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As Bronson watched them both, his brown eyes were lit with a peculiar warm glow. “I believe the two of you are the prettiest sight I've ever seen.”
Holly's amusement faded, and she stood in sudden consternation, obliging Bronson to stand as well. I shouldn't be here, was the uppermost thought in her mind. I should never have agreed to work for him, no matter what the enticement. She realized now how inexperienced and sheltered she was, otherwise he wouldn't be able to throw her off balance so easily. If she didn't guard herself against him, he was going to play havoc with her emotions. Was it because she had been so long without a man that she was so flustered by his attentions? Or was it because he was so unlike any other man she had ever known?
Worst of all was the feeling that any enjoyment of his company, and any appreciation of his robust, street-seasoned handsomeness, was a betrayal of George.
For a moment Holly remembered the days of utter despair after her husband had died, and the black wish that had consumed her. She had wanted with all her heart to die along with him. It was only the love and concern Holly felt for her infant daughter that had kept her sane. Instead, she had vowed to honor George by spending the rest of her life loving only him, thinking only of him and his wishes. It had never occurred to Holly that such a vow might be difficult to keep. But here was an utter stranger, gently wooing her away from propriety a step at a time.
“Mr. Bronson,” she said a bit unsteadily, “I—I will see you at supper.”
Bronson's face wore an expression of seriousness identical to her own. “Let Rose eat with us,” he said. “Don't any upper-class children have supper with their families?”
Holly took a long moment to answer. “In some country homes the children are allowed to eat en famille. However, in most well-to-do households the children take separate nursery meals. Rose has become accustomed to the arrangement at the Taylor' mansion, and I should dislike to change a familiar ritual—”
“But there she had other children to eat with, didn't she?” Bronson pointed out. “And here she has to take most meals by herself.”
Holly glanced into her daughter's small face. Rose seemed to be holding her breath, waiting with silent excitement to see if her unexpected champion would succeed at gaining her a place at the adults' dinner table. It would be easy for Holly to insist that Rose adhere to the traditional mealtime separation between grown-ups and children. However, as Bronson and the little girl both stared at her expectantly, Holly realized with a flash of amused despair that yet another boundary was to be broken.
“Very well,” she said. “If Rose behaves well, she may take meals with the family from now on.”
To Holly's surprise, Rose flew to Bronson with an exclamation of happiness and threw her arms around his leg. “Oh, Mr. Bronson,” she cried, “thank you!”
Grinning, Bronson disentangled her little arms and sank to his haunches. “Thank your mother, princess. I only asked. She was the one who gave permission.”
Bouncing back to Holly, Rose decorated her face with kisses.
“Darling,” Holly murmured, trying not to smile, “let's go upstairs and change your pinafore and wash your face before dinner. We can't have you looking like a ragamuffin.”
“Yes, Mama.” Rose's small hand took hers, and she skipped eagerly as she led Holly away.
Seven
As Holly began to correspond with a number of friends, many of whom she had not seen since George's funeral, she was surprised by their responses to the information that she was working and residing at the London estate of Mr. Zachary Bronson. Naturally many of the reactions were disapproving, even offering her a place in their own homes if she was truly that destitute. However, an unexpected majority expressed great interest in her new situation and inquired if they might come to call on her at Bronson's estate. It seemed that a great many ladies were eager to view Bronson's home and, more than that, encounter the man himself.
Bronson did not seem surprised by the fact when Holly mentioned it to him. “It happens all the time,” he said with a cynical smile. “Women of your class would go to the guillotine before marrying a mongrel like me…but a surprising number want to be my ‘friend.’”
“You mean they are willing to…with you…?” Holly paused in dismayed wonder. “Even the married ones?”
“Especially the married ones,” Bronson informed her dryly. “While you were secluded in mourning at the Taylors' house, I've entertained a great many fine ladies of London between my sheets.”
“A gentleman does not boast of his sexual conquests,” Holly had said, flushing at the information.
“I wasn't boasting. I was stating a fact.”
“Some facts are better kept to yourself.”
The unusual sharpness of her tone seemed to interest him to no end. “There's a strange expression on your face, Lady Holly,” he said silkily. “It almost looks like jealousy.”
A wave of rising annoyance nearly choked her. Zachary Bronson had a talent for rousing her temper more easily than anyone she had ever known. “Not at all. I was merely reflecting unpleasantly on the number of diseases one must catch from such a dedicated pursuit of gallantry.”
“‘Pursuit of gallantry,’” he repeated with a low laugh. “That's the prettiest way I've ever heard it put. No, I've
never caught the pox or any other affliction from my whoring. There are ways a man can protect himself—”
“I assure you, I do not wish to hear about them!” Horrified, Holly had clapped her hands over her ears. As the most sexually indulgent creature of her acquaintance, Bronson was all too willing to discuss intimate subjects that a gentleman should never admit to knowing. “You, sir, are a moral abyss.”
Rather than look shamed, he actually grinned at the remark. “And you, my lady, are a prude.”
“Thank you,” she said crisply.
