The reassurance that Bronson's mother did not blame her for the situation should have made Holly feel better. Unfortuately, it didn't. Each time Holly saw Bronson, no matter how brief or casual the encounter, she was filled with longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She began to wonder if she could really live like this for the remainder of her promised year at the Bronson home. Devoting herself to Rose and to the Bronson women, she kept herself as busy as possible. And there was much to do, especially now that Elizabeth had made her entrance into society. The great hall was filled with constantly arriving bowers of roses and spring arrangements, and the silver tray near the door was loaded daily with cards from hopeful suitors.
As Holly had predicted, the combination of Elizabeth's beauty and fortune, not to mention her irrepressible charm, had attracted many men who seemed more than willing to overlook the circumstances of her birth. It required both Holly's and Paula's efforts to chaperone the daily visits and carriage drives and picnics as various gentlemen came to court Elizabeth. However, there was one caller in particular who seemed to capture the girl's interest most strongly—the architect, Jason Somers.
There were callers with bluer blood and greater wealth, but none that possessed Jason's self-confidence and charm. He was a robust man with more than his share of talent and ambition—a man not all that unlike Elizabeth's brother. From what Holly had observed, Jason was able to balance Elizabeth's exuberant spirit with his own steady strength. It was a good match, and promised to be a happy union, if all turned out as Holly hoped.
During one of Jason's morning visits, Holly happened to see the pair as he and Elizabeth returned from a walk in the garden.
“…besides, you're not tall enough for me…” Elizabeth was saying, her voice filled with effervescent laughter as they strode through the French doors and into a gallery of marble sculpture. Holly paused at the far end of the gallery where she happened to be walking. She was concealed by a towering winged rendition of some Roman god.
“Good God, woman, I'm hardly what anyone would call short,” Jason retorted. “And I'm a good two inches taller than you.”
“You are not!”
“Am too,” he insisted, and pulled her against him with an easy strength that made Elizabeth gasp. They were matched length-to-length, Elizabeth's slender form measured against Jason's larger one. “See?” Jason said, his voice suddenly husky. The amusement faded from the girl's face, and she fell abruptly silent, staring at the man who held her, her eyes filled with shy apprehension. Holly briefly considered interrupting the scene, knowing that Elizabeth was unused to such attentions from a man. But there was a look on Jason's face that Holly had never seen before, utterly tender and desirous. He bent his head to murmur something in her ear, and Elizabeth turned pink, one of her hands creeping up to his shoulder.
Holly's own face flushed a bit as she slipped away discreetly, allowing the two a measure of privacy. Oh, how long ago it seemed that she had been courted by George in the same manner, and how innocent and hopeful she had felt. But her memories were blurred now, and she no longer found pleasure in reminiscing. Her life with George had become a distant dream.
Filled with wistfulness, Holly spent the rest of the morning playing with Rose, and then left her daughter in Maude's care. She declined lunch, as she was too dispirited to eat a bite. Instead, she selected a novel from the library and carried it with her on a walk through the gardens. The sky was overcast, and the breeze was infused with a cool mist that caused Holly to shiver and pull her brown cashmere shawl more closely around her shoulders. Pausing first at a stone table, and then at a bench sided by flower-filled urns, she finally found a spot for reading, a summerhouse about twelve feet wide. The windows were covered in little wooden shutters, and inside it was lined with cushioned benches. The seats and backs of the benches were covered with a heavy twilled green fabric that held a faintly musty but not unpleasant scent.
Curling up on one of the cushions and drawing her feet up beneath her, Holly leaned back and began to read. Soon lost in the tale of a doomed love affair—was there any other kind?—Holly failed to noticed the rumblings of thunder in the sky. The light darkened from silver-white to gray, and rain began to patter heavily on the lawn and paved walkway outside. A few errant drops blew through the shutter and fell to Holly's shoulder, finally alerting her to the worsening weather outside. Looking up from the novel, she frowned.
“Bother,” she muttered, realizing that her novel reading was coming to an end. It was definitely time to return to the main house. But the rain was already heavy, and she wondered if the storm might lessen in a few minutes. Sighing, she closed the book in her lap and leaned her head against the wall as she watched the rain pelt the grassy earth and hedges. The vibrant smell of a heavy spring shower filled the summerhouse.
