Since George had died. Suddenly uneasiness seeped through her, dispelling the warm anticipation. She felt guilty for enjoying herself. As if she had no right to happiness now that George was no longer with her. For the duration of her mourning, he had been in the forefront of her thoughts every minute of the day…until now. Now her mind was being filled with new thoughts and ambitions, and she was mingling with people he had never known.
I won't ever let go of you, dearest darling, she thought fiercely. I will never forget one moment of what we had. I just need a change of scene, that's all. But I'll spend the rest of my life waiting to be with you again—
“Lady Holland, are you all right?” Elizabeth had stopped near the entrance of the mansion, her glowing brown eyes filled with concern. “You've become so quiet, and you're flushed—oh, I was walking too fast again, wasn't I?” She hung her dark head contritely. “Forgive me. I'm going to hobble myself, see if I don't.”
“No, no…” Holly laughed self-consciously. “It's not you at all. It's difficult to explain. My life has moved at a very slow pace for the past three years. A very slow pace. Now everything seems to be changing very quickly, and it's a bit of a struggle for me to adjust.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth looked relieved. “Well, that's what my brother does to people. He meddles and fiddles with their lives, and turns everything upside down.”
“In this case, I'm glad he did. I'm happy to be here, and to be of use to someone other than my daughter.”
“No happier than we are, my lady. Praise heaven that someone will try to make this family a bit more presentable. The only thing I regret is that I won't be able to watch you teach Zach about etiquette. To my mind, that would be jolly good entertainment.”
“I wouldn't mind if you wished to join our lessons,” Holly said, taking to the idea instantly. She wasn't looking forward to being alone with Zachary Bronson, and having his sister accompany them might dispel the tension that seemed to shred the air whenever he was near.
“Zach would mind,” Elizabeth said dryly. “He made it clear that his sessions with you were to remain strictly private. He has a lot of pride, you know. He never allows his weaknesses to be exposed, and he doesn't want anyone, even me, to discover how little he knows about being a gentleman.”
“Being a gentleman is quite a bit more than a few lessons on manners,” Holly replied. “It is a condition of character…it means being noble, kind, modest, courageous, self-sacrificing and honest. Every minute of the day. Whether one is in the company of others or completely alone.”
There was a brief silence, and then Holly was surprised to hear Elizabeth snicker. “Well,” the girl said, “just do your best with him.”
The lessons with Elizabeth went very well, as Holly instructed her in the art of sitting in a chair or rising gracefully. The trick was to keep the body from inclining too far forward during either process, and managing one's skirts with one hand without exposing a provocative glimpse of ankle. Elizabeth's mother Paula came to watch the proceedings, sitting quietly in the corner of a plush settee. “Come practice with us, Mama,” Elizabeth urged, but the shy older woman declined with a smile.
There were several moments of hilarity, as Elizabeth resorted to antics that Holly suspected were designed to amuse her mother…walking and sitting with exaggerated stiffness, then swooping about theatrically, until all three of them were laughing. Toward the end of the morning, however, Elizabeth mastered every nuance of posture and movement, until Holly was more than satisfied.
“Perfect. How graceful you are, Elizabeth,” Holly exclaimed.
The young woman flushed, clearly unaccustomed to such straightforward praise. “I'll forget every bit of this by tomorrow.”
“We'll practice until everything becomes second nature,” Holly replied.
Folding her long, slender arms across her chest, Elizabeth lounged in a chair, her legs sprawled in a completely unladylike manner. “Lady Holland,” she asked with a smile, “have you ever thought that all these manners and social rules were invented by people with entirely too much time on their hands?”
“You may be right,” Holly said with a laugh.
As Holly left the Bronson women in search of her daughter, she continued to ponder the question. Everything she knew about first society and the behaviors associated with gentlefolk had been instilled in her since birth. She had never thought to question those long-ago lessons until now. Many of the social graces, such as courtesy and self-composure, were undoubtedly necessary for a civilized society. But as for the countless little affectations that Elizabeth had been referring to…was it truly important how a person sat or stood or gestured, or what phrases were fashionable and what clothes were in style? Or was it really all just a way for certain people trying to prove themselves superior to others?
