It must be exhausting to live with him, Holly mused, wondering how his mother and sister dealt with his relentless energy. He had such an active brain and so many interests, and his obvious appetite for life amazed her. One wondered if he ever made time to sleep. She couldn't help comparing him to George, who had loved long, lazy walks, and reading quietly with her beside the hearth on rainy afternoons, and lounging with her in the mornings to watch their baby play. She couldn't imagine Zachary Bronson ever sitting still to watch something as mundane as a child learning to crawl.
Somehow the conversation was gently steered into more personal matters, and Holly found herself describing her life with George's family, and the facts of her widowhood. Usually when she discussed George with someone who had known him, her throat became tight and her eyes misted with tears. However, Bronson had no knowledge of George, and for some reason it was much easier for Holly to discuss her husband with a stranger.
“George was never sick,” she said. “He never had fevers or headaches—he was always fit and healthy. But then one day he began to complain of fatigue, and pains in his joints, and he was unable to eat. The doctor diagnosed it as typhoid fever, which I knew was exceedingly dangerous, but many people live through it. I convinced myself that with good nursing and a great deal of rest, George would recover.” She stared at the empty cup in her saucer and traced her finger around the delicate gilded edge. “Day by day he shrank before my eyes. The fever turned to delirium. In two weeks he was gone.”
“I'm sorry,” Bronson said quietly.
I'm sorry was something people always said. There really wasn't anything else to say. But there was a gleam of warmth in Bronson's black eyes that conveyed genuine sympathy, and she felt that he truly understood the magnitude of her loss.
A long silence extended between them, until Bronson spoke again. “Do you like living with the Taylor family, my lady?”
She smiled faintly. “It's not really a matter of like or dislike. It is the only choice available to me.”
“What of your own family?”
“My parents are still supporting three remaining daughters and trying to find good matches for them. I did not want to add to their burden by returning home with my child. And in abiding with the Taylors, I feel somewhat closer to George.”
Bronson's wide mouth tightened at the last sentence. Glancing at her empty cup and plate, he stood and extended a hand to her. “Come walk with me.”
Startled by his abruptness, Holly obeyed automatically, taking his proffered hand. Her fingers tingled at the warm shock of his touch, and her breath caught in her throat. Pulling her upward, Bronson tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her away from the tea table. He had touched her far too familiarly—not even George's brothers would dare to reach for her bare hand. But it seemed that Mr. Bronson did not know better.
As they walked, Bronson had to adjust his long strides to match her short ones, and she suspected that he seldom walked at this slow a pace. He was not the kind of man to meander.
The library suite opened to a huge private art gallery, sided by long windows that displayed a view of the formal gardens outside. The gallery was filled with a stunning collection of Old Masters. There were works by Titian, Rembrandt, Vermeer and Botticelli, all striking in their rich color and romanticism. “What, nothing by Leonardo da Vinci?” Holly asked lightly, knowing that Bronson's private collection was undoubtedly the most impressive in England.
Bronson gazed at the rows of paintings and frowned as if the lack of a da Vinci were a glaring omission. “Should I buy one?”
“No, no, I was only jesting,” Holly said hastily. “Really, Mr. Bronson, your collection is magnificent, and more than complete. Besides, a da Vinci would be impossible to acquire.”
Making a noncommittal sound in his throat, Bronson focused on a bare place on the wall, clearly considering how much it would take to put a da Vinci there.
Holly slipped her hand from the crook of his arm and turned to face him. “Mr. Bronson…won't you tell me why you've invited me here today?”
Bronson wandered to a marble bust mounted on a pedestal, and rubbed a bit of dust from it with this thumb. He slid Holly an assessing sideways glance as she stood in a rectangle of sunlight from the tall window.
“You were described to me as the perfect lady,” he said. “Now, having met you, I agree completely.”
Holly's eyes widened, and she thought in a flurry of guilt and nervousness that he would never have made such a statement if he were aware that she was the woman who had wantonly responded to his kiss a few nights ago.
“You have an impeccable reputation,” he continued, “you are received everywhere, and you have knowledge and influence that I need. Badly. So I would like to employ you as a sort of…social guide.”
Stunned, Holly could only stare at him. It took a half-minute for her to find her voice. “Sir, I am not seeking employment of any kind.”
“I know that.”
“Then you will understand why I must refuse—”
He stopped her with a subtly restraining gesture. “Hear me out first.”
Holly nodded for the sake of courtesy, although there was no possibility that she would accept his offer. There were times when a widow was forced to seek genteel employment out of financial necessity, but she was far from that state. George's family would never hear of it, and neither would her own. It was not the same as entering the working class, but it would most definitely alter her status in society. And to be employed by a man like Zachary Bronson, no matter how rich he was…the fact was, there were people and places that might no longer receive her.
“I need some polish,” Bronson continued evenly. “I need introductions. No doubt you'll hear me referred to as a social climber, which I assuredly am. I've come damned far on my own, but I need help to get to the next rung. Your help. I also need someone to teach Elizabeth how to be…well, like you are. Teach her how to do the things that London ladies do. It's the only way for her to land a decent match.”
