“Good work,” Ravenhill said quietly. Zachary wanted to snarl that he didn't need or want his damned approval. Nor did he need the bastard's instructions on how to fight like a gentleman. However, he kept his fury in check, suppressing the emotion until it simmered coldly in his belly.
Returning for the third round, Zachary tolerated a rapid flurry of shots from Warrington, who was already tiring. Dodging at least half the blows, Zachary experienced the familiar sensation of settling in for the fight, reaching the plateau on which he could last for hours. He could box like this all day without requiring rest. It would be easy to keep Warrington occupied until the other man simply dropped in exhaustion. However, Zachary went in for the kill and landed a five-shot combination that sent Warrington to the ground.
Clearly bewildered, shaking his head in a useless effort to clear it, Warrington remained down. Turner and Enfield screamed at him to rise again, but he spat some bloody saliva and held up his hands in refusal. “Can't do it,” he muttered. “Can't.” Even when Enfield came forward to lift him up and lead him to the center again, Warrington refused.
Although Zachary would have liked to have inflicted further damage, he was mildly placated by the sight of Warrington's bruised and battered face, and the way he held his ribs in obvious discomfort.
“Match is finished,” Warrington said out of one side of his swollen mouth. “I cede to Bronson.”
After taking a minute or two to regain his strength, Warrington came forward and faced Zachary. “My apologies to Lady Holland,” he said, while his companions complained and grumbled loudly. “I retract every word I said about her.” He turned to Enfield. “Cut off the top button of my coat and give it to him.”
“But what's he going to do with it?” Enfield complained, glaring at Zachary.
“I don't give a damn,” Warrington replied curtly. “Remove the blasted thing.” Turning back to Zachary, he extended his hand. “Bronson, you've got a head like an anvil. I suppose that makes you fit company for the rest of us.”
Zachary was surprised by the gleam of friendly amusement in the other man's eyes. Slowly he reached out and shook Warrington's hand, the grip ginger in regard for both sets of sore knuckles. The gesture meant that Warrington recognized Zachary as an equal, or at least as someone whom he considered an acceptable member of the club.
“You've got a good right cross,” Zachary replied gruffly. “As good as any I took in my prizefighting days.”
Despite his swollen mouth, Warrington smiled, apparently pleased by the compliment.
Returning to Ravenhill, Zachary toweled off and donned his clothes, buttoning his shirt with difficulty and leaving his waistcoat unfastened. “Allow me,” Ravenhill offered, but Zachary shook his head irritably. He hated to be touched by other men, even to the extent of refusing the services of a valet.
Ravenhill shook his head and smiled slightly. “As mild-tempered as a wild boar,” he commented in a cool, dry tone. “How in God's name did you get Lady Holland to agree to it?”
“Agree to what?” Zachary asked, although he knew exactly what Ravenhill meant.
“The shy, gentle lady I knew three years ago would never have agreed to work for you. She would have been terrified of you.”
“Maybe she's changed,” Zachary muttered coldly. “Or maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought you did.” He saw the dislike in the other man's remote gray eyes, and he experienced a strange comingling of emotions. Triumph, because Holly was indeed living with him and her life was entwined with his in a way it had never been with this superior aristocrat's. And jealousy, bitter stinging jealousy, because this man had known her before Zachary had, and for a much longer time. And Holly and Ravenhill were obviously cut of the same cloth, both of them cultured and pedigreed.
Giving his battered face one last swipe with the towel, Zachary smiled slightly at the handsome aristocrat. “My thanks, Ravenhill. I would take you as my second anytime.” They exchanged a measuring glance, not hostile, but not precisely friendly. Ravenhill was not pleased with what had become of Holly, Zachary realized. His lordship was offended by the idea that his departed friend's wife was now employed by a lowbrow commoner. Too bad for you, Zachary thought nastily, every proprietary, primitive instinct in his body rising to the fore. She's mine now, and there's nothing in hell that you or anyone else can do about it.
