“That wasn't meant as a compliment.”
“Any criticism of yours, Mr. Bronson, I will definitely receive as a compliment.”
Bronson had laughed, as he did whenever she attempted to provide the smallest tidbit of moral instruction. He was interested only in the superficial lessons of how to behave like a gentleman. And when it suited him, he would be more than ready to shed his mannered facade. However, try as she might, Holly could not dislike him.
As the days of Holly's residence at the Bronson estate lengthened into weeks, there were many things she learned about her employer, including the fact that he had many personal qualities to admire. Bronson was honest about his flaws and remarkably unpretentious about his background and lack of education. He possessed a strange sort of modesty, constantly downplaying his tremendous innate intelligence and his considerable achievements. He often used his sly charm to make her laugh against her will. In fact, he seemed to delight in provoking her until her temper began to show, then he made her laugh in the midst of her frustration.
They spent many evenings together, sometimes with Rose playing at their feet as they talked. Occasionally they conversed alone into the night, after the lateness of the hour had caused Elizabeth and Paula to retire. As the coals glowed in the hearth, Bronson would ply Holly with glasses of rare wine and regale her with vulgar but fascinating tales of his own life. In return, he insisted on hearing stories of Holly's childhood. Holly had no idea why mundane details of her past should interest him so, but he persisted in asking until she told him about ridiculous things, like the naughty childhood cousin who had once tied her long hair to the back of her chair, or the time she had deliberately dropped a wet sponge on a footman's head from an upstairs balcony.
And sometimes he asked about George. About their marriage…even what it had been like to give birth.
“You know I can't discuss such a thing with you,” Holly protested.
“Why not?” Bronson's alert black eyes were softened by the light of the fire. They were sitting in the private family parlor, a cozy jewel box of a room that was swathed in rich olive velvet. It seemed that the world outside this small, elegant room was very far away. Holly knew that it was wrong for the two of them to be secluded in this intimate atmosphere. Too close…too private. However, she couldn't seem to make herself leave. There was a wicked part of her that wanted to stay despite the dictates of propriety.
“You know very well that it's indecent,” she told him. “I fault you very much for asking such a question.”
“Tell me,” he insisted lazily, lifting a wine goblet to his mouth. “Were you a good little soldier or a screaming banshee?”
“Mr. Bronson!” She threw him a look of utter rebuke. “Have you no delicacy at all? Or even a thimbleful of respect for me?”
“I respect you more than I've ever respected another human being, my lady,” he said readily.
Holly shook her head, fighting the reluctant smile that pulled at her lips. “I was not a good soldier,” she admitted. “It was horribly painful and difficult, and worst of all was that it only lasted twelve hours and everyone said it was an easy birth, and I was given hardly any sympathy at all.”
His laughter contained a trace of delight at her rueful complaint. “Would you have had more children? If George had lived?”
“Of course. A married woman has no choice in such matters.”
“Doesn't she?”
Perplexed, she met his shrewd gaze. “No, I…What do you mean?”
“I mean there are ways to prevent unwanted pregnancy.”
Holly regarded him with horrified silence. Good women shunned any discussion of such matters. In fact, the subject was so forbidden that there had never been a mention of it between she and George. Oh, there had been whispers she had inadvertently heard from other women, but she had promptly removed herself from the vicinity of such inappropriate discussion. And here was this unscrupulous man daring to say such things to her face!
“Now I truly have offended you,” Bronson remarked, trying to look penitent, but she sensed the amusement lurking just beneath his facade. “Forgive me, my lady. There are times I forget someone could be so sheltered.”
“It's time that I retired for the evening,” Holly said with great dignity, deciding that her only recourse was to ignore the distasteful exchange as if it had never occurred. “Good night, Mr. Bronson.” She rose to her feet, and Bronson followed immediately.
“There's no need to leave,” he coaxed. “I'll behave from now on. I promise.”
“It's late,” Holly said firmly, retreating to the door. “Again, sir, good night—”
Somehow he reached the threshold before she did, without any appearance of haste. His large hand pressed lightly on the door, closing it with a quiet click. “Stay,” he murmured, “and I'll open a bottle of that Rhenish wine you liked so much the other evening.”
Frowning, Holly turned to face him. She was prepared to point out that a gentleman did not argue with a lady when she wished to leave, nor would it be proper for them to remain in the room with the door closed. But as she stared into his dark, teasing eyes, she found herself relenting. “If I stay, we'll find some proper subject to discuss,” she said warily.
“Anything you like,” came his prompt reply. “Taxes. Social concerns. The weather.”
She wanted to smile as she saw his deliberately bland expression. He looked like a wolf trying to pretend he was a sheep. “All right, then,” she said, and returned to the settee. He brought her a fresh glass of wine, something dark and full-bodied, and she sipped the rich vintage with deep appreciation. She had come to like the outrageously expensive wines he stocked, which was unfortunate, as they would someday no longer be available to her. In the meantime, however, she might as well enjoy the benefits of residing at his estate: the wines, the beautiful artwork, and most sinfully luxurious of all…his company.
Several years ago she would have been frightened of being alone with a man like Zachary Bronson. He did not treat her with the carefully protective courtesy she had always been given by her father, and the polite young gentleman who had courted her, and the impeccable man she had married. Bronson used coarse language in front of her, and discussed subjects no lady should be interested in, and did not try to conceal the more unpleasant facts of life.
He kept her wine glass liberally filled as they talked, and as the night deepened, Holly curled into the corner of the settee and let her head droop to the side. Why, I've drunk too much, she thought in surprise, and somehow did not experience the horror or embarrassment that should have accompanied such a realization. Ladies never drank too much, only allowed themselves a few drops of watered-down wine now and then.
Contemplating her nearly empty glass in puzzlement, Holly moved to set it on the small table beside the settee. The room seemed to sway suddenly, and the glass began to tilt in her hand. Deftly Bronson reached out, caught the wobbling crystal stem and set it aside. As Holly stared at his handsome face, she felt rather light-headed and loose-tongued, and strangely relieved and free in the way she always felt when Maude had helped her out of a particularly confining gown at bedtime.