The idea that a man like Zachary Bronson might be inherently equal to a man like…well, like one of the Taylors, or even her dear George…it was a provocative notion. The great majority of aristocrats would immediately dismiss the idea. Some men were born with blue blood, with generations of noble ancestors behind them, and this made them better, finer than ordinary men. This was what Holly had always been taught. But Zachary Bronson had started in life with no advantage whatsoever, and he had made himself into a man to be reckoned with. And he was trying very hard to better himself and his family, and soften the coarseness of his own character. Was he really so inferior to the Taylors? Or to herself?
These ideas would never have occurred to her had she not agreed to work for Bronson. For the first time, Holly realized that this year of closeness with Bronson and his family might change her, just as it would change them. And that troubled her. Would George have approved?
After a pleasant afternoon of reading books and taking a walk in the gardens together, Holly and Rose sat in the library and waited for Zachary Bronson. Rose devoured a snack of milk and buttered bread, and proceeded to play on the floor while Holly sipped tea from a flowered china cup. A blazing fire in the huge green marble fireplace mingled with the shafts of afternoon light coming through the velvet-draped windows.
Not daring to sit at Bronson's huge masculine desk, Holly occupied a chair at a nearby side table as she made a few notes regarding the proper forms of address for the various tiers of aristocracy. The subject was a complicated one, even for those who had been born into the peerage, but it was important for Bronson to understand it thoroughly if he desired to mingle successfully with the ton. She concentrated so hard on the task before her that she would not have noticed Bronson's entrance into the room were it not for her daughter's delighted exclamation.
“There he is, Mama!”
Glacing upward, Holly tensed at Bronson's approach, while her nerves responded to his presence with a strange, pleasurable jangle. He was such a large, vital man, bringing the fresh scent of outdoors with him. As he stopped close to her and bowed, she couldn't help noticing the alluring fragrance that clung to him, a masculine blend of horses and starched linen and sweat. With his swarthy complexion and sparkling black eyes, and the shadow of bristle beneath his close-shaven skin, he seemed more potently virile than any other man of her acquaintance. Bronson smiled at her, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face, and Holly realized with renewed surprise that he was handsome. Not in a classical sense, and not in a poetic or artistic sense…but he was definitely attractive.
Holly was perturbed by her own reaction to him. He was not at all the kind of man she should find appealing, not after having known and loved someone like George. Her husband had been faultless in his easy confidence and his golden good looks. Holly had even been amused by the way women stared and swooned over George. It had not been George's dazzling looks, however, that had made him so compelling. It was his utter refinement, both of character and manners. He had been polished, courteous, a gentleman from the inside out.
Comparing George to Zachary Bronson was like comparing a prince to a pirate. If one spent ten years doing nothing but
drilling rules and rituals into Bronson's head, anyone would still glance at him and immediately proclaim him a scoundrel. Nothing would ever dispel the rascally gleam in his black eyes or the heathen charm of his smile. It was all too easy to picture Bronson as a bare-knuckle fighter, stripped to the waist as he pummeled an opponent in the rope ring. The problem was, Holly felt a thrill of shameful unladylike interest in the image.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bronson,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat next to her. “I hope you will not object if Rose plays in the corner during our discussion today. She has promised to be very quiet.”
“Naturally I wouldn't object to such charming company.” Bronson smiled at the petite child, who sat on the carpeted floor with her toys. “Are you having tea, Miss Rose?”
“Yes, Mr. Bronson. Miss Crumpet asked me to pour. Would you like a cup, too?” Before Holly could restrain her, the little girl hastened to Bronson with a doll-sized cup and saucer no bigger than his thumbnail. “Here you are, sir.” A tiny concerned frown adorned her brow. “It's only ‘air tea,’ but it's quite delicious if you're good at pretending.”
