Where Dreams Begin(55)

Rose answered before he did, with the pride of a child who was delivering news of great significance. “Mr. Bronson ran into a left hook again, Mama. He was fighting. And he brought this to me.” She pulled the end of her button string from her large apron pocket and climbed into Holly's lap to display her newest acquisition.

Cuddling her daughter, Holly examined the button carefully. It was fashioned of a huge sparkling diamond encased in rich yellow gold. Bewildered, she glanced at Elizabeth's rueful face, and Paula's tight-lipped one, before finally staring into Bronson's enigmatic black eyes. “You shouldn't have given Rose such a costly object, Mr. Bronson. Whose button is it? And why were you fighting?”

“I had a disagreement with someone in my club.”

“Over money?…Over a woman?…”

Bronson's expression revealed nothing, and he gave an indifferent shrug, as if the matter were of no importance.

Considering various possibilities, Holly continued to stare at him in the tense silence that had overtaken the room. Suddenly the answer occurred to her. “Over me?” she whispered.

Idly Bronson picked a skein of thread from his sleeve. “Not really.”

Holly suddenly discovered that she knew him well enough to discern when he was lying. “Yes, it was,” she said with growing conviction. “Someone must have said something unpleasant, and instead of ignoring the remark, you took up the challenge. Oh, Mr. Bronson, how could you?”

Seeing her unhappiness, instead of the grateful admiration he had probably expected, Bronson scowled. “Would you rather I allowed some high-kick b—” He paused to correct himself as he noticed the rapt attention Rose was paying to the conversation. “Some high-kick fellow,” he said, his tone softening a degree, “to spread lies about you? His mouth needed to be shut, and I was able and willing to do it.”

“The only way to respond to a distasteful remark is to ignore it,” Holly said crisply. “You did the exact opposite, thereby creating the impression in some people's minds that there may be a grain of truth in it. You should not have fought for my honor. You should have smiled disdainfully at any slight upon it, resting secure in the knowledge that there is nothing dishonorable about our relationship.”

“But my lady, I would fight the world for you.” Bronson said it in the way he always made such startling comments, in a tone of such jeering lightness that the listener had no doubt he was being facetious.

Elizabeth broke in then, her lips curved in a droll smile. “He'll use any excuse to fight, Lady Holly. My brother enjoys using his fists, primitive male that he is.”

“That is an aspect of his character we will have to correct.” Holly sent Bronson a reproachful glance, and he laughed.

A maid came to announce that dinner was ready to be served, and Rose bounced up and down in excitement. “Rosemary lamb and potatoes,” she said with anticipation, evidently having gleaned the information from the cook. “My favorite! Come, Lizzie, let's hurry!”

Laughing, Elizabeth caught the child's hand in hers and allowed herself to be dragged away from the parlor. Paula smiled as she set her needlework aside and followed. Holly was slow to rise, battling a sudden wave of nausea at the thought of lamb, which did not sound at all appetizing. Unfortunately, the tonic that had relieved her megrims and caused her to sleep for a day did not come without side effects, one of them being greatly diminished appetite.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she opened them to discover that Bronson had made it to her side with astonishing speed. “Feeling faint?” he asked quietly, his gaze moving over her pale face.

“Just a bit queasy,” she murmured, struggling to her feet. “No doubt I'll feel better once I eat something.”

“Let me help you.” His hard, strong arm slid behind her back, supporting her weight as she stood, and Holly experienced a sweet quake of familiarity. It seemed that since their dance lesson, her body had become accustomed to the closeness of his. Being in his arms felt far too natural and pleasurable.

“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to check the coil at her nape, which felt rather loose. The pins had loosened from Rose's affectionate embrace. To Holly's dismay, the pins slid out and the mass of her hair tumbled free. She jerked away from Bronson with a small exclamation. “Oh, dear.” Embarrassed by the cascade of brown locks that fell nearly to her waist, something that women never revealed to any man except their husbands, she busily gathered up the straying locks. “Pardon,” she said, blushing. “I'll restore myself in no time.”

Bronson was strangely quiet. In her discomfited flurry, she did not glance at his face, but it seemed to her that his breathing changed to a deeper, faster rhythm than usual. His hands lifted, reaching for her hair, and at first she thought that he was trying to help her. But instead he took her wrists in his hands, his long fingers wrapping gently around the fragile bones, and he pulled her arms to her sides.

Gasping, Holly glanced up at his dark face. “My hair…oh, Mr. Bronson, please…do let go…”

He continued to hold her wrists, his grip warm and light, and Holly's fingers opened and closed helplessly on nothing but air.

Her hair trailed over her shoulders and bodice in gleaming brown ripples, the lamplight striking tiny glints of gold and red in the dark strands. Bronson stared at her intently, his gaze moving along the path they made down her body, noting the way the strands parted over the gentle hills of her br**sts. Holly's cheeks burned with the heat of modesty, and she pulled once more at her wrists. Suddenly he released her, allowing her to move back a few steps. But as she retreated, he followed.