Where Dreams Begin by Lisa Kleypas
Holly had never seen anything like Zachary Bronson's London estate, the opulence of which might have made a Medici envious. The entrance hall, lavishly paved with Rouge Royal marble and lined with shimmering gold-covered columns and priceless tapestries, rose two floors in height. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the silver-and-gold-coffered ceiling, illuminating an astonishing amount of Roman statuary. Huge malachite vases stuffed with palms and luxuriant ferns framed each of the four exits leading from the central hall.
A surprisingly youthful butler led Holly through the hall toward the library suite. “Suite?” Holly had repeated, perplexed, and the butler explained that Mr. Bronson's private collection of books, manuscripts, antique folios and maps was too large to be contained in just one room. Holly repressed the urge to turn circles as she stared at her surroundings. Both sides of the hallway had been covered in blue silk, to which hundreds of glittering glass butterflies had been affixed. The entrance door to the library was flanked by a pair of paintings—Rembrandts—each of which was finer than the grandest works of art the Taylors possessed.
Having been brought up to consider that simple surroundings offered the most relaxation and repose, Holly thought the place was in horrendously had taste. But it was so spectacular in its sheer excess that it brought a wondering smile to her face. Recalling that Bronson had reputedly begun his career as a prizefighter, she felt an admiration that bordered on awe, that one man could achieve so much.
The butler led her to a room that was flooded with light from the intricate leaded-glass ceiling. The walls were covered in green velvet and a great quantity of triple-hung paintings that appeared to be portraits of venerable ancestors. Rows and rows of glass-fronted bookshelves contained intriguing collections of volumes. How tempting it was to take a book and recline on one of the luxuriously overstuffed leather chairs, and lean back against one of the plush rug-covered pillows. Passing a glossy brown globe that must have measured six feet in diameter, Holly paused and touched it tentatively.
“I've never seen a library as magnificent as this,” she said.
Although the butler struggled to look impassive, his expression contained a mixture of amusement and pride. “This is merely the library entrance, my lady. The main room is just ahead.”
Holly accompanied him to the next room, and stopped at the threshold with a slight gasp. The library looked like something from a palace, too spectacular to belong to one family. “How many books does it hold?” she asked.
“Nearly twenty thousand volumes, I believe.”
“Mr. Bronson must love to read.”
“Oh, no, my lady, the master hardly ever reads. But he is quite fond of books.”
Suppressing a laugh at the incongruous statement, Holly wandered farther into the library. The main room soared upward three stories in height, to a ceiling elaborately frescoed with angels and heavenly scenes. The shining parqueted floor beneath her feet emanated a fresh scent of beeswax that mingled pleasantly with the smells of book leather and vellum, underlaid with the faint pungent trace of tobacco. A roaring fire burned in a carved green marble fireplace that one could have parked a carriage in. At the far end of the room, there was a mahogany desk so massive that it must have required the combined strength of a dozen men to move it. The man who was seated behind it rose to his feet as the butler announced Holly's name.
Although she had met nobility and even royalty with perfect confidence, Holly felt a little nervous now. Perhaps it was because of Mr. Bronson's reputation, or the splendor of her current surroundings, but she was actually a bit breathless as he approached her. She was glad she had worn her nicest day gown, a coffee-colored Italian silk, its high neck trimmed with vanilla lace, its full sleeves gathered at the elbows with bands of fabric.
Why, he's ýoung, Holly thought in surprise, having expected a man in his forties or fifties. However, Zachary Bronson could not be older than thirty. Despite his elegant clothes—black coat and dark gray trousers—he reminded her of a tomcat, tall and large-boned, lacking the polish of aristocrats she was accustomed to. The spill of thick black hair over his forehead should have been slicked back with pomade, and the knot of his cravat was too loose, as if he had been tugging at it unconsciously.
Bronson was handsome, although his features were blunted and his nose looked as though it had once been broken. He had a strong jaw, a wide mouth and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that betrayed a ready sense of humor. She received a strange shock of awareness as she met his gaze. His eyes were a shade of brown so deep they appeared black, giving his alert stare a penetrating quality that made her distinctly uncomfortable. The devil must have eyes like that, audacious, knowing…sensuous.
“Welcome, Lady Holland. I didn't think you would come.”
The sound of his voice caused Holly to stumble a little. When she recovered her balance, she froze in place and stared at the carpeted floor. The room seemed to spin around her, and she concentrated hard on retaining her balance when her entire body was shaken by panic and confusion. She knew that voice, would have known it anywhere. He was her stranger, the man who had spoken to her so tenderly and kissed her with an intimacy that had left an indelible brand on her memory. The hot blood of shame flooded her face, and it seemed impossible to look back up at him. But the silence compelled her to say something.
“I was very nearly dissuaded,” she whispered. Oh, if she had only listened to George's family and stayed behind the safe walls of the Taylor estate!
“May I ask what made you decide in my favor?” His tone was so polite, so bland, that she glanced upward in surprise. The dark eyes were reassuringly devoid of mockery.