“Mr. Bronson,” Holly said carefully, staring hard at the marble bench beside him, “I am sincerely flattered. I wish I could help you. However, there are many others who would be much more suitable than I—”
“I don't want anyone else. I want you.”
“I cannot, Mr. Bronson,” she said firmly. “Among my many reservations, there is my daughter to consider. Taking care of Rose is the most important responsibility in the world to me.”
“Yes, there is Rose to consider.” Bronson slid his hands in his pockets, deceptively relaxed as he paced around the bench. “There's no delicate way to put this, Lady Holland, so I'm going to be blunt. What are your plans for your daughter's future? You'll want to send Rose to expensive schools…travel the continent…give her a dowry to attract titled suitors. But in your current circumstances, you won't be able to provide those things for her. With no dowry, she'll only be able to land a member of the lesser gentry—if that.” He paused and added silkily, “If Rose had a large dowry, combined with her good bloodlines, she would someday land the kind of aristocratic husband that George would have wanted her to have.”
Holly stared at him, stunned. Now she understood how Bronson had been able to conquer so many business opponents. He would stop at nothing to get his way—he was using her own daughter to convince her to do what he wanted. Zachary Bronson could be completely ruthless when it served his purpose.
“I estimate that I'll need your help for approximately a year,” he said. “We could draw up a contract to our mutual satisfaction. If you dislike working for me—if you find that for any reason you want to end the arrangement—just say the word, and you can leave with half the amount I'm offering.”
“And how much is that?” Holly heard herself ask, her mind buzzing with agitated thoughts. She was unbearably curious to know what he thought her services were worth.
“Ten thousand pounds. For one year's employment.”
A sum at leas
t a thousand times more than a governess made in a year. It was a fortune, enough for a generous dowry for her daughter, enough for a private house, including servants. The thought of having her own home made Holly nearly dizzy with longing. But the idea of involving herself closely with this man, and the reaction of her family and friends…
“No,” she said quietly, nearly choking on the word. “I am sorry, Mr. Bronson. Your offer is very generous, but you must find someone else.”
He did not seem at all surprised by her refusal. “Twenty thousand, then,” he said, and flashed her a roguish smile. “Come, Lady Holland. Don't tell me you're planning to return to the Taylor family and spend the rest of your life as you've spent the last three years. You're an intelligent woman—you need more than needlework and gossip to sustain you.”
Unerringly he had hit upon another vulnerable point. Life with the Taylors had indeed become monotonous, and the thought of no longer being dependent on them…on anyone…Holly twisted her hands together tightly.
Bronson rested his weight on one leg and braced his knee against the bench. “Just say yes, and I'll have the money placed in trust for Rose. She'll never want for anything. And when she marries a peer, I'll throw in a carriage and a team of four for her wedding present.”
Accepting his offer would be a step into the unknown. If Holly said no, she knew exactly what kind of life she and Rose would have. A safe one, if not always comfortable. They would manage well enough, and they would bask in the love and approval of everyone they knew. If she said yes, there would be an uproar of surprise and condemnation. There would be ugly comments and rumors that would take years to die down, if ever. But what a future Rose would have! And there was something inside Holly, something reckless and wild, the same terrible impulsiveness she had been struggling with ever since her husband's death.
Abruptly she lost the struggle.
“I would do it for thirty thousand,” she said, listening to her own voice as if she somehow stood outside the scene.
Although Bronson's expression did not change, she sensed his tremendous satisfaction, like that of a lion settling down to enjoy his kill. “Thirty,” he repeated, as if the figure were outrageous. “I think twenty is sufficient for what I'm asking, don't you?”
“Twenty for Rose, ten for me,” Holly replied, her voice growing steadier. “Social influence is like currency—once expended, it is not easily regained. I may not have much left after this year is through. If I accept your offer, the ton will gossip and spread rumors about me. They may even imply that I am your…”
“Mistress,” he supplied softly. “But they would be wrong, wouldn't they?”
She colored and continued in a rush. “No one in the ton can distinguish rumor from fact. Therefore, the loss of my respectability is worth an additional ten thousand pounds. And I—I want you to invest it and manage it for me.”
Bronson's dark brows raised slightly. “You want me to manage your money?” he repeated, practically purring. “And not Lord Taylor?”
Holly shook her head, thinking of William, who was responsible but extremely conservative with investments. Like most men of his station, William's talent was to conserve funds, not to multiply them. “I would prefer you to take care of it,” she said. “The only condition is that I don't want you to make any investments that could be considered immoral.”
“I'll see what I can do,” Bronson said gravely, laughter dancing in his devil-black eyes.
Holly took a deep breath. “Then you agree to thirty? And if I leave your employment early, I may retain half?”
“Agreed. However, in return for the extra money you're demanding, I'm going to ask for a concession.”
“Oh?” she asked warily.
“I want you to live here. With me and my family.”
Holly stared at him in amazement. “No. I couldn't.”
“You and Rose will have your own suite of rooms, a carriage and horses provided for your exclusive use and the freedom to come and go as you choose. Bring your own servants, if you wish. I'll take care of their salaries for the next year.”
