Holly's cheeks immediately took on a glow that had nothing to do with the fire's heat. Thankfully Maude was behind her and did not notice the gathering blush. Uncomfortably Holly reflected that there was at least one man she had made no effort to keep at bay. In fact, she had all but encouraged the rogue to kiss her a second time. Even now, the memory of his mouth on hers was still vivid. He had turned an ordinary evening into something dark, sweet and strange. He had seized her boldly and yet he had been so…tender. Ever since the moment she had left him, she had not been able to stop wondering who he was and what he looked like. It was possible she might meet him again and never realize he was the stranger that had kissed her.
But she would know his voice. Closing her eyes, she remembered the low masculine whisper, curling around her like smoke: Sweet lady…tell me why a kiss makes you cry. She swayed slightly, and was recalled to reality as Maude spoke in concern.
“Ye must be tired, milady. 'Twas yer first ball since the master passed on…. Is that why ye came home early?”
“Actually, I left because one of my megrims had started, and—” Holly broke off, puzzled, and rubbed her temples absently. “How strange,” she murmured. “It's gone. Once they start, there's usually no stopping them.”
“Shall I bring the tonic the doctor gave ye, in case it comes back?”
Holly shook her head, stepping out of the circle of her dress. “No, thank you,” she replied, still bewildered. It seemed that the episode in the conservatory had chased away any hint of a headache. What a strange antidote for the megrims, she thought ruefully. “I don't believe I'll have further problems tonight.”
With Maude's help, she changed into a white cambric night rail and a lace-trimmed pelisse that buttoned up the front. After tucking her feet into a pair of worn slippers, Holly bade the maid good night and headed up the narrow stairs leading to the nursery. The light from the candle she carried sent a flickering glow over the narrow rectangular room.
A child-sized chair covered in rose velvet and trimmed with silk fringe occupied one corner, next to a miniature tea table bearing a chipped and much-used toy tea service. A collection of old perfume bottles filled with colored water were carefully arranged on the lower shelves of the bookcase. At least a half-dozen dolls were scattered throughout the nursery. One doll was seated on the chair, and another perched on a battered rocking horse that had once belonged to George. And another was clasped in Rose's arms as she lay sleeping.
Holly smiled as she approached the bed, feeling a rush of love as she watched her child in slumber. Rose's little face was innocent and peaceful. The little girl's dark lashes rested on the sweet roundness of her cheeks, and her mouth hung slightly open. Kneeling by the bed, Holly touched one of her daughter's hands, smiling at the faded splotches of blue and green that had lingered despite vigorous washings. Rose loved to paint and draw, and her hands were forever stained with pigment. At four years of age, the child's hands still retained a trace of dimpled baby-plumpness.
“Precious hands,” Holly whispered, and pressed a kiss to the back of one. Standing, she continued to stare at her daughter. When the child was born, everyone, including Holly, had thought she resembled the Taylors. However, Rose had turned out to be a nearly identical replica of herself, small, dark-haired and brown-eyed. She favored George in character, possessing the same innate charm and intelligence.
If only you could see her now, my darling, Holly thought longingly.
In the year after their daughter's birth, the last twelve months of George's life, Holly and George had often watched their daughter sleeping. Most men would not have displayed such keen interest in their own children, considering it unmanly. Children were part of the feminine world, and a man had little to do with them, other than to occasionally ask about their progress or dandle them on his knee for a minute or two. However, George had been openly fascinated by his daughter, enchanted by her, and had cuddled and played with her in a way that had delighted Holly. His pride in Rose had known no limits.
“We're linked forever in this child,” George had said one evening, as he and Holly stood over their infant in her lace-trimmed cradle. “We made her together, Holly…such a natural, simple thing for two people to have a baby…but it almost defies my comprehension.” Too moved for words, Holly had kissed him, loving him for regarding Rose as the miracle that she was.
“What a father you would have had, Rose,” she whispered. It grieved her to know that her daughter would grow up without the security and protection a father would have provided…. But no man could ever replace George.
Two
Zachary Bronson needed a wife. He had observed the kind of ladies that men of wealth and social position were wedded to—composed, quiet-voiced women who managed a household and every detail of a man's life. The servants of a well-run household seemed to work together like the mechanism of a clock…completely unlike his own. Sometimes his servants seemed to get things right, whereas at other times they made his life into a farce. Meals were often late, linens and silver and furniture were never spotless as they were in other wealthy households, while supplies were either overly abundant or nonexistent.
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 rapid
ly 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.
Then had come Mr. Zachary Bronson's letter, with an opening sentence that had instantly fascinated her:
Although I have never had the honor of making your acquaintance, I find that I have need of your assistance in a matter that concerns my household….
How could a man like the notorious Mr. Bronson possibly need her help?
All of the Taylors considered it an ill-advised decision to meet him. They had pointed out that many ladies of consequence did not condescend to accept introductions to him. Even an innocuous tea might cause a scandal.
“A scandal? From a simple afternoon tea?” Holly had responded skeptically, and George's eldest brother, William, had explained.
