Where Dreams Begin(31)

“Perfect. How graceful you are, Elizabeth,” Holly exclaimed.

The young woman flushed, clearly unaccustomed to such straightforward praise. “I'll forget every bit of this by tomorrow.”

“We'll practice until everything becomes second nature,” Holly replied.

Folding her long, slender arms across her chest, Elizabeth lounged in a chair, her legs sprawled in a completely unladylike manner. “Lady Holland,” she asked with a smile, “have you ever thought that all these manners and social rules were invented by people with entirely too much time on their hands?”

“You may be right,” Holly said with a laugh.

As Holly left the Bronson women in search of her daughter, she continued to ponder the question. Everything she knew about first society and the behaviors associated with gentlefolk had been instilled in her since birth. She had never thought to question those long-ago lessons until now. Many of the social graces, such as courtesy and self-composure, were undoubtedly necessary for a civilized society. But as for the countless little affectations that Elizabeth had been referring to…was it truly important how a person sat or stood or gestured, or what phrases were fashionable and what clothes were in style? Or was it really all just a way for certain people trying to prove themselves superior to others?

The idea that a man like Zachary Bronson might be inherently equal to a man like…well, like one of the Taylors, or even her dear George…it was a provocative notion. The great majority of aristocrats would immediately dismiss the idea. Some men were born with blue blood, with generations of noble ancestors behind them, and this made them better, finer than ordinary men. This was what Holly had always been taught. But Zachary Bronson had started in life with no advantage whatsoever, and he had made himself into a man to be reckoned with. And he was trying very hard to better himself and his family, and soften the coarseness of his own character. Was he really so inferior to the Taylors? Or to herself?

These ideas would never have occurred to her had she not agreed to work for Bronson. For the first time, Holly realized that this year of closeness with Bronson and his family might change her, just as it would change them. And that troubled her. Would George have approved?

After a pleasant afternoon of reading books and taking a walk in the gardens together, Holly and Rose sat in the library and waited for Zachary Bronson. Rose devoured a snack of milk and buttered bread, and proceeded to play on the floor while Holly sipped tea from a flowered china cup. A blazing fire in the huge green marble fireplace mingled with the shafts of afternoon light coming through the velvet-draped windows.

Not daring to sit at Bronson's huge masculine desk, Holly occupied a chair at a nearby side table as she made a few notes regarding the proper forms of address for the various tiers of aristocracy. The subject was a complicated one, even for those who had been born into the peerage, but it was important for Bronson to understand it thoroughly if he desired to mingle successfully with the ton. She concentrated so hard on the task before her that she would not have noticed Bronson's entrance into the room were it not for her daughter's delighted exclamation.

“There he is, Mama!”

Glacing upward, Holly tensed at Bronson's approach, while her nerves responded to his presence with a strange, pleasurable jangle. He was such a large, vital man, bringing the fresh scent of outdoors with him. As he stopped close to her and bowed, she couldn't help noticing the alluring fragrance that clung to him, a masculine blend of horses and starched linen and sweat. With his swarthy complexion and sparkling black eyes, and the shadow of bristle beneath his close-shaven skin, he seemed more potently virile than any other man of her acquaintance. Bronson smiled at her, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face, and Holly realized with renewed surprise that he was handsome. Not in a classical sense, and not in a poetic or artistic sense…but he was definitely attractive.

Holly was perturbed by her own reaction to him. He was not at all the kind of man she should find appealing, not after having known and loved someone like George. Her husband had been faultless in his easy confidence and his golden good looks. Holly had even been amused by the way women stared and swooned over George. It had not been George's dazzling looks, however, that had made him so compelling. It was his utter refinement, both of character and manners. He had been polished, courteous, a gentleman from the inside out.

Comparing George to Zachary Bronson was like comparing a prince to a pirate. If one spent ten years doing nothing but drilling rules and rituals into Bronson's head, anyone would still glance at him and immediately proclaim him a scoundrel. Nothing would ever dispel the rascally gleam in his black eyes or the heathen charm of his smile. It was all too easy to picture Bronson as a bare-knuckle fighter, stripped to the waist as he pummeled an opponent in the rope ring. The problem was, Holly felt a thrill of shameful unladylike interest in the image.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bronson,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat next to her. “I hope you will not object if Rose plays in the corner during our discussion today. She has promised to be very quiet.”

“Naturally I wouldn't object to such charming company.” Bronson smiled at the petite child, who sat on the carpeted floor with her toys. “Are you having tea, Miss Rose?”

“Yes, Mr. Bronson. Miss Crumpet asked me to pour. Would you like a cup, too?” Before Holly could restrain her, the little girl hastened to Bronson with a doll-sized cup and saucer no bigger than his thumbnail. “Here you are, sir.” A tiny concerned frown adorned her brow. “It's only ‘air tea,’ but it's quite delicious if you're good at pretending.”