He didn't recognize her, she thought with sudden wild hope and relief. He didn't know that she was the woman he had kissed at the Bellemont ball. Licking her dry lips, she made an attempt at normal conversation. “I…don't really know,” she said. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
That elicited a quick grin. “That's as good a reason as any.” He took her hand in a welcoming grip, his long fingers engulfing hers completely. The warmth of his palm sank through the delicate weave of her glove. Holly nearly swayed at a sudden flash of memory…how hot his skin had been the evening of the Bellemont ball, how hard and warm his mouth had been as he had kissed her—
She withdrew her hand with a sound of discomfort.
“Shall we have a seat?” Bronson gestured to a pair of Louis XIV armchairs arranged beside a marble-topped tea table.
“Yes, thank you.” Holly was grateful at the prospect of occupying a chair instead of relying on the uncertain support of her own legs.
After she was seated, Bronson occupied the chair opposite hers. He sat with both feet on the floor, muscular thighs spread apart as he leaned slightly forward. “Tea, Hodges,” he muttered to the butler, then returned his attention to Holly and gave her a disarming grin. “I hope it will be acceptable to you, my lady. Taking refreshments at my home is a bit like playing roulette.”
“Roulette?” Holly frowned quizzically at the unfamiliar term.
“A gamble,” he explained. “On a good day, my cook is unsurpassed. On a bad one…well, you could break a tooth on one of her biscuits.”
Holly laughed suddenly, losing some of her nervousness at the disclosure that Bronson had household complaints just as ordinary men did.
“Surely with a little management—” she began, then stopped suddenly as she realized she had been about to give him unasked-for advice.
“There is no real management in my household, my lady. We all muddle along without direction, but that is something I want to discuss with you later.”
Was that why he had summoned her to his estate? To receive her thoughts on the smooth running of a house-hold? Of course not. He must suspect she was the woman he had encountered at the Bellemont ball. He was toying with her, perhaps. He would ask her a few sly questions to see if she would rise to the bait.
If so, the best defense was to bring everything out into the open
“Mr. Bronson,” she said, having to drag each word from her clenched throat, “there is something I sh-should tell you…”
“Yes?” He stared at her with keen black eyes.
Suddenly Holly found it impossible to believe that she had kissed this large masculine creature, that she had embraced him and caressed the shaven bristle of his jaw…that he had kissed the tears from her cheeks. In the few stolen moments they had met, she had shared more intimacy with him than she ever had with any man except George.
“Y-you…” Her heart slammed repeatedly against her ribs. Damning herself for a coward, Holly abandoned the attempt at confession. “You have a very beautiful home.”
He smiled slightly. “I thought it might not be to your taste.”
“It isn't, exactly. But it serves its purpose magnificently.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“Why, to announce to everyone that you have arrived.”
“That's right.” He gave her an arrested stare. “A few days ago some pompous baron called me an ‘arriviste.’ I didn't realize what it meant until just now.”
“Yes,” Holly said with a gentle smile. “You're a recent arrival to society.”
“It wasn't a compliment,” he said dryly.
Guessing that he must have received hundreds of subtle set-downs from the peers he had encountered so far, Holly felt a touch of sympathy. It was hardly Bronson's fault that he had come from less-than-stellar beginnings. However, the English aristocracy felt as a whole that a man should never “rise above his buttons.” People in the serving class, or the working class, could never elevate themselves to the upper levels of society, no matter how great their fortunes might be. And yet Holly rather thought that achievement alone should be enough to make a man like this acceptable to “first society.” She wondered if George would have agreed with her, or what he would have thought about this man. She truly had no idea.
“In my opinion your accomplishments are worthy of admiration, Mr. Bronson,” she said. “Most of English nobility are merely retaining wealth that was granted to their families by ancient kings as a reward for service. You have made your own wealth, and that requires great intelligence and will. Although the baron was not paying you a compliment by calling you an arriviste, it should have been one.”
He stared at her for an unaccountably long moment. “Thank you,” he finally muttered.
To Holly's surprise, her words had caused a tide of color to creep up from Bronson's collar. She guessed that he was not accustomed to such direct praise. She hoped he would not think she was trying to flatter him for some reason. “Mr. Bronson, I was not being unctuous just now,” she said.
A smile tugged at the left side of his mouth. “I'm sure you would never be unctuous…whatever that means.”
Two maids arrived bearing huge silver trays, and they busied themselves with arranging the tea table. The stout maid, who set out little plates of sandwiches, toast and biscuits, seemed nervous and was inclined to giggle as she performed her task. The smaller one fumbled with the silverware and napkins and deposited the cups and saucers on the wrong side of the place setting. They struggled to set the kettle properly over a small flame, nearly overturning it. Secretly pained by the inept service when the girls clearly required a few words of direction, Holly made her face into a polite mask.
She was surprised by the maids' obvious lack of training. A man of Mr. Bronson's position should have the very best of service. A well-trained servant was quiet and efficient, making himself or herself part of the scenery. In Holly's experience, a housemaid would certainly never draw attention to herself and would rather be shot than giggle in front of a guest.
When at last the preparations were made and the maids had left, Holly began to unbutton the wrists of her little gray gloves and tug them neatly from her fingertips. She paused as she felt Mr. Bronson's intent gaze on her, and looked up with an inquiring smile. “Shall I?” she asked, gesturing toward the tea service, and he nodded, his attention immediately returning to her hands.
