Where Dreams Begin(8)

Zachary had hired a succession of housekeepers until he had realized that even the best ones still needed the overall direction provided by a lady of the house. And God knew his mother hadn't the slightest notion of how to give orders to a servant, other than to timidly ask a maid for a cup of tea or for assistance in dressing.

“They're servants, Mother,” Zachary had told her patiently, at least a hundred times. “They expect you to ask for things. They want you to. They wouldn't have jobs otherwise. Now, stop looking so damned apologetic when you need something, and ring the bellpull with some authority.”

But his mother only laughed and stammered, and protested that she hated to put someone to any bother, even if they were paid for it. No, his mother was never going to improve in this area—she had lived in humble circumstances for too long to be any good at managing servants.

Part of the problem was that his servants, like his money, were all new. Other men of means had inherited a household of experienced servants that had lived and worked together for years, even decades. Zachary had been forced out of necessity to hire his all at once. A few were rank newcomers to the profession, but most were servants who had been dismissed from their previous positions for various reasons. In other words, he was now the employer of the greatest accumulation of alcoholics, unwed mothers, bunglers and petty thieves in west London.

Friends had advised that the right sort of wife could do wonders with his household management problem, leaving him free to do what he did best—make money. For the first time in his life, Zachary found the idea of marriage to be sensible and even appealing. However, he had to find the right sort of woman and convince her to accept his suit, and this was hardly a simple task. He had specific requirements for any woman he would consider taking to wife.

For one thing, she must be blue-blooded, if he was ever to gain access to the high social circles he aspired to. In fact, considering his own lack of breeding and education, she had better compensate by having bloodlines that dated back to William the Conqueror. However, she must not condescend to him—he would not have a wife that looked down her aristocratic nose at him. She must also be independent, so that she would not mind his frequent absences. He was a busy man, and the last thing he needed was someone else tugging at him and trying to usurp what little spare time he still possessed.

Beauty was not required. In fact, he did not want a wife so lovely that other men would be staring and drooling and forever trying to seduce her. Moderate attractiveness would suit him perfectly. Good mental and physical health was imperative, as he wanted her to bear strong, intelligent children. Social skills were also important, as she would have to serve as his wedge into a society that was obviously reluctant to accept him.

Zachary was well aware that many aristocrats secretly mocked him for his low birth and his rapidly built fortune, claiming that his mind was bourgeois and mercantile, that he had no understanding of style, elegance and good breeding. They were correct in this assessment. He knew his limitations. However, he took a grim satisfaction in the fact that no one could afford to mock him openly. He had made himself into a force to be reckoned with. He had sunk his financial tentacles into banks, businesses, real estate, investment trusts…it was likely that he had some kind of monetary affiliation, whether large or small, with every man of means in England.

The nobility would not want him to marry one of their precious daughters. Marriage to an aristocrat meant the alignment of one great family with another, the mixing of blue blood with blue. One did not breed a splendidly pedigreed animal with a mongrel. Except that this particular mongrel had enough money to purchase whatever he wanted—even a highborn bride.

Toward this end, he had arranged for a meeting with Lady Holland Taylor. If his invitation proved alluring enough, she would be coming for tea. Zachary had calculated that it would take one day for the elusive widow to consider the idea, a second day for friends and family to talk her out of it, and the third for her curiosity to get the better of her. To his satisfaction, she had accepted his invitation. He would see her today.

He walked to the front window of his library, the large room set on the northeast corner of his gothic mansion. The house was designed in a style his architect had called a “cottage orné,” a term Zachary had come to believe meant pretentious and overpriced. However, it was much admired by the ton, or at least much remarked on, and it made the statement Zachary had intended—that he was a man of consequence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a massive wedding cake of a house loaded with spires, towers, arches, conservatories, and glittering French doors. The twenty-bedroom building lounged insolently on a huge sprawl of land west of London. Artificial lakes and lush groves of trees graced the landscape, not to mention gardens, parks, follies, and walks both serpentine and straight, depending on the visitors' taste.

He wondered what Lady Holly would think of the estate, if she would deem it heaven or horror. She probably had the good taste that most ladies of her station possessed, the kind of taste that he admired but could not seem to emulate. His own taste was for styles that would conspicuously display his success—he couldn't help it.

The chiming of the long-case clock in the hall alerted him to the time, and he stared through the window at the long circular drive at the front of his home. “Lady Holly,” he said softly, filled with biting anticipation, “I'm waiting for you.”

In spite of the Taylors' collective objections, Holly had decided to accept Mr. Zachary Bronson's unexpected invitation to tea. She had not been able to resist. Since the night of the Bellemont ball, life had returned to its usual serene pace, but the rituals of life in the Taylor household had somehow lost their comforting magic. She was tired of needlework and letter writing and all the genteel pursuits that had occupied her for the past three years. Ever since those stolen kisses in the Bellemonts' conservatory, she had felt terribly restless. She wanted something to happen, to alter the predictable flow of her life.