Bronson accepted the cup as if it were a great favor. Carefully he sampled the invisible brew. “A bit more sugar, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully.
Holly watched while the two prepared the cup to Bronson's satisfaction. She had not expected Bronson to interact so comfortably with a child. In fact, not even George's brothers, Rose's own uncles, had displayed such ease with her. Children were seldom part of a man's world. Even the most doting father did little more than view his child once or twice a day and inquire after his or her progress.
Glancing at Holly briefly, Bronson caught her perplexed expression. “I was coerced into more than a few tea parties by Elizabeth when she was no bigger than Rose,” he said. “Although Lizzie had to make do with shingles for plates and an old tin cup instead of china. I always swore I'd get her a proper toy tea set someday. By the time I could afford one, she was too old to want it any longer.”
A maid entered the room, evidently having been requested to bring a tray of refreshments, and Bronson rubbed his hands in anticipation. Bearing a huge silver tray laden with a coffee service and a plate of confections, the maid awkwardly unloaded the pots and dishes onto the small table.
Quietly asking the girl's name, Holly murmured a few suggestions to her. “You may set the tray on the sideboard, Gladys,” she said, “and carry the dishes here one or two at a time. And serve from the left, please.”
Clearly taken aback by the unexpected advice, the girl looked askance at Bronson. He smothered a grin and spoke gravely. “Do as Lady Holland says, Gladys. I'm afraid no one is exempt from her authority—not even me.”
Nodding at once, Gladys complied with Holly's instructions. To Holly's surprise, the maid set out a plate piled high with miniature round cakes, each one covered with a delicate sheen of pale pink icing.
Holly sent Bronson a reproachful glance, knowing that he had ordered the treat specifically for her enjoyment. “Mr. Bronson,” she said, recalling their conversation much earlier in the day, “I can't fathom what reason you have for plying me with cakes.”
Bronson settled back in his chair, looking completely unrepentant. “I wanted to see you wrestle with temptation.”
Holly couldn't repress the laugh that bubbled to her lips. The insolent rogue! “I fear you're a wicked man,” she said.
“I am,” he admitted without hesitation.
Still smiling, Holly grasped a pair of forks and expertly grasped a delicate cake in a scissor hold that did not damage its fragile shape. She placed it on a small china plate and handed it to her daughter, who exclaimed happily and proceeded to devour the confection. After serving herself and Bronson, Holly gave him the pages of notes she had made.
“After the success I had with your sister today, I am feeling rather ambitious,” she said. “I thought you and I might start on one of the most difficult subjects of all.”
“Titles and rules of peerage,” Bronson muttered, staring at the long columns written in neat script. “God help me.”
“If you can learn this,” Holly said, “and eventually do a decent quadrille, the battle will be mostly won.”
Bronson picked up one of the pink-iced cakes with his fingers and ate most of it in one bite. “Do your worst,” he advised out of the side of his mouth that wasn't stuffed.
Making a mental note to do something about his primitive eating style at some later date, Holly began to explain. “I'm certain you're already aware of the five titles of peerage: duke, marquess, earl, viscount and baron.”
“What about knights?”
“Knights are not peers, and neither are baronets.” Holly lifted a fork to her lips, swallowed a spongy morsel of cake and closed her eyes in a brief moment of pleasure as the crisp, delicate icing dissolved at once on her tongue. She took a swallow of tea, then became aware that Bronson was staring at her strangely. His face was smooth and suddenly taut, and the coffee-dark eyes were as alert as those of a cat watching for movement in the grass.
“Lady Holland,” he said, his tone underlaid with gravel, “there's a speck of sugar on your…” He stopped suddenly, apparently too preoccupied to find any more words.
