Where Dreams Begin(12)

“In my opinion your accomplishments are worthy of admiration, Mr. Bronson,” she said. “Most of English nobility are merely retaining wealth that was granted to their families by ancient kings as a reward for service. You have made your own wealth, and that requires great intelligence and will. Although the baron was not paying you a compliment by calling you an arriviste, it should have been one.”

He stared at her for an unaccountably long moment. “Thank you,” he finally muttered.

To Holly's surprise, her words had caused a tide of color to creep up from Bronson's collar. She guessed that he was not accustomed to such direct praise. She hoped he would not think she was trying to flatter him for some reason. “Mr. Bronson, I was not being unctuous just now,” she said.

A smile tugged at the left side of his mouth. “I'm sure you would never be unctuous…whatever that means.”

Two maids arrived bearing huge silver trays, and they busied themselves with arranging the tea table. The stout maid, who set out little plates of sandwiches, toast and biscuits, seemed nervous and was inclined to giggle as she performed her task. The smaller one fumbled with the silverware and napkins and deposited the cups and saucers on the wrong side of the place setting. They struggled to set the kettle properly over a small flame, nearly overturning it. Secretly pained by the inept service when the girls clearly required a few words of direction, Holly made her face into a polite mask.

She was surprised by the maids' obvious lack of training. A man of Mr. Bronson's position should have the very best of service. A well-trained servant was quiet and efficient, making himself or herself part of the scenery. In Holly's experience, a housemaid would certainly never draw attention to herself and would rather be shot than giggle in front of a guest.

When at last the preparations were made and the maids had left, Holly began to unbutton the wrists of her little gray gloves and tug them neatly from her fingertips. She paused as she felt Mr. Bronson's intent gaze on her, and looked up with an inquiring smile. “Shall I?” she asked, gesturing toward the tea service, and he nodded, his attention immediately returning to her hands.

There was something in Bronson's eyes, some disquieting glow that made Holly feel as if she were unbuttoning her blouse instead of simply removing her gloves. It was an ordinary thing to bare one's hands before a gentleman, and yet the way he stared at her made the task seem strangely intimate.

She rinsed the Sevres teapot with boiling water to warm it, then poured the liquid into a china bowl. Expertly she measured and spooned the fragrant tea leaves into the teapot and added hot water. While the tea steeped, Holly arranged a selection of sandwiches and biscuits on the plates and made idle conversation. Bronson seemed content to follow her lead.

“You have filled your library with a lovely collection of portraits, Mr. Bronson.”

“Other peoples' ancestors,” he replied dryly. “Mine weren't the kind to sit for paintings.”

Holly had heard of other men with newly made fortunes doing the same thing—hanging portraits of strangers in their homes to give the impression of an illustrious family lineage. However, Zachary Bronson was the first man in her experience who had openly admitted to it.

She handed him a small plate and napkin. “Do you reside here alone?”

“No, my mother and younger sister Elizabeth also live here.”

Holly's interest was piqued. “I don't believe anyone has mentioned before that you have a sister.”

Bronson seemed to answer with great care. “I've been waiting for the right time to bring Elizabeth out in society. I'm afraid—circumstances being what they are—things might be difficult for her. She hasn't been taught how to…” He paused, clearly searching for a word to describe the intricate knowledge a young woman was expected to have of manners and social skills.

“I see.” Holly nodded in immediate understanding, her brows knitting together. Difficult indeed, for a girl who had not been rigorously trained in such matters. Society could be merciless. On top of that, the Bronson family was undistinguished in every area but money, and the last thing they needed was a plague of fortune hunters to descend on Elizabeth. “Have you considered sending her to finishing school, Mr. Bronson? If you like, I could recommend one—”

“She's twenty-one,” he said flatly. “She would be older than all the other girls—she informs me that she would ‘rather die’ than attend one. She wants to live at home.”

“Of course.” Deftly Holly poured the tea through a small silver strainer with a bird-shaped handle. “Do you prefer your tea strong, Mr. Bronson, or shall I add a splash of water?”

“Strong, please.”

“One lump or two?” she asked with a pair of delicate tongs hovering over the sugar bowl.

“Three. And no milk.”

For some reason Holly felt an irresistible smile come to her face. “You have a sweet tooth, Mr. Bronson.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” Holly replied softly. “I was just thinking that you would enjoy one of my daughter's tea parties. For Rose, three lumps is the absolute minimum.”

“Maybe I'll ask Rose to pour for me one day, then.”

Holly wasn't certain what he meant by that, but the intimacy it implied, the promise of familiarity, made her uneasy. Tearing her gaze from his, she returned her attention to the tea. Having prepared a cup for Bronson, she set about finishing her own, adding a touch of sugar and a generous splash of milk.