“I don't see why it is necessary—”
“Teaching the Bronsons to behave like gentlefolk is going to require more than a few paltry hours a day. Once you get to know us, you'll have no doubt of it.”
“Mr. Bronson, I just couldn't—”
“You can have your thirty thousand, Lady Holland. But you'll have to move away from the Taylors to get it.”
“I would rather take less and not live here.”
Bronson grinned suddenly, seeming not at all perturbed by her scowl. “The negotiations are over, my lady. You'll live here for a year and accept thirty thousand pounds, or there is no bargain.”
Filled with nervous trepidation, Holly felt herself tremble all over. “Then I accept,” she said breathlessly. “And I would like the carriage and team of four you promised for Rose to be written into the contract.”
“All right.” Bronson extended a hand, grasped her small one and shook it firmly. “Your hand is cold.” He retained her fingers in his for a moment longer than necessary. His lips curved with a smile. “Are you frightened?”
It was the same thing he had asked her in the conservatory the night he had kissed her. She felt much as she had then, overwhelmed by an extraordinary event she had never anticipated. “Yes,” she whispered. “Suddenly I'm afraid I may not be the kind of woman I've always thought I was.”
“Everything will be all right,” he said, his voice low and gentle.
“You can't pr-promise such a thing.”
“Yes, I can. I have a good idea of what your family's reaction will be to this. Don't lose your courage.”
“Of course not,” she said with an attempt at dignity. “You have my word that I will keep to our bargain.”
“Good,” he murmured, while his gaze held an unnerving glitter of victory.
Lady Holly's carriage departed along the drive, the sun striking the black-lacquered vehicle with a blinding gleam. Zachary nudged the curtains of a library window apart and watched until the carriage was no longer visible. He was filled with the same explosive energy that he always felt after making a deal that was clearly to his advantage. Lady Holland Taylor would be living under his roof, with her daughter. It was a situation that no one, including himself, would have ever believed possible.
What was it about her that affected him so deeply? He had been aroused from the moment she had entered the room, aroused and fascinated as he had been by no other woman in his life. That moment when she had removed her gloves, exposing her delicate pale hands, had been the erotic highlight of his entire year.
He had known many great beauties and women of great talent, both in bed and out. He couldn't fathom why one small widow should have such an effect on him. Perhaps it was the warmth that shone through her demure exterior. She was clearly a lady, but without the airs and pretensions he had seen in other women of her class. He liked the direct, friendly way she had spoken to him, as if they were social equals. She was luminous, warm and far too refined for the likes of him.
Troubled, Zachary jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, bunching the hem of his coat. He wandered through the library suite, glancing absently at the priceless collection of volumes and artwork he had amassed. Ever since childhood, he had been aware of an endless, nagging urgency inside, the drive to achieve and conquer. He was filled with a dissatisfaction that drove him to work, plot and plan long into the night when other men were sleeping. It always seemed that there was one more object to acquire, one more deal to construct, one last mountain to climb, and then perhaps he would be happy. But he never was.
Somehow in the company of Lady Holly Taylor, he had felt like an ordinary man, one who was able to relax and enjoy himself. During the hour that she had visited him, all his usual aggression had vanished. He had felt almost…content. That had never happened to him before. The feeling was impossible to dismiss, and he wanted more of it. He craved
Lady Holly's presence in his home.
And he craved her presence in his bed. Remembering the precise moment when she had realized he was the man who had kissed her, Zachary felt a smile tugging at his lips. She had turned scarlet, and her entire body had seemed to tremble. For a moment he had even wondered if she might faint. He wished she had—it would have given him an excuse to hold her again. But she had regained her composure and held her silence, clearly hoping that he would not recognize her. One would think she had committed a far greater crime than exchanging a hasty kiss with a stranger in the dark. For all her social knowledge, she was not sophisticated. He wasn't certain why that aroused him so.
She had a quality of innocence that married women didn't usually possess, as if she wouldn't recognize sin or depravity even if it was staring her in the face.
She had cried the second time he had kissed her, and now he knew why. He was certain she had not been kissed or caressed by anyone since the death of her husband. Someday, he thought, she would weep in his arms again. But the next time, it would be from pleasure, not grief.
Four
Holly berated herself all the way home for her impulsiveness. As the carriage bumped and rolled and jiggled over the unevenly paved streets of London, she decided that she would write Mr. Bronson a letter as soon as she arrived back at the Taylors' home. She would explain that she had made the decision too hastily, that it was clearly not in her best interests, not to mention Rose's, for her to alter their lives so radically. What had she been thinking, to agree to employment with a family she didn't know, a family that was clearly beneath her in society, a man who was known by everyone as an unscrupulous, mercenary scoundrel? “I've gone mad,” she whispered to herself.
However, the anxiety she felt over the decision was countered by a strange, mounting reluctance to return to the dull existence she had known for the past three years. For some reason the home that had been such a comforting haven since George's death now seemed like a prison, and the Taylors like very kind and well-meaning gaolers. It was unfair of her, she knew, to feel this way.