerable means.”
“Then why have they asked me to dance?” Elizabeth muttered, clearly perplexed.