Where Dreams Begin(33)

“Like your husband,” Bronson muttered, not taking his eyes from the list.

“Yes, that is an excellent example. My husband's father was a viscount. He was known as Viscount Taylor of Westbridge or more simply, Albert, Lord Taylor. He had three sons, William, George and Thomas, all three of whom were “Mr. Taylor.” When the viscount passed away a few years ago, his eldest son William assumed his title and became William, Lord Taylor.”

“But George and his brother never became ‘lords.’”

“No, they both remained ‘Mr.’”

“Then why are you called ‘Lady Holland’?”

“Well…” Holly paused and laughed ruefully. “Now we're treading on more complicated territory. I am the daughter of an earl. Therefore, I have had the courtesy title ‘lady’ since birth.”

“And you didn't lose it when you married George?”

“No, when a peer's daughter marries a man who is not a peer, she is allowed to keep her own courtesy title. After I married, I still derived my rank from my father rather than from George.”

Bronson turned his head and stared at her intently. Looking into his fathomless eyes at close range gave Holly a small, warm shock. She could see the glints of brown in the midnight depths. “So your rank was always higher than your husband's,” he said. “In a way, you married down.”

“Technically,” she admitted.

Bronson seemed to savor the information. Holly had the impression that for some reason the idea pleased him. “What would happen to your rank if you married a commoner?” he asked idly. “Like me, for example.”

Flustered by the question, Holly drew away from him and resumed her seat. “Well, I…I would remain ‘Lady Holland,’ but I would take your surname.”

“Lady Holland Bronson.”

She started a little at the strange sound of her own name being joined with anything other than Taylor. “Yes,” she said softly. “In theory, that is correct.”

Busily she fussed with her skirts and smoothed them over her lap as she sensed him staring at her. Glancing upward, she saw the look in his eyes, a raw glitter of masculine interest. A surge of something like anxiety drove her heart to a faster beat. When had a man ever looked at her this way? George's blue eyes had contained love and tenderness when he beheld her, but never this look of sexual appraisal…heat…appetite.

Bronson's gaze moved to her mouth, her br**sts, then back to her face, bringing a wash of prickling warmth to her skin. It was the kind of intimate stare that no gentleman would give a lady. He was doing it to fluster her, Holly thought. He was amusing himself by deliberately unsettling her. Yet he did not seem amused. A frown drew the thick slashes of his brows together, and he seemed as troubled, more troubled, than she.

“Mama!” Rose's laughing voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. “Your cheeks are all red!”

“Are they?” Holly asked unsteadily, bringing her cool fingers to her hot face. “I must be sitting too close to the fire.”

Tucking Miss Crumpet beneath one arm, Rose went to Bronson. “I'm only a ‘Miss,’” she informed him, having listened to their discussion of the peerage. “But when I marry a prince someday, I'll be ‘Princess Rose,’ and then you may call me ‘Your Highness.’”

Bronson laughed, his tension seeming to dispel. “You're already a princess,” he said, scooping the little girl up and setting her on his knee.

Caught by surprise, Rose let out a squealing laugh. “No, I'm not! I don't have a crown!”

Bronson appeared to take the point seriously. “What kind of crown would you like, Princess Rose?”

“Well, let me think…” Rose screwed up her small face in deep concentration.

“Silver?” Bronson prompted. “Gold? With colored stones, or pearls?”

“Rose does not need a crown,” Holly intervened with a touch of alarm, realizing that Bronson was more than ready to purchase some ostentatious headpiece for the child. “Back to play, Rose—unless you would care to take an afternoon nap, in which case I'll ring for Maude.”

“Oh, no, I don't want a nap,” the little girl said, immediately sliding from Bronson's knee. “May I have another cake, Mama?”

Holly smiled fondly and shook her head. “No, you may not. You'll spoil your dinner.”

“Oh, Mama, can't I have just one more? One of the little ones?”

“I've just said no, Rose. Now please play quietly while Mr. Bronson and I finish our discussion.”

Obeying reluctantly, Rose glanced back at Bronson. “Why is your nose crooked, Mr. Bronson?”

“Rose,” Holly reproved sharply. “You know very well that we never make observations about a person's appearance.”

However, Bronson answered the child with a grin. “I ran into something once.”

“A door?” The child guessed. “A wall?”

“A hard left hook.”

“Oh.” Rose stared at him contemplatively. “What does that mean?”

“It's a fighting term.”

“Fighting is bad,” the little girl said firmly. “Very, very bad.”