Almost twenty-four hours to the minute since her megrims had begun, Holly felt well enough to rise from her bed. She felt weak and a bit dazed, as she always did after such an episode. It was early evening, the time when the Bronsons usually gathered in the family parlor to wait for supper to be announced. “Where is Rose?” was Holly's first question, as Maude helped her to sit up in bed.
“Downstairs with the master and his mother and sister,” Maude answered, tucking supportive pillows behind her back. “They've all been doting on her while ye've been sleeping, playing games with the child and giving her extra sweets. Mr. Bronson canceled his ride to town today and spent all morning guiding her ‘round the paddock on a little brown pony.”
“Oh, he shouldn't have,” Holly said in instant concern. “He shouldn't have neglected his business concerns—it isn't his place to take care of my child.”
“He insisted, milady. I thought it a bit unseemly, and I tried to tell him there was no need. But ye know how the master is when he is set on something.”
“Yes, I know.” Holly sighed and clasped her hand over her sore forehead. “Oh, the extra trouble I've caused for you and everyone—”
“Now, milady, don't go fretting yerself into another megrim,” Maude soothed. “The Bronsons are all quite happy, it seems, and Rose has enjoyed all the petting and spoiling. No harm done. Shall I have some victuals sent up, milady?”
“Thank you, but I would like to go downstairs and take supper with the family. I've been in bed for far too long. And I must see Rose.”
With the maid's help, Holly bathed and dressed in a soft, simple gown of brown corded silk trimmed with a small collar of tea-dyed lace, and more lace edging at the sleeves. Since her scalp was still sensitive after the attack of megrims, they coiled her long, loose locks and secured them to her nape with only two pins. After checking her appearance in the dressing-table mirror to ascertain that she was tidy, Holly carefully made her way to the family parlor.
As Maude had described, the Bronsons were all there. Zachary lounged on the carpet beside Rose as they pored over a pile of painted wooden puzzle pieces, while Elizabeth read aloud from a collection of short stories. Paula occupied a corner of the long settee, contentedly mending a torn ruffle on one of Rose's white pinafores. The small group looked up in unison as Holly entered the room.
Wan and fatigued, she managed an apologetic smile. “Good evening, everyone.”
“Mama!” Rose exclaimed, beaming as she hurried to Holly and threw her arms around her hips. “You're all better now!”
“Yes, darling.” Lovingly Holly stroked her daughter's dark curls. “I'm sorry I took such a long rest.”
“I had great fun while you were sleeping,” Rose said, and proceeded to entertain her with an account of the morning's pony ride.
While Rose chattered away, Elizabeth bounded over to Holly with exclamations of sympathy and concern, and guided her to the settee. Paula insisted on covering Holly's knees with a knitted lap blanket, despite Holly's sheepish protests. “Oh, Mrs. Bronson, you're too kind. Really, there's no need…”
While the women fussed over her, Bronson stood and bowed in welcome. Sensing his dark, assessing gaze, Holly gave him a hesitant smile. “Mr. Bronson, I—” She broke off in surprise as she saw that his eye was shadowed with a bruise, and there was another blotch on his jaw. “What happened to your face, sir?”
Rose answered before he did, with the pride of a child who was delivering news of great significance. “Mr. Bronson ran into a left hook again, Mama. He was fighting. And he brought this to me.” She pulled the end of her button string from her large apron
pocket and climbed into Holly's lap to display her newest acquisition.
Cuddling her daughter, Holly examined the button carefully. It was fashioned of a huge sparkling diamond encased in rich yellow gold. Bewildered, she glanced at Elizabeth's rueful face, and Paula's tight-lipped one, before finally staring into Bronson's enigmatic black eyes. “You shouldn't have given Rose such a costly object, Mr. Bronson. Whose button is it? And why were you fighting?”
“I had a disagreement with someone in my club.”
“Over money?…Over a woman?…”
Bronson's expression revealed nothing, and he gave an indifferent shrug, as if the matter were of no importance.
Considering various possibilities, Holly continued to stare at him in the tense silence that had overtaken the room. Suddenly the answer occurred to her. “Over me?” she whispered.