Holly explored the left corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, discovering a fleck of sweetness. “Thank you,” she murmured, dabbing at the spot with her napkin. She made her tone brisk as she continued, wondering why he seemed a bit uncomfortable and distracted. “Now, back to the peerage. Only an actual peer can be considered to have the title by right. All other titles, including those possessed by the peer's eldest son, are merely courtesy titles. If you turn to the third page I gave you, there is a little chart that I hoped might make things clear…” Holly slipped from her chair and went to Bronson's side of the table, leaning over his shoulder as he riffled through the sheaf of paper. “There. Does that make sense to you, or am I creating a hopeless muddle?”
“No, it's clear enough. Except…why are there no courtesy titles in these two columns?”
Holly forced herself to concentrate on the paper he held, but it was difficult. Their heads were very close together, and she was strongly tempted to touch his hair. The thick, rumpled locks needed to be brushed and smoothed with a drop of pomade, especially the place where an unruly swath sprang over his forehead. So different from George's silky blond hair. Bronson's locks were as black as midnight, a bit coarse, curling slightly at the ends and the nape of his neck. His neck was thick with muscle, and it looked as hard as iron. She almost brushed the tempting surface with her fingers. Horrified by the impulse, she curled her hand into a fist as she answered him. “Because children of dukes, marquesses and earls are able to prefix their names with ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady,’ but children of viscounts and barons are merely ‘Mr.’ or ‘Miss’.”
“Like your husband,” Bronson muttered, not taking his eyes from the list.
“Yes, that is an excellent example. My husband's father was a viscount. He was known as Viscount Taylor of Westbridge or more simply, Albert, Lord Taylor. He had three sons, William, George and Thomas, all three of whom were “Mr. Taylor.” When the viscount passed away a few years ago, his eldest son William assumed his title and became William, Lord Taylor.”
“But George and his brother never became ‘lords.’”
“No, they both remained ‘Mr.’”
“Then why are you called ‘Lady Holland’?”
“Well…” Holly paused and laughed ruefully. “Now we're treading on more complicated territory. I am the daughter of an earl. Therefore, I have had the courtesy title ‘lady’ since birth.”
“And you didn't lose it when you married George?”
“No, when a peer's daughter marries a man who is not a peer, she is allowed to keep her own courtesy title. After I married, I still derived my rank from my father rather than from George.”
Bronson turned his head and stared at her intently. Looking into his fathomles
s eyes at close range gave Holly a small, warm shock. She could see the glints of brown in the midnight depths. “So your rank was always higher than your husband's,” he said. “In a way, you married down.”
“Technically,” she admitted.
Bronson seemed to savor the information. Holly had the impression that for some reason the idea pleased him. “What would happen to your rank if you married a commoner?” he asked idly. “Like me, for example.”
Flustered by the question, Holly drew away from him and resumed her seat. “Well, I…I would remain ‘Lady Holland,’ but I would take your surname.”
“Lady Holland Bronson.”
She started a little at the strange sound of her own name being joined with anything other than Taylor. “Yes,” she said softly. “In theory, that is correct.”
Busily she fussed with her skirts and smoothed them over her lap as she sensed him staring at her. Glancing upward, she saw the look in his eyes, a raw glitter of masculine interest. A surge of something like anxiety drove her heart to a faster beat. When had a man ever looked at her this way? George's blue eyes had contained love and tenderness when he beheld her, but never this look of sexual appraisal…heat…appetite.
Bronson's gaze moved to her mouth, her breasts, then back to her face, bringing a wash of prickling warmth to her skin. It was the kind of intimate stare that no gentleman would give a lady. He was doing it to fluster her, Holly thought. He was amusing himself by deliberately unsettling her. Yet he did not seem amused. A frown drew the thick slashes of his brows together, and he seemed as troubled, more troubled, than she.
“Mama!” Rose's laughing voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. “Your cheeks are all red!”
“Are they?” Holly asked unsteadily, bringing her cool fingers to her hot face. “I must be sitting too close to the fire.”