Where Dreams Begin(32)

Bronson accepted the cup as if it were a great favor. Carefully he sampled the invisible brew. “A bit more sugar, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully.

Holly watched while the two prepared the cup to Bronson's satisfaction. She had not expected Bronson to interact so comfortably with a child. In fact, not even George's brothers, Rose's own uncles, had displayed such ease with her. Children were seldom part of a man's world. Even the most doting father did little more than view his child once or twice a day and inquire after his or her progress.

Glancing at Holly briefly, Bronson caught her perplexed expression. “I was coerced into more than a few tea parties by Elizabeth when she was no bigger than Rose,” he said. “Although Lizzie had to make do with shingles for plates and an old tin cup instead of china. I always swore I'd get her a proper toy tea set someday. By the time I could afford one, she was too old to want it any longer.”

A maid entered the room, evidently having been requested to bring a tray of refreshments, and Bronson rubbed his hands in anticipation. Bearing a huge silver tray laden with a coffee service and a plate of confections, the maid awkwardly unloaded the pots and dishes onto the small table.

Quietly asking the girl's name, Holly murmured a few suggestions to her. “You may set the tray on the sideboard, Gladys,” she said, “and carry the dishes here one or two at a time. And serve from the left, please.”

Clearly taken aback by the unexpected advice, the girl looked askance at Bronson. He smothered a grin and spoke gravely. “Do as Lady Holland says, Gladys. I'm afraid no one is exempt from her authority—not even me.”

Nodding at once, Gladys complied with Holly's instructions. To Holly's surprise, the maid set out a plate piled high with miniature round cakes, each one covered with a delicate sheen of pale pink icing.

Holly sent Bronson a reproachful glance, knowing that he had ordered the treat specifically for her enjoyment. “Mr. Bronson,” she said, recalling their conversation much earlier in the day, “I can't fathom what reason you have for plying me with cakes.”

Bronson settled back in his chair, looking completely unrepentant. “I wanted to see you wrestle with temptation.”

Holly couldn't repress the laugh that bubbled to her lips. The insolent rogue! “I fear you're a wicked man,” she said.

“I am,” he admitted without hesitation.

Still smiling, Holly grasped a pair of forks and expertly grasped a delicate cake in a scissor hold that did not damage its fragile shape. She placed it on a small china plate and handed it to her daughter, who exclaimed happily and proceeded to devour the confection. After serving herself and Bronson, Holly gave him the pages of notes she had made.

“After the success I had with your sister today, I am feeling rather ambitious,” she said. “I thought you and I might start on one of the most difficult subjects of all.”

“Titles and rules of peerage,” Bronson muttered, staring at the long columns written in neat script. “God help me.”

“If you can learn this,” Holly said, “and eventually do a decent quadrille, the battle will be mostly won.”

Bronson picked up one of the pink-iced cakes with his fingers and ate most of it in one bite. “Do your worst,” he advised out of the side of his mouth that wasn't stuffed.

Making a mental note to do something about his primitive eating style at some later date, Holly began to explain. “I'm certain you're already aware of the five titles of peerage: duke, marquess, earl, viscount and baron.”

“What about knights?”

“Knights are not peers, and neither are baronets.” Holly lifted a fork to her lips, swallowed a spongy morsel of cake and closed her eyes in a brief moment of pleasure as the crisp, delicate icing dissolved at once on her tongue. She took a swallow of tea, then became aware that Bronson was staring at her strangely. His face was smooth and suddenly taut, and the coffee-dark eyes were as alert as those of a cat watching for movement in the grass.

“Lady Holland,” he said, his tone underlaid with gravel, “there's a speck of sugar on your…” He stopped suddenly, apparently too preoccupied to find any more words.

Holly explored the left corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue, discovering a fleck of sweetness. “Thank you,” she murmured, dabbing at the spot with her napkin. She made her tone brisk as she continued, wondering why he seemed a bit uncomfortable and distracted. “Now, back to the peerage. Only an actual peer can be considered to have the title by right. All other titles, including those possessed by the peer's eldest son, are merely courtesy titles. If you turn to the third page I gave you, there is a little chart that I hoped might make things clear…” Holly slipped from her chair and went to Bronson's side of the table, leaning over his shoulder as he riffled through the sheaf of paper. “There. Does that make sense to you, or am I creating a hopeless muddle?”

“No, it's clear enough. Except…why are there no courtesy titles in these two columns?”

Holly forced herself to concentrate on the paper he held, but it was difficult. Their heads were very close together, and she was strongly tempted to touch his hair. The thick, rumpled locks needed to be brushed and smoothed with a drop of pomade, especially the place where an unruly swath sprang over his forehead. So different from George's silky blond hair. Bronson's locks were as black as midnight, a bit coarse, curling slightly at the ends and the nape of his neck. His neck was thick with muscle, and it looked as hard as iron. She almost brushed the tempting surface with her fingers. Horrified by the impulse, she curled her hand into a fist as she answered him. “Because children of dukes, marquesses and earls are able to prefix their names with ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady,’ but children of viscounts and barons are merely ‘Mr.’ or ‘Miss’.”