Where Dreams Begin(34)

“Yes, I know.” Lowering his head, Bronson tried to look chastened, but his air of repentance was far from convincing.

“Rose,” Holly said in a warning tone. “There'll be no further interruptions, I hope.”

“No, Mama.” Obediently the child returned to her play area. As she walked behind Bronson's chair, he surreptitiously handed her another cake. Grabbing the tidbit, Rose hurried to the corner like a furtive squirrel.

Holly gave Bronson a look of reproof. “I won't have my daughter indulged, sir. She'll become accustomed to all your extravagances, and after this year is through, she'll have a difficult time returning to her normal existence.”

Mindful of the small imp playing nearby, Bronson kept his tone low. “It won't hurt her to be spoiled a little. They're only children for a short time.”

“Rose must not be sheltered from the realities and responsibilities of life—”

“Is that the prevailing thought in child-rearing these days?” he asked lazily. “It explains why most of the aristocratic children I've seen are pale, repressed creatures with sullen expressions. I suspect many parents are just a little too eager to expose their brats to ‘reality.’”

Instantly offended, Holly opened her mouth to disagree, but found to her chagrin that she could not. The Taylors reared their own children with an eye toward proving a “good stiff preparation for life,” and frequently encouraged Holly to do the same with Rose. Discipline, constant moral training, and deprivation were all methods employed to make a child properly obedient and well-mannered. Not that it worked, of course. The Taylor children were little hellions, and Holly thought that Rose might have been, too, had she not been far more gentle with her daughter than the Taylors had advised. And yet their views were common for noble families and shared by most people of their rank.

“Childhood should be wonderful,” Bronson said abruptly. “Worry-free. Happy. I don't give a damn if anyone agrees with me or not. I only wish…” Suddenly his dark gaze dropped to the papers before him.

“Yes?” Holly prompted gently, leaning forward.

Bronson answered without looking at her. “I wish I could have made it that way for Lizzie. She went through hell during her childhood years. We were poor and dirty and starving most of the time. I failed her.”

“But you're not that much older than Elizabeth,” Holly murmured. “You were only a child yourself, with a great burden of responsibility.”

Bronson reacted with a dismissive gesture, clearly wanting no excuses to be made for himself. “I failed her,” he repeated gruffly. “The only thing I can do is try to make things right for her now, and for my own children when I have them.”

“And you'll spoil my daughter unmercifully in the meantime?” Holly said, a faint smile curving her lips.

“Maybe I'll spoil you as well.” There was a teasing edge to his voice, but his gaze contained a flash of challenge that stunned her. She did not know how to react. Indignation or rebuke would only earn his mockery. Yet she could not allow him to play with her this way. Cat-and-mouse-games were not her forte, and she did not enjoy them.

She made her voice crisp and unruffled. “You've already given me a handsome salary, Mr. Bronson, which I intend to earn by educating you thoroughly in the social graces. Now, if you'll refer to the second page of notes, we will discuss the differences between correct forms of address in correspondence and conversation. For example, you would never refer to a man as ‘The Honourable’ in person, but you would on paper—”

“Later,” Bronson interrupted, lacing his long fingers together and settling them against his lean midriff. “My brain is filled with titles. I've had enough for today.”

“All right. Shall I leave you, then?”

“Do you want to leave?” he asked softly.

She blinked at the question, then felt her throat tighten with a catch of laughter. “Mr. Bronson, I wish you would stop trying to disconcert me!”

A mocking smile appeared in his eyes. “Now, what is so disconcerting about a simple question?”

“Because if I said yes it would be rude, and if I said no—”

“—then it might imply a liking for my company,” he finished for her, his white teeth flashing in a grin. “Go, then. God knows I wouldn't force you to make such a damning admission.”

Holly remained in her chair. “I'll stay if you'll tell me about the time you broke your nose.”

Bronson's smile lingered as he touched the angled bridge of his nose reflectively. “I got this while sparring with Tom Crib, the former coal porter they called the ‘Black Diamond.’ He had fists as big as hams and a left hook that made you see stars.”

“Who won?” Holly asked, unable to resist.

“I outlasted Crib after twenty rounds and finally knocked him down. It was after that fight that I got my name—‘Bronson the Butcher.’”

The obvious masculine pride he took in the name made Holly feel slightly queasy. “How charming,” she murmured in a dry tone that made him laugh.

“It didn't improve my looks much, having Crib smash my beak,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I wasn't a pretty sort to begin with. Now I'll definitely never be mistaken for an aristocrat.”