“You're going to live with Bronson,” William said softly, undercutting his brother's protests. “Now I understand exactly what is going on. Yes, take Maude with you, by all means. But what of Rose? Will you discard her as easily as you have discarded my brother's memory, and leave us to take care of her? Or will you bring her with you, and allow her to watch you become a rich man's paramour?”
No one had ever spoken to her in such an insulting way. To hear it from a stranger would have been bad enough, but for it to come from George's brother was nearly unendurable. Steeling herself not to cry, Holly strode to the door. “I would never leave Rose for any reason,” she said over her shoulder, her voice shaking only a little.
She heard the two brothers arguing as she left, Thomas berating William for his cruelty, and William responding in the clipped tones of a man suppressing great anger. What would George have wanted her to do? Holly wondered, and knew the answer immediately. He would have desired her to remain in the shelter of his family's home.
Holly paused at a window overlooking a small courtyard. The deep sill was scarred by a thousand tiny nicks and scratches. One of the servants had told her that George used to stage battles between his toy soldiers at this very window. She pictured his small hands manipulating the little painted iron men, the same hands that in manhood had caressed and held her. “I'm sorry, darling,” she whispered. “After this year is through, I'll live exactly the way you wanted me to. And Rose will want for nothing. Just this one year, and then I'll keep all my promises to you.”
Five
Lady Holly emerged from the carriage, stepping lightly to the ground with the assistance of a footman. As Zachary watched her, he was aware of a peculiar sensation in his chest, a deep throb of pleasure. She was here at last. His gaze drank in the sight of her. She was perfectly turned out, her little hands encased in gloves, her dark brown hair smooth and shining beneath a small-brimmed hat trimmed with a wisp of a veil at the front. Zachary was tempted to disarrange her demure facade, plunge his hands into her hair and unfasten the prim row of buttons at the neck of her chocolate-hued gown.
Another brown dress, Zachary thought, a frown working between his brows. The signs of her continued mourning— “slight mourning,” as such austere garments were called—caused him a stab of annoyance. He had never personally known a woman who had chosen to grieve so long. His own mother, who had undoubtedly loved his father, had been more than ready to relinquish her smothering dark mourning garb after a year, and Zachary had not blamed her for an instant. A woman did not bury all her needs and instincts along with her husband, much as society would like to pretend otherwise.
Excessively devoted widows were much admired, kept on pedestals as examples for others of their sex to follow. However, Zachary suspected that Lady Holly did not cling to mourning because it was the fashion, or because she wished to earn admiration. She sincerely grieved for her husband. Zachary wondered what kind of man had inspired such passionate attachment. Lord George Taylor had been an aristocrat, to be certain. One of Holly's own kind, someone well bred and honorable. Someone completely unlike himself, Zachary thought grimly.
A maidservant and a child descended the movable steps placed at the carriage door, and Zachary's attention lingered on the little girl. As he watched her, a smile came unbidden to his lips. Rose was a doll-like replica of her mother, with the same pretty features, and long brown curls adorned with a pale blue bow at the crown of her head. Appearing a bit anxious, Rose clutched something in her hands—something that sparkled like jewelry—as she stared at the grandeur of the house and grounds.
Zachary thought that perhaps he should remain in the house and receive Lady Holly in the parlor, or even the entrance hall, rather than greet them outside. What the hell, he thought grimly, and strode down the front steps, deciding that if he made a faux pas, Lady Holly would certainly let him know.
He approached Holly as she murmured instructions to the footmen who unloaded trunks and valises from the carriage. The brim of her hat lifted as she glanced at Zachary, and her mouth curved with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Bronson.”
He bowed and gave her an assessing glance. Her face was strained and pale, as if she had not slept for several nights, and Zachary understood at once that the Taylors must have put her through hell. “That bad?” he asked softly. “They must have convinced you that I'm the devil incarnate.”
“They would prefer that I work for the devil,” she said, and he laughed.
“I'll try not to corrupt you beyond recognition, my lady.”
Holly rested her fingertips on her child's tiny shoulder and urged her forward. The note of motherly pride in her voice was unmistakable. “This is my daughter Rose.”
Zachary bowed, and the little girl bobbed a perfect curtsy. Then Rose spoke without taking her eyes from his face. “Are you Mr. Bronson? We've come to teach you your manners.”
Zachary flashed a grin at Holly. “I didn't realize when we struck our bargain that I was getting two of you.”
Cautiously Rose reached up for her mother's gloved hand. “Is this where we're going to live, Mama? Is there a room for me?”
Zachary sat on his haunches and stared into the little girl's face with a smile. “I believe a room right next to your mother's has been prepared for you,” he told her. His gaze fell to the mass of sparkling objects in Rose's hands. “What is that, Miss Rose?”
“My button string.” The child let some of the length fall to the ground, displaying a line of carefully strung buttons…picture buttons etched with flowers, fruit or butterflies, ones made of molded black glass and a few of painted enamel and paper. “This one is my perfume button,” Rose said proudly, fingering a large one with velvet backing. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Mama puts her perfume on it for me, to make it smell nice.”
As Rose extended it toward him, Zachary ducked his head and detected a faint flowery fragrance that he recognized instantly. “Yes,” he said softly, glancing up at Lady Holly's blushing face. “That smells just like your mama.”
“Rose,” Holly said, clearly perturbed, “come with me—ladies do not remain talking on the drive-”
“I don't have any buttons like that,” Rose told Zachary, ignoring her mother's words as she stared at one of the large solid gold buttons that adorned his coat.
Gazing in the direction of the child's dainty finger, Zachary saw that a miniature hunting landscape was engraved on the surface of his top button. He had never looked closely enough to notice before. “Allow me the honor of adding to your collection, Miss Rose,” he said, reaching inside his coat to extract a small silver folding knife. Deftly he cut the threads holding the button to his coat and handed the object to the excited little girl.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Bronson,” Rose exclaimed. “Thank you!” Hurriedly she began to thread the button onto her string before her mother could offer an objection.
“Mr. Bronson,” Holly spluttered, “a gentleman does not pull out w-weapons in the presence of ladies and children—”
“It's not a weapon.” Casually he replaced the knife in his coat and rose to his feet. “It's a tool.”
“Nevertheless, it's not—” Holly broke off as she saw what her daughter was doing. “Rose, you must return that button to Mr. Bronson this instant. It is far too fine and costly for your collection.”
“But he gave it to me,” Rose protested, her short fing
ers working frantically until the button was safely knotted on her string.