“My Papa's not coming to live here with us because he's in heaven now. Isn't that right, Mama?”
The group was suddenly silent. Holly glanced at Zachary Bronson's face and saw that it was expressionless. “That's right, darling,” she answered her daughter softly.
The mention of George had cast a pall over the scene, and Holly searched for words to dispel the sudden awkwardness. However, the longer the silence stretched, the more difficult it seemed to break. She couldn't help reflecting in a flash of despair that if George were alive, she would never be in this position, coming to live in a house of strangers, accepting employment from a man like Zachary Bronson.
Suddenly Elizabeth broke the pause with a bright, if slightly forced, smile. “Rose, let me show you upstairs to your new room. Do you know that my brother has bought the contents of an entire toy shop for you? Dolls and books, and the biggest doll house you've ever seen.”
As the little girl squealed with delight and followed her at once, Holly stared at Zachary Bronson with rapidly dawning disapproval. “An entire toy shop?”
“It was nothing like that,” Bronson said immediately. “Elizabeth is prone to exaggeration.” He threw a warning glance at Paula, silently demanding that she agree with him. “Isn't that right, Mother?”
“Well,” Paula said uncertainly, “actually, you did rather—”
“I'm certain Lady Holland will want a tour of the house while her belongings are unpacked,” Bronson interrupted hastily. “Why don't you take her around?”
Clearly overwhelmed by shyness, Mrs. Bronson gave a noncommittal murmur and sped away, leaving the two of them alone in the parlor.
Faced with Holly's disapproving stare, Zachary shoved his hands in his pockets, while the toe of his expensive shoe beat a quick, impatient rhythm on the floor. “What harm is there in an extra toy or two?” he finally said in an excessively reasonable tone. “Her room was about as cheerful as a prison cell. I thought a doll and a handful of books would make the place more appealing for her—”
“First of all,” Holly interrupted, “I doubt that any room in this house could be described as a prison cell. Second…I will not have my daughter spoiled and overwhelmed, and influenced by your taste for excess.”
“Fine,” he said with a gathering scowl. “We'll get rid of the damned toys, then.”
“Please do not swear in my presence,” Holly said, and sighed. “How am I to remove the toys after Rose has seen them? You don't know very much about children, do you?”
“No,” he said shortly. “Only how to bribe them.”
Holly shook her head, her displeasure warring with sudden amusement. “There is no need to bribe Rose—or me, for that matter. I gave you my word that I would not break our agreement. And please do not tap your foot that way…it is not good deportment.”
The impatient rhythm ceased at once, and Bronson gave her a darkly ironic glance. “Anything else about my deportment you'd like to change?”
“Yes, actually.” Holly hesitated as their gazes met. It felt odd to give directions to a man like this. Especially a man as powerful and physically imposing as Bronson. However, he had hired her for this specific purpose, and she would prove herself equal to the challenge. “You mustn't stand with your hands in your pockets—it isn't good form.”
“Why?” he asked, removing them.
Her brow puckered thoughtfully. “I suppose because it implies that you have something to hide.”
“Maybe I do.” His intent gaze remained on her face as she approached him.
“I was schooled excessively on proper carriage of the body,” Holly said. “Ladies and gentleman must appear composed at all times. Try never to shrug your shoulders or shift your weight, and keep your gestures to a minimum.”
“This explains why aristoc
rats are always as stiff as corpses,” Bronson muttered.
Smothering a laugh, Holly regarded him gravely. “Bow to me, please,” she commanded. “When you greeted us outside, I thought I detected something…”
Bronson glanced at the doorway of the parlor to make certain they were not being observed. “Why don't we start the lessons tomorrow? I'm sure you want to unpack and accustom yourself to the place—”
“There's no time like the present,” she assured him. “Bow, please.”
Muttering something beneath his breath, he complied.
“There,” Holly said softly, “you did it again.”
“What did I do?”
“When you bow, you must keep your gaze on the person you're addressing—you must not hide your eyes, even for an instant. It seems a little thing, but it's quite important.” Only servants and inferiors bowed with their gaze downcast, and being unaware of this fact would put a man at an instant disadvantage.