There was something in Bronson's eyes, some disquieting glow that made Holly feel as if she were unbuttoning her blouse instead of simply removing her gloves. It was an ordinary thing to bare one's hands before a gentleman, and yet the way he stared at her made the task seem strangely intimate.
She rinsed the Sevres teapot with boiling water to warm it, then poured the liquid into a china bowl. Expertly she measured and spooned the fragrant tea leaves into the teapot and added hot water. While the tea steeped, Holly arranged a selection of sandwiches and biscuits on the plates and made idle conversation. Bronson seemed content to follow her lead.
“You have filled your library with a lovely collection of portraits, Mr. Bronson.”
“Other peoples' ancestors,” he replied dryly. “Mine weren't the kind to sit for paintings.”
Holly had heard of other men with newly made fortunes doing the same thing—hanging portraits of strangers in their homes to give the impression of an illustrious family lineage. However, Zachary Bronson was the first man in her experience who had openly admitted to it.
She handed him a small plate and napkin. “Do you reside here alone?”
“No, my mother and younger sister Elizabeth also live here.”
Holly's interest was piqued. “I don't believe anyone has mentioned before that you have a sister.”
Bronson seemed to answer with great care. “I've been waiting for the right time to bring Elizabeth out in society. I'm afraid—circumstances being what they are—things might be difficult for her. She hasn't been taught how to…” He paused, clearly searching for a word to describe the intricate knowledge a young woman was expected to have of manners and social skills.
“I see.” Holly nodded in immediate understanding, her brows knitting together. Difficult indeed, for a girl who had not been rigorously trained in such matters. Society could be merciless. On top of that, the Bronson family was undistinguished in every area but money, and the last thing they needed was a plague of fortune hunters to descend on Elizabeth. “Have you considered sending her to finishing school, Mr. Bronson? If you like, I could recommend one—”
“She's twenty-one,” he said flatly. “She would be older than all the other girls—she informs me that she would ‘rather die’ than attend one. She wants to live at home.”
“Of course.” Deftly Holly poured the tea through a small silver strainer with a bird-shaped handle. “Do you prefer your tea strong, Mr. Bronson, or shall I add a splash of water?”
“Strong, please.”
“One lump or two?” she asked with a pair of delicate tongs hovering over the sugar bowl.
“Three. And no milk.”
For some reason Holly felt an irresistible smile come to her face. “You have a sweet tooth, Mr. Bronson.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Not at all,” Holly replied softly. “I was just thinking that you would enjoy one of my daughter's tea parties. For Rose, three lumps is the absolute minimum.”
“Maybe I'll ask Rose to pour for me one day, then.”
Holly wasn't certain what he meant by that, but the intimacy it implied, the promise of familiarity, made her uneasy. Tearing her gaze from his, she returned her attention to the tea. Having prepared a cup for Bronson, she set about finishing her own, adding a touch of sugar and a generous splash of milk.
“My mother pours the milk in first,” Bronson remarked, watching her.
“Perhaps you might suggest to her that it is easier to judge the tea by its color when the milk is added last,” Holly murmured. “The nobility tends to disparage people who pour the milk in first, as it is usually done by nannies and servants and…”
“People of my class,” he said wryly.
“Yes.” Holly forced herself to meet his gaze. “Th
It was presumptuous of her to offer such advice, no matter how helpfully intended, and some would have taken offense. However, Bronson accepted it comfortably. “I'll tell my mother,” he said. “Thank you.”
Relaxing a little, Holly reached for a biscuit. It was delicate, sweet and slightly spongy, a perfect accompaniment to the crisp tea. “The cook is having a good day,” she pronounced after swallowing a bite.
Bronson laughed, the sound quiet and deep, utterly attractive. “Thank God,” he said.
The conversation was easy and companionable after that, although it was strange to Holly, being alone with a man who was neither a relative nor a long-held acquaintance. Any trace of self-consciousness was soon submerged by her fascination with Zachary Bronson. He was an extraordinary man, with an ambition and drive that made all other men she had known seem like weak, passive creatures.
She sipped her tea as she listened to him describe the latest experiments with the steam carriage, or locomotive, in Durham. He talked about feed pumps injecting hot water into boilers, and the steam blasts that were channeled through the smokestack at the top of the vehicle, and various attempts to improve the draft in the furnace to increase power. Someday soon, he claimed, the locomotive would be used not only to carry freight, but livestock and even human passengers, and rail lines would cross through every town of importance in England. Holly was skeptical but fascinated. It was the kind of subject that a gentleman rarely discussed with a lady, as ladies were thought to be far more interested in matters of family, society and religion. But it was refreshing to hear something other than society gossip, and Bronson managed to explain the technical subjects in a way that Holly could easily understand.
Zachary Bronson came from a world so different from her own, a world of businessmen, inventors, entrepreneurs…It was so clear that he would never fit comfortably into a stodgy aristocracy steeped in centuries of tradition. However, it was also clear that he was determined to make a place for himself in first society, and heaven help anyone who tried to deter him.