Idly Bronson picked a skein of thread from his sleeve. “Not really.”
Holly suddenly discovered that she knew him well enough to discern when he was lying. “Yes, it was,” she said with growing conviction. “Someone must have said something unpleasant, and instead of ignoring the remark, you took up the challenge. Oh, Mr. Bronson, how could you?”
Seeing her unhappiness, instead of the grateful admiration he had probably expected, Bronson scowled. “Would you rather I allowed some high-kick b—” He paused to correct himself as he noticed the rapt attention Rose was paying to the conversation. “Some high-kick fellow,” he said, his tone softening a degree, “to spread lies about you? His mouth needed to be shut, and I was able and willing to do it.”
“The only way to respond to a distasteful remark is to ignore it,” Holly said crisply. “You did the exact opposite, thereby creating the impression in some people's minds that there may be a grain of truth in it. You should not have fought for my honor. You should have smiled disdainfully at any slight upon it, resting secure in the knowledge that there is nothing dishonorable about our relationship.”
“But my lady, I would fight the world for you.” Bronson said it in the way he always made such startling comments, in a tone of such jeering lightness that the listener had no doubt he was being facetious.
Elizabeth broke in then, her lips curved in a droll smile. “He'll use any excuse to fight, Lady Holly. My brother enjoys using his fists, primitive male that he is.”
“That is an aspect of his character we will have to correct.” Holly sent Bronson a reproachful glance, and he laughed.
A maid came to announce that dinner was ready to be served, and Rose bounced up and down in excitement. “Rosemary lamb and potatoes,” she said with anticipation, evidently having gleaned the information from the cook. “My favorite! Come, Lizzie, let's hurry!”
Laughing, Elizabeth caught the child's hand in hers and allowed herself to be dragged away from the parlor. Paula smiled as she set her needlework aside and followed. Holly was slow to rise, battling a sudden wave of nausea at the thought of lamb, which did not sound at all appetizing. Unfortunately, the tonic that had relieved her megrims and caused her to sleep for a day did not come without side effects, one of them being greatly diminished appetite.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she opened them to discover that Bronson had made it to her side with astonishing speed. “Feeling faint?” he asked quietly, his gaze moving over her pale face.
“Just a bit queasy,” she murmured, struggling to her feet. “No doubt I'll feel better once I eat something.”
“Let me help you.” His hard, strong arm slid behind her back, supporting her weight as she stood, and Holly experienced a sweet quake of familiarity. It seemed that since their dance lesson, her body had become accustomed to the closeness of his. Being in his arms felt far too natural and pleasurable.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to check the coil at her nape, which felt rather loose. The pins had loosened from Rose's affectionate embrace. To Holly's dismay, the pins slid out and the mass of her hair tumbled free. She jerked away from Bronson with a small exclamation. “Oh, dear.” Embarrassed by the cascade of brown locks that fell nearly to her waist, something that women never revealed to any man except their husbands, she busily gathered up the straying locks. “Pardon,” she said, blushing. “I'll restore myself in no time.”
Bronson was strangely quiet. In her discomfited flurry, she did not glance at his face, but it seemed to her that his breathing changed to a deeper, faster rhythm than usual. His hands lifted, reaching for her hair, and at first she thought that he was trying to help her. But instead he took her wrists in his hands, his long fingers wrapping gently around the fragile bones, and he pulled her arms to her sides.
Gasping, Holly glanced up at his dark face. “My hair…oh, Mr. Bronson, please…do let go…”
He continued to hold her wrists, his grip warm and light, and Holly's fingers opened and closed helplessly on nothing but air.
Her hair trailed over her shoulders and bodice in gleaming brown ripples, the lamplight striking tiny glints of gold and red in the dark strands. Bronson stared at her intently, his gaze moving along the path they made down her body, noting the way the strands parted over the gentle hills of her breasts. Holly's cheeks burned with the heat of modesty, and she pulled once more at her wrists. Suddenly he released her, allowing her to move back a few steps. But as she retreated, he followed.
