the key in the armoire lock with a decisive click. “I may not always be able to resist your infernal temptations, but in this matter, at least, I have succeeded!”
Almost four months had passed since Holly had come to reside at the Bronson estate, and now it was time to test the results of her patient tutoring. The night of the Plymouth ball had finally arrived. It would serve as Elizabeth's introduction to society. It was also an opportunity for Zachary Bronson's newly polished manners to be displayed to the ton. Holly was filled with pride and hopeful anticipation, suspecting that there were many in first society who would be pleasantly surprised by the Bronsons this evening.
At Holly's suggestion, Elizabeth wore a white gown trimmed with swaths of pale pink gauze, with one fresh pink rose pinned at her waist and another fastened in the piled-up curls of her hair. The girl looked fresh and graceful, her slender figure and considerable height lending her a queenly air. Although Zachary had given his sister many gifts of jewelry in the past, Holly had looked over the priceless array of diamonds, sapphires and emeralds and realized they were too heavy and expensive for an unmarried girl. Instead, she had selected a single pearl on a delicate gold chain.
“This is all you require,” Holly said, fastening the chain around Elizabeth's neck. “Keep your appearance simple and unspoiled, and save the extravagant jewels for when you're as old as I am.”
Elizabeth stared at their shared reflections in the dressing-table mirror. “You make it sound as though you're decrepit,” she said with a laugh. “And you look so beautiful tonight!”
“Thank you, Lizzie.” Holly gave the girl's shoulders a squeeze, and turned to glance at Paula fondly. “As long as we are spreading compliments, Mrs. Bronson, I must say that you look magnificent this evening.”
Paula, who was dressed in a forest-green gown adorned with sparkling beadwork at the neck and sleeves, nodded and smiled tensely. It was clear that there were a thousand things she would rather be doing than attend a formal ball.
“I'm not certain I can manage this,” Elizabeth said nervously, standing before the mirror. “I'm a wreck. I'm going to make some terrible faux pas that everyone will talk about. Please, Lady Holly, let's forget about going anywhere tonight and try again some other time, after I've had more lessons.”
“The more balls and parties and soirees you attend, the easier it will become,” Holly replied firmly.
“No one will ask me to dance. They all know what I am—an illegitimate nobody. Oh, damn my brother for doing this to me! I'm going to be a wallflower tonight. I don't belong in a ball gown. I should be somewhere peeling potatoes or sweeping a street walkway—”
“You're lovely,” Holly said, hugging the girl while Elizabeth continued to stare at her own alarmed reflection. “You're lovely, Lizzie, and you have very good manners, and your family is quite wealthy. Believe me, you won't be a wallflower. And not a single man who views you tonight will think you should be peeling potatoes.”
It took a great deal of persuasion and stubborn insistence to force both of the Bronson women from the room. Somehow Holly managed to bring them down the grand staircase. As they descended, Holly took particular pride in Elizabeth's outward appearance of poise, despite the fact that the girl was quaking with nerves on the inside.
Bronson awaited them in the entrance hall, his black hair gleaming in the abundant light shed by the chandeliers and the silver-coffered ceiling. Although there was not a man alive whose appearance wasn't improved by the traditional formal scheme of black and white evening wear, it did Zachary Bronson particular justice. His severely simple black coat had been tailored according to the latest fashion, the collar low, the sleeves close-fitting, the lapels extending nearly to the waist. On Zachary's towering form, with his expansive shoulders and lean waist, the style was immensely flattering. His narrow white cravat and crisp white waistcoat looked snowy in contrast to his swarthy, freshly shaved face. From his neatly brushed dark hair to the tips of his polished black leather shoes, Zachary Bronson appeared to be a perfect gentleman. Yet there was something a bit dashing, even dangerous about him…perhaps it was the irreverent gleam in his black eyes, or the raffish quality of his smile.
His gaze went first to Elizabeth, and his smile was filled with affectionate pride. “What a sight you are, Lizzie,” he murmured, taking his sister's hand and brushing a kiss on her blushing cheek. “You're prettier than I've ever seen you. You'll come away from the ball leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake.”
“More likely a trail of broken toes,” Elizabeth replied dryly. “That is, if anyone is foolish enough to ask me to dance.”
“They'll ask,” he murmured, and gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. He turned to his mother and complimented her before finally turning to Holly.
After all the rigorous instruction in courtesy she had given him, Holly expected a polite comment on her appearance. A gentleman should always offer some small tribute to a lady in these circumstances—and Holly knew that she looked her best. She had dressed in her favorite gown, a glimmering silk of light gray, with silver beadwork adorning the low scooped bodice and the short, full sleeves. A bit of light feather padding kept the sleeves puffed out, and the gown's skirt was supported beneath with a stiffly starched petticoat. Holly had even allowed the dressmaker to persuade her to wear a light corset that trimmed her waist almost two inches. Maude had helped to arrange her hair in the latest fashion, parting it in the center and pulling the heavy mass to the back of her head. They had pinned the gleaming brown locks into rolls and curls, allowing two or three stray tendrils to dangle against her neck.
Smiling slightly, Holly stared into Bronson's expressionless face as he surveyed her from head to toe. However, the expected gentlemanly compliment was not forthcoming.
“Is that what you're going to wear?” he asked abruptly.
“Zach!” his mother gasped in horrified disapproval, while Elizabeth jabbed him in the side in response to the rude inquiry.
A disconcerted frown drew Holly's brows together, and she felt a sharp stab of disappointment, coupled with annoyance. The rude, insolent boor! She had never received a derogatory comment on her appearance from a man before. She had always prided herself on her sense of style—how dare he imply that she was wearing something unsuitable!
“We are going to a ball,” Holly replied coolly, “and this is a ball gown. Yes, Mr. Bronson, this is what I intend to wear.”
Their gazes locked in a long, challenging stare, so clearly excluding the other two that Paula pulled Elizabeth to the other side of the hall on the pretext of discovering a stain on her glove. Holly was barely aware of the women drifting away. She spoke in a clipped tone that fully conveyed her displeasure.
“What, precisely, is your objection to my appearance, Mr. Bronson?”
“Nothing,” he muttered. “If you want to show the world you're still in mourning for George, that gown is perfect.”
Offended and strangely hurt, Holly sent him an outright glare. “My gown is quite suitable for the occasion. The only thing you don't like about it is that it is not one of the ones you purchased for me! Did you really expect me to wear one of those?”
“Considering it was your only alternative to wearing mourning—or Half Mourning, whatever the hell it's called—I thought it was a possibility.”
They had never argued like this, not in deadly earnest, in a way that ignited Holly's long-dormant temper like a flame set to gunpowder. Whenever they debated an issue, the words were spiced with humor, teasing, even provocative meaning, but this was the first time that Holly had ever been truly angry with him. George would never have spoken to her in the blunt, brutal manner Bronson did…George had never criticized her except in the gentlest of terms, and always with the kindest of intentions. In her flaring anger, Holly did not stop to wonder why she was comparing Bronson so closely with her husband, or how his opinion had come to hold such power over her emotions.
“This is not a mourning gown,” she said irritably. “One would think you had never seen a gray gown before. Perhaps you've spent too much time in brothels to notice what ordinary women wear.”
“Call it what you like,” Bronson returned, his voice soft but stinging, “I know mourning when I see it.”