“Mr. Bronson is not an ordinary man, my dear. He is a social climber—nouveau—he is vulgar in breeding and manner. There are rumors about him that have shocked and appalled me, and as you know, I am a worldly man. No good could come of your association with him. Please, Holly, don't expose yourself to harm or insult. Send a refusal to Bronson at once.”
In the face of William's certainty, Holly had considered rejecting Mr. Bronson's invitation. However, her curiosity was overwhelming. And the thought of remaining enshrouded in safety while one of England's most powerful men had asked to meet her…well, she just had to find out why. “I believe I shall be able to withstand his corruptive influence for at least an hour or two,” she said lightly. “And if I find his behavior objectionable, I will simply leave.”
William's blue eyes—the same shape and color her husband's had been—flashed with disapproval. “George would never have wanted you to be exposed to such a nefarious character.”
The simple statement devastated her. Holly lowered her head, while emotion tugged at the tiny muscles of her face. She had sworn to live the rest of her life as her husband had wished. George had protected her from everything that wasn't seemly and good, and she had trusted his judgment in all things. “But George is gone,” she whispered, and glanced up at William's set face with tear-filled eyes. “I must learn to rely on my own judgment now.”
“And if your judgement proves to be faulty,” he retorted, “I am obligated by the memory of my brother to intercede.”
Holly smiled faintly, reflecting that ever since the day she had been born, there had been someone to protect and guide her. First her loving parents, then George…and now George's family. “Allow me to make a few mistakes, William,” she said. “I must learn to make decisions now, for Rose's sake as well as my own.”
“Holly…” His tone was threaded with mild exasperation. “What could you possibly gain from visiting a man like Zachary Bronson?”
Anticipation curled inside her, making her realize how badly she needed to escape the blanketing security of the Taylor household. “Well,” she said, “I expect to find out soon.”
The information that the Taylors had managed to glean about Mr. Bronson had clearly not eased their minds as to the lack of wisdom Holly displayed in agreeing to meet him. Friends and acquaintances had been eager to share what little knowledge they had about the elusive newcomer to London society. Zachary Bronson was called a merchant prince in many circles, and this term was not intended as flattery. He was outrageously, incomprehensibly rich, and he displayed nearly as much vulgarity as wealth.
Eccentric, interested not in money but in the power it brought, Bronson happily outwitted and destroyed competitors in the manner of a lion set among the Christians. He did not conduct business as a gentleman, accepting all the usual unspoken understandings and limitations. If one did not spell out every letter of an agreement, it was reported, Bronson would take ruthless advantage. Gentlemen were reluctant to enter into business with him, and yet they were compelled to by the hopes that they might receive a mere fraction of the tremendous profits that flowed his way.
Bronson had started as a pugilist, someone said. A common street fighter. And then he had eventually gotten himself hired as the captain of a steamship and acquired increasing numbers of routes. His toughness and shrewd manipulations had either bankrupted his competitors or caused them to merge with him.
Bronson's budding fortune had exploded when he began selling stock to the public at inflated prices, and he had turned to real estate. Since there had been little available land to purchase in England, he had bought thousands of acres of farmland in America and India. The size of his farms dwarfed the acreage that had been in British aristocrats' possession for centuries, and the massive quantity of goods he produced and imported had multiplied his fortune yet again. Now Bronson had invested in the development of a locomotive railroad in Durham, upon which a steam carriage was reputedly able to pull loaded wagons at the rate of twelve miles an hour. Although everyone knew that steam power would never replace horses for general transportation purposes, the experiment was eagerly followed because of Mr. Bronson's patronage.
??
?Bronson is dangerous,” said Lord Avery, an elderly friend of the Taylors' who had been invited to supper. A very sat on the boards of several banks and insurance companies. “Every day I see the wealth of England being transferred from fine families and gentlemen farmers to opportunists like Bronson. If he is allowed to mingle with us, become one of us, merely because he has amassed a fortune…well, it will be nothing less than the end of first society as we know it.”
“But should not achievement be rewarded?” Holly had asked hesitantly, knowing that a respectable woman must never enter into political or financial discussions. However, she was unable to resist. “Should we not recognize Mr. Bronson's accomplishment by welcoming him into our society?”
“He is not fit for our society, my dear,” A very responded emphatically. “The nobility is the product of generations of breeding, education and refinement. One cannot buy a place in first society, which is exactly what Mr. Bronson is attempting to do. He has no honor, no good blood and, from what I understand, the bare minimum of education. I liken Bronson to a trained monkey—he has but one trick, and that is the knack for playing with numbers until he somehow ends up multiplying a small amount into a great one.”
The other guests and the Taylors nodded at the explanation.
“I see,” Holly murmured, and applied her attention to the food on her plate, while thinking to herself that there had been a trace of envy in Lord Avery's tone. Mr. Bronson might have just one trick—but what a trick it was! Every well-bred man at the table would have loved to possess Bronson's Midas-like abilities. And the disparaging talk about him did not accomplish the purpose of deterring her from meeting Mr. Bronson. In fact, it made her all the more curious.
Three