Her melancholy thoughts were soon interrupted as someone opened the door roughly and shouldered his way inside.
She was startled to see Zachary Bronson, his large form shrouded in a sodden greatcoat. He brought a gust of fresh rain-laden wind with him, then closed the shuttered door with the back of his shoe. Swearing beneath his breath, he struggled with a huge dripping umbrella. Retreating back against a cushion, Holly watched him with a growing smile as he endeavored to fold the ungainly contraption. He was a handsome devil, she thought with a flicker of pleasure, her gaze drinking in the sight of his rain-washed face and his coffee-black eyes and his gleaming dark hair plastered to his well-shaped skull.
“I thought you were in town,” she said, raising her
voice above a long rumble of thunder.
“Came back early,” he replied shortly. “I managed to stay just ahead of the storm until it reached the estate.”
“How did you know I was out here?”
“Maude was worried—she said you were in the garden somewhere.” Triumphantly he closed the umbrella with a snap. “It was easy enough to find you—not many places to take shelter.” His dark gaze settled on her face, and he returned her smile with a flashing grin. “So I'm here to rescue you, milady.”
“I didn't even realize I needed rescuing,” Holly said. “I was completely absorbed in my book. Perhaps the rain will ease soon?”
As if in sarcastic response, the sky turned several shades darker, and earsplitting thunder accompanied a streak of lightning as it scored across the burgeoning sky. Holly laughed suddenly and glanced at Bronson, who was smiling. “Let me take you back to the house,” he said.
Holly shivered, staring at the torrential downpour. It seemed a very long way back to the house. “We'll be soaked,” she said. “And the lawn has undoubtedly turned to mud. Couldn't we just wait until it stops?” Extracting a dry handkerchief from her sleeve, she stood on her toes and dabbed at the rivulets of rain on Bronson's face. Suddenly he was expressionless, standing still beneath her ministrations.
“It won't stop for hours. And I don't trust myself to be alone with you for more than five minutes.” He removed his greatcoat and hung it around her shoulders. The garment was ridiculously large on her. “So unless you want to be ravished in the summerhouse,” he said brusquely, staring into her upturned face, “let's go.”
But neither of them moved.
Holly raised the handkerchief to his jaw, drying a few last drops of water that clung to his clean-shaven skin. She crushed the damp lace-trimmed linen in her fist, and clutched at the greatcoat to keep it from falling to the floor. She did not comprehend why being alone with him gave her such intense pleasure, why the sight of him and sound of his voice should be so comfortable and yet so stirring. The knowledge that their lives were only entwined for a temporary time caused her heart to ache. He had become important to her so quickly, so effortlessly.
“I've missed you,” she whispered. She had not intended to speak the words aloud, but they pressed forth of their own accord, hanging gently amid the splashing staccato of rain. She felt almost maddened by a yearning that was deeper than hunger, sharper than pain.
“I had to stay away,” Bronson said gruffly. “I can't be around you without…” Falling silent, he stared at her in grim misery. He did not move when Holly pushed the coat off her shoulders, or when she brought her body against his, or even when she slid her arms around his neck. She rubbed her face against the damp collar of his shirt, and hugged him fiercely. It seemed that for the first time in days she was able to breathe fully, the dull ache of loneliness finally lifting from her chest.
A muffled groan escaped him, and he turned his head to fit his mouth against hers. His arms went around her, holding her securely. The summerhouse dissolved in a blur around her, and the smell of rain was replaced by the masculine scent of Zachary's skin. She put her hands on his hot cheeks, his neck, and his grip tightened just short of crushing her, as if he were trying to pull her inside him.
Just this once…the wicked thought seized her and would not let go. Just once…she would live on it, remember, savor savor when the days of her youth were long past. No one would ever know.
The storm pounded on the wooden structure around them, but its force was nothing compared to the violent beating of her own heart. Frantically she pulled at the knot of his necktie, tugging it loose, then worked at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. Zachary held still, though his powerful chest moved in deep, labored breaths.