Moistening her dry lips, Holly sought for something, anything, to break the seething silence between them. “Maude tells me,” she said in a faltering voice, “that you went into my room last night after I took my medicine.”
“I was concerned for you.”
“No matter how kind your intentions, it was wrong of you. I was not in a condition to receive visitors. I don't even remember your being there, o-or what was said—”
“Nothing was said. You were sleeping.”
“Oh—” Holly stopped as her shoulders bumped against the wall, preventing further retreat. “Zachary,” she whispered.
She had not intended to say his name…she never even used it in her thoughts…but somehow it had slipped out. The small intimacy shocked her, and perhaps him as well. His eyes closed for a long moment, and when his lashes lifted, his black eyes were filled with a bright, hot gleam.
“I'm not quite myself,” she murmured, discovering that she was trembling all over. “My medicine…it's still making me a bit—”
“Shhhh.” Bronson took a lock of her hair in his fingers and lifted it from her shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the silken strands. He moved slowly, as if he were in a dream. Staring at the shining lock in his hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
Holly's knees weakened until she could hardly stand. She was astonished by the tender, worshipful gesture, the extreme care with which he laid the lock of hair back on her shoulder.
Bronson leaned over her, his big-framed body not quite touching hers. His nearness caused her to shrink back hard against the wall. She let out a serrated breath as he deliberately placed a huge hand on either side of her head, his palms flattened on the wood paneling.
“They're waiting for us,” she said faintly.
He seemed not to hear. He was going to kiss her, she thought. His tantalizing scent, the wonderful masculine spice of his skin, filled her mouth and nose as she inhaled deeply. Her empty hands flexed open and closed, shaking with the desire to pull his dark head down to hers. Confounded, she waited in sweet agony for his mouth to descend, while silent words spun through her head: Yes, do it now, please…
“Mama?” Rose's surprised giggle shredded the silence between them. She had returned to discover why they had not yet joined the others at the dining table. “What are you doing, standing together like that?”
Holly heard her own voice as if it came from a great distance. “M-my hair came loose, darling. Mr. Bronson was helping me to repair it.”
Stooping, Rose found the pins and handed them to Holly. “Here you are,” she said brightly.
Bronson lowered an arm, allowing Holly to es
cape, though his dark gaze remained on her. Taking a deep breath, Holly stepped away and refused to look at him. “Thank you, Rose,” she said, bending to hug her daughter briefly. “What a helpful girl you are.”
“Hurry, please,” the child requested, watching as Holly gathered her hair, twisted it in a coil and pinned it once more. “I'm hungry!”
The dinner was uneventful, but Zachary found that his normally voracious appetite had dwindled to nothing. He sat at the head of the table, noting that Holly had seated herself as far away from him as possible. Marshaling all his wits, he concentrated on keeping the conversation light, dwelling on safely neutral subjects, when all he wanted was to be alone with Holly.
Damn her…she had somehow taken away his ability to eat and sleep. Neither did he want to go gambling or wenching; all his desires were focused on her. Just to sit with her in a quiet parlor all evening sounded more exciting than spending a night in the bawdiest brothel in London. She aroused the most lascivious fantasies in him, and he couldn't glance at her hands or body or mouth without becoming acutely aroused. And she inspired other fantasies as well: images of tame domesticity that he had once scoffed at.
He longed for another of the intimate evenings they had shared, when everyone else had retired and they talked and drank before the fire, but it was clear that Holly was exhausted. She excused herself immediately after supper, barely looking at him, and retired early for the night.
For some reason Paula lingered at the table with him after the others had gone, sipping at a cup of tea while he drank a glass of dark reddish black port. Zachary smiled at his mother, taking pleasure in the sight of her dressed in a fine blue silk gown, her throat adorned with the pearl broach he had given her last Christmas. He would never forget the old, threadbare gowns she had once worn, the ceaseless work she had done to provide for her young children. She had been a seamstress, a washwoman, a ragseller. Now he was able to take care of her, and he would make certain she wanted for nothing.