He walked away. Zachary stood watching him, stonefaced and still, while inside he writhed in anguished fury.
Holly needed a drink. A large glass of brandy, one that would calm her overwrought nerves and allow her a few hours of sleep. She had not needed to take spirits since the first year of mourning George. The doctor had prescribed a nightly glass of wine in those days of turmoil, but it had not been enough. Only strong spirits had been sufficient to calm her, and so she had sent Maude on secretive missions to fetch her glasses of whiskey or brandy when the household had settled for the night. Knowing that George's family would not approve of a lady drinking, and also aware that they would be able to detect the lowering levels of liquor in the sideboard decanters, Holly had decided to smuggle a bottle to her own room. Using Maude as intermediary, Holly had gotten a footman to purchase brandy for her, and she had stored it in the drawer of her dressing table. Now thinking longingly of that long-ago brandy bottle, she dressed for bed and waited impatiently for the Bronson household to retire.
The carriage ride back home from the ball had been nothing short of hellish. Fortunately Elizabeth had been too excited by her own success, and the flattering attentions paid her by Jason Somers, to notice the seething silence between Holly and her brother. Paula had been aware of the tension, of course, and she had sought to cover it with a stream of light chatter. Holly had forced herself to ignore Bronson's brooding stare and had made small talk with P
aula, smiling and joking while inside her nerves were shattering.
When there wasn't sound or movement to be detected in the cavernous house, Holly took a candle in a small jeweled holder and crept from her room. As far as she knew, the easiest place to find brandy was in the library sideboard, where Bronson always kept a supply of excelent French vintage.
Descending the grand staircase in her bare feet, Holly held the candle high, starting a little as the tiny flame cast eerie shadows on the gilded walls. The large house, always so busy and bustling in the daytime, resembled a deserted museum at night. Cool drafts curled around her ankles, and she shivered, grateful for the warmth of the ruffled white pelisse that fastened over her thin nightgown.
Entering the library, Holly inhaled the familiar smell of leather and vellum, and passed the huge gleaming globe on her way to the sideboard. She set the candle on the polished mahogany surface and opened a cabinet door in search of a glass.
Although there wasn't a sound or movement in the room, something alerted her to the fact that she wasn't alone. Uneasily she turned to survey her surroundings, and gasped as she saw Bronson seated in a deep leather armchair, his long legs stretched before him. He stared at her intently, his ophidian eyes unblinking. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though his coat had been removed and his waistcoat and necktie hung loose. His white shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing a wealth of thick black hair. An empty brandy snifter was held loosely in his fingers, and she surmised that he had been drinking for some time.
Holly's heart jerked violently. Air left her lungs in a swift rush, making it impossible for her to speak. Unsteadily she leaned back against the sideboard, gripping the edge with her hands for support.
Slowly Bronson rose to his feet and approached her. He glanced at the open door of the sideboard, understanding immediately what she wanted. “Allow me,” he said, his voice a velvety rumble in the stillness, and he pulled out a snifter and a brandy decanter. Pouring until the snifter was a third full, he held it by the stem and used the candle flame to warm the glass bowl. An expert swirl or two, and he handed the warmed vintage to her.
Holly took the snifter and drank at once, wishing that her hand wasn't trembling visibly. She couldn't help staring at the place where his shirt hung open. George had had a smooth chest, which she had always found attractive, but the sight of Zachary Bronson in an unbuttoned shirt filled her mind with lurid, disquieting thoughts. She wanted to rub her mouth and face amid those springy dark curls, wanted to press her bare breasts against them…
A flaming blush covered her from head to toe, and she gulped brandy until it made her cough.
Bronson returned to his chair and sat heavily. “Are you going to marry Ravenhill?”
The brandy snifter nearly fell from Holly's hand.
“I asked you a question,” he said thickly. “Are you going to marry him?”
“I don't know the answer to that.”
“Of course you do. Tell me, damn you.”
“I…” Her entire body seemed to wilt in defeat. “It is possible I will.”
Bronson did not seem surprised. A soft, ugly laugh broke from him. “You'll have to explain why. I'm afraid that common bruisers like myself have trouble understanding these upper-class arrangements.”
“I promised George,” Holly said carefully, feeling no small amount of apprehension as she stared at him. Bronson looked so…well, malevolent…as he sat there in the darkness. Handsome, black-haired and larger than life, he could have been Lucifer seated on his throne. “If you find anything about me that is worthy of admiration or affection, then you would not wish me to behave in a way that is less than honorable. I have been raised never to break my word, once it has been given. I know that some people think a woman's sense of honor is not as strong as a man's, but I have always tried—”
“My God, I don't doubt your honor,” he said roughly. “What I'm saying—what should be clear to everyone—is that George should never have asked for such a promise.”
“But he did, and I gave it.”
“Just like that.” Bronson shook his head. “I wouldn't have believed it of you—you, the only woman I've ever known who is willing to stand up to me in a temper.”
“George knew what would happen to me without him,” she said. “He knew I would never willingly marry again. He wanted me to have the protection of a husband and, more importantly, for Rose to have a father. And Ravenhill's values and beliefs were similar to his, and George knew that Rose and I would never be mistreated by his best friend—”
“Enough,” Zachary interrupted harshly. “I'll tell you what I think about good old Saint George. I think he didn't want you to ever fall in love again. And locking you into a marriage with a cold fish like Ravenhill was George's way of making certain that he would remain your one and only love.”
Holly whitened at the accusation. “What a horrible thing to say. You are completely wrong, you know absolutely nothing about my husband or his friend—”
“I know you don't love Ravenhill. I know you never will. If you're so intent on marrying a man you don't love, then take me.”
Of all the things she might have expected him to say, that was the biggest surprise of all. Clumsy with astonishment, Holly finished her brandy and set the empty snifter on the sideboard behind her. “Are you proposing to me?” she asked in a whisper.
Bronson came to her, not stopping until he had crowded her against the sideboard. “Why not? George wanted you to be protected and cared for. I can do that. And I could be a father to Rose. She doesn't know who the hell Ravenhill is. I'll take care of the two of you.” He slid his hand beneath the sheath of her hair, sifting gently through the long brown locks. Holly closed her eyes and bit back a whimper of pleasure as she felt his fingers curve around the back of her neck. It seemed that her whole body responded to his touch. There was a mortifying, expectant twitch in the private place between her thighs, and she was shamed by the carnal need that pulsed so strongly inside her. She had never longed to be physically possessed by a man as much as she did this moment. “I could give you things you never even thought to want before,” Bronson whispered. “Forget about your damned promises, Holly. That's all in the past. It's time to think of the future now.”
Holly shook her head and parted her lips to argue. His head lowered swiftly, and he took her mouth, making her groan in pleasure as his tongue sank deeply inside her. He kissed her with a passionate expertise that sent every rational thought scattering. His mouth teased and twisted over hers, while she strained upward in helpless response. His warm hands, separated from her body by only thin layers of muslin, slid over her with shocking boldness, cupping over the shapes of her breasts, the slopes of her hips, even the full curves of her buttocks. She gasped as he squeezed her bottom gently, pulling her hips upward against his. As he kissed her, he rubbed her insistently against the rock-hard protrusion of his arousal, and Holly nearly swooned at the sensation. Not even her husband had dared to fondle her so blatantly.