Where Dreams Begin(11)

“Welcome, Lady Holland. I didn't think you would come.”

The sound of his voice caused Holly to stumble a little. When she recovered her balance, she froze in place and stared at the carpeted floor. The room seemed to spin around her, and she concentrated hard on retaining her balance when her entire body was shaken by panic and confusion. She knew that voice, would have known it anywhere. He was her stranger, the man who had spoken to her so tenderly and kissed her with an intimacy that had left an indelible brand on her memory. The hot blood of shame flooded her face, and it seemed impossible to look back up at him. But the silence compelled her to say something.

“I was very nearly dissuaded,” she whispered. Oh, if she had only listened to George's family and stayed behind the safe walls of the Taylor estate!

“May I ask what made you decide in my favor?” His tone was so polite, so bland, that she glanced upward in surprise. The dark eyes were reassuringly devoid of mockery.

He didn't recognize her, she thought with sudden wild hope and relief. He didn't know that she was the woman he had kissed at the Bellemont ball. Licking her dry lips, she made an attempt at normal conversation. “I…don't really know,” she said. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

That elicited a quick grin. “That's as good a reason as any.” He took her hand in a welcoming grip, his long fingers engulfing hers completely. The warmth of his palm sank through the delicate weave of her glove. Holly nearly swayed at a sudden flash of memory…how hot his skin had been the evening of the Bellemont ball, how hard and warm his mouth had been as he had kissed her—

She withdrew her hand with a sound of discomfort.

“Shall we have a seat?” Bronson gestured to a pair of Louis XIV armchairs arranged beside a marble-topped tea table.

“Yes, thank you.” Holly was grateful at the prospect of occupying a chair instead of relying on the uncertain support of her own legs.

After she was seated, Bronson occupied the chair opposite hers. He sat with both feet on the floor, muscular thighs spread apart as he leaned slightly forward. “Tea, Hodges,” he muttered to the butler, then returned his attention to Holly and gave her a disarming grin. “I hope it will be acceptable to you, my lady. Taking refreshments at my home is a bit like playing roulette.”

“Roulette?” Holly frowned quizzically at the unfamiliar term.

“A gamble,” he explained. “On a good day, my cook is unsurpassed. On a bad one…well, you could break a tooth on one of her biscuits.”

Holly laughed suddenly, losing some of her nervousness at the disclosure that Bronson had household complaints just as ordinary men did.

“Surely with a little management—” she began, then stopped suddenly as she realized she had been about to give him unasked-for advice.

“There is no real management in my household, my lady. We all muddle along without direction, but that is something I want to discuss with you later.”

Was that why he had summoned her to his estate? To receive her thoughts on the smooth running of a house-hold? Of course not. He must suspect she was the woman he had encountered at the Bellemont ball. He was toying with her, perhaps. He would ask her a few sly questions to see if she would rise to the bait.

If so, the best defense was to bring everything out into the open right now. She would simply explain that he had surprised her that evening, that she had behaved completely unlike herself because he had caught her off guard.

“Mr. Bronson,” she said, having to drag each word from her clenched throat, “there is something I sh-should tell you…”

“Yes?” He stared at her with keen black eyes.

Suddenly Holly found it impossible to believe that she had kissed this large masculine creature, that she had embraced him and caressed the shaven bristle of his jaw…that he had kissed the tears from her cheeks. In the few stolen moments they had met, she had shared more intimacy with him than she ever had with any man except George.

“Y-you…” Her heart slammed repeatedly against her ribs. Damning herself for a coward, Holly abandoned the attempt at confession. “You have a very beautiful home.”

He smiled slightly. “I thought it might not be to your taste.”

“It isn't, exactly. But it serves its purpose magnificently.”

“And what purpose is that?”

“Why, to announce to everyone that you have arrived.”

“That's right.” He gave her an arrested stare. “A few days ago some pompous baron called me an ‘arriviste.’ I didn't realize what it meant until just now.”

“Yes,” Holly said with a gentle smile. “You're a recent arrival to society.”

“It wasn't a compliment,” he said dryly.

Guessing that he must have received hundreds of subtle set-downs from the peers he had encountered so far, Holly felt a touch of sympathy. It was hardly Bronson's fault that he had come from less-than-stellar beginnings. However, the English aristocracy felt as a whole that a man should never “rise above his buttons.” People in the serving class, or the working class, could never elevate themselves to the upper levels of society, no matter how great their fortunes might be. And yet Holly rather thought that achievement alone should be enough to make a man like this acceptable to “first society.” She wondered if George would have agreed with her, or what he would have thought about this man. She truly had no idea.