“Who won?” Holly asked, unable to resist.
“I outlasted Crib after twenty rounds and finally knocked him down. It was after that fight that I got my name—‘Bronson the Butcher.’”
The obvious masculine pride he took in the name made Holly feel slightly queasy. “How charming,” she murmured in a dry tone that made him laugh.
“It didn't improve my looks much, having Crib smash my beak,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I wasn't a pretty sort to begin with. Now I'll definitely never be mistaken for an aristocrat.”
“You wouldn't have anyway.”
Bronson pretended to wince. “That's as painful a jab as any I received in the rope ring, my lady. So you don't exactly fancy my beat-up mug, is that what you're saying?”
“You know very well that you're an attractive man, Mr. Bronson. Just not in an aristocratic way. For one thing, you have too many…that is, you're too…muscular.” She gestured to his bulging coat sleeves and shoulders.
“Pampered noblemen don't have arms like that.”
“So my tailor tells me.”
“Isn't there any way to make them, well…smaller?”
“Not that I'm aware of. But just to sa
tisfy my curiosity, how much would I have to shrivel to pass for a gentleman?”
Holly laughed and shook her head. “Physical appearance is the least of your worries, sir. You need to acquire a proper air of dignity. You're far too irreverent.”
“But attractive,” he countered. “You did say I was attractive.”
“Did I? I'm certain I meant to use the word ‘incorrigible.’”
A shared smile caused a mixture of delight and heat to ripple over Holly. Hurriedly she dropped her gaze to her lap, breathing a little faster than normal. She felt odd, barely contained, as if the pressure of excitement within her would cause her to leap from her chair. She didn't dare look at Bronson, fearing her own reaction if she did. He made her want to…well, she wasn't certain what. All she knew was that the memory of his kiss, the sweet, warm invasion of his mouth, was suddenly at the forefront of her mind. She turned scarlet and folded her hands tightly together, repressing herself.
“My fighting career didn't last for long,” she heard Bronson say. “I only did it to make enough money to acquire interest in a steamship.”
“Really?” Holly asked, finally able to look at him once more. “I rather wonder if you didn't enjoy it a little.”
“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I like to compete. And to win. But there was too much pain and too little profit from prizefighting. And I soon learned that there are ways to down a man without bloodying your hands.”
“My goodness, Mr. Bronson. Must you lead your life as if it's a constant battle for supremacy?”
“How else should I behave?”
“You could try relaxing a bit and enjoying what you've accomplished.”
His dark, cinnamon-flecked eyes mocked her. ‘Did you ever play king of the mountain when you were a child, Lady Holly? Probably not—it's hardly a game for respectable little girls. You find a pile of dirt or refuse and compete with your comrades to see who can fight his way to the top. And that's the easy part.”
“What is the difficult part, Mr. Bronson?”
“Staying there.”
“I'll bet you managed to stay there from sunrise to nightfall,” she said softly. “Kicking and pummeling all the boys who tried to replace you.”
“Only until suppertime,” he confessed with a sudden grin. “I was always defeated by my stomach.”
Holly let out a sudden peal of unladylike laughter. She couldn't seem to hold it in, not even when her daughter, clearly surprised by the sound, came to stand by her chair. “What is it, Mama?”
“Mr. Bronson,” Holly explained, “was just telling me a story about when he was a little boy.”
Although Rose had no idea what the joke was, she began to laugh, too.