?Bronson is dangerous,” said Lord Avery, an elderly friend of the Taylors' who had been invited to supper. A very sat on the boards of several banks and insurance companies. “Every day I see the wealth of England being transferred from fine families and gentlemen farmers to opportunists like Bronson. If he is allowed to mingle with us, become one of us, merely because he has amassed a fortune…well, it will be nothing less than the end of first society as we know it.”
“But should not achievement be rewarded?” Holly had asked hesitantly, knowing that a respectable woman must never enter into political or financial discussions. However, she was unable to resist. “Should we not recognize Mr. Bronson's accomplishment by welcoming him into our society?”
“He is not fit for our society, my dear,” A very responded emphatically. “The nobility is the product of generations of breeding, education and refinement. One cannot buy a place in first society, which is exactly what Mr. Bronson is attempting to do. He has no honor, no good blood and, from what I understand, the bare minimum of education. I liken Bronson to a trained monkey—he has but one trick, and that is the knack for playing with numbers until he somehow ends up multiplying a small amount into a great one.”
The other guests and the Taylors nodded at the explanation.
“I see,” Holly murmured, and applied her attention to the food on her plate, while thinking to herself that there had been a trace of envy in Lord Avery's tone. Mr. Bronson might have just one trick—but what a trick it was! Every well-bred man at the table would have loved to possess Bronson's Midas-like abilities. And the disparaging talk about him did not accomplish the purpose of deterring her from meeting Mr. Bronson. In fact, it made her all the more curious.
Three
Holly had never seen anything like Zachary Bronson's London estate, the opulence of which might have made a Medici envious. The entrance hall, lavishly paved with Rouge Royal marble and lined with shimmering gold-covered columns and priceless tapestries, rose two floors in height. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the silver-and-gold-coffered ceiling, illuminating an astonishing amount of Roman statuary. Huge malachite vases stuffed with palms and luxuriant ferns framed each of the four exits leading from the central hall.
A surprisingly youthful butler led Holly through the hall toward the library suite. “Suite?” Holly had repeated, perplexed, and the butler explained that Mr. Bronson's private collection of books, manuscripts, antique folios and maps was too large to be contained in just one room. Holly repressed the urge to turn circles as she stared at her surroundings. Both sides of the hallway had been covered in blue silk, to which hundreds of glittering glass butterflies had been affixed. The entrance door to the library was flanked by a pair of paintings—Rembrandts—each of which was finer than the grandest works of art the Taylors possessed.
Having been brought up to consider that simple surroundings offered the most relaxation and repose, Holly thought the place was in horrendously had taste. But it was so spectacular in its sheer excess that it brought a wondering smile to her face. Recalling that Bronson had reputedly begun his career as a prizefighter, she felt an admiration that bordered on awe, that one man could achieve so much.
The butler led her to a room that was flooded with light from the intricate leaded-glass ceiling. The walls were covered in green velvet and a great quantity of triple-hung paintings that appeared to be portraits of venerable ancestors. Rows and rows of glass-fronted bookshelves contained intriguing collections of volumes. How tempting it was to take a book and recline on one of the luxuriously overstuffed leather chairs, and lean back against one of the plush rug-covered pillows. Passing a glossy brown globe that must have measured six feet in diameter, Holly paused and touched it tentatively.
“I've never seen a library as magnificent as this,” she said.
Although the butler struggled to look impassive, his expression contained a mixture of amusement and pride. “This is merely the library entrance, my lady. The main room is just ahead.”
Holly accompanied him to the next room, and stopped at the threshold with a slight gasp. The library looked like something from a palace, too spectacular to belong to one family. “How many books does it hold?” she asked.
“Nearly twenty thousand volumes, I believe.”
“Mr. Bronson must love to read.”
“Oh, no, my lady, the master hardly ever reads. But he is quite fond of books.”
Suppressing a laugh at the incongruous statement, Holly wandered farther into the library. The main room soared upward three stories in height, to a ceiling elaborately frescoed with angels and heavenly scenes. The shining parqueted floor beneath her feet emanated a fresh scent of beeswax that mingled pleasantly with the smells of book leather and vellum, underlaid with the faint pungent trace of tobacco. A roaring fire burned in a carved green marble fireplace that one could have parked a carriage in. At the far end of the room, there was a mahogany desk so massive that it must have required the combined strength of a dozen men to move it. The man who was seated behind it rose to his feet as the butler announced Holly's name.
Although she had met nobility and even royalty with perfect confidence, Holly felt a little nervous now. Perhaps it was because of Mr. Bronson's reputation, or the splendor of her current surroundings, but she was actually a bit breathless as he approached her. She was glad she had worn her nicest day gown, a coffee-colored Italian silk, its high neck trimmed with vanilla lace, its full sleeves gathered at the elbows with bands of fabric.
Why, he's ýoung, Holly thought in surprise, having expected a man in his forties or fifties. However, Zachary Bronson could not be older than thirty. Despite his elegant clothes—black coat and dark gray trousers—he reminded her of a tomcat, tall and large-boned, lacking the polish of aristocrats she was accustomed to. The spill of thick black hair over his forehead should have been slicked back with pomade, and the knot of his cravat was too loose, as if he had been tugging at it unconsciously.
Bronson was handsome, although his features were blunted and his nose looked as though it had once been broken. He had a strong jaw, a wide mouth and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that betrayed a ready sense of humor. She received a strange shock of awareness as she met his gaze. His eyes were a shade of brown so deep they appeared black, giving his alert stare a penetrating quality that made her distinctly uncomfortable. The devil must have eyes like that, audacious, knowing…sensuous.
“Welcome, Lady Holland. I didn't think you would come.”
The sound of his voice caused Holly to stumble a little. When she recovered her balance, she froze in place and stared at the carpeted floor. The room seemed to spin around her, and she concentrated hard on retaining her balance when her entire body was shaken by panic and confusion. She knew that voice, would have known it anywhere. He was her stranger, the man who had spoken to her so tenderly and kissed her with an intimacy that had left an indelible brand on her memory. The hot blood of shame flooded her face, and it seemed impossible to look back up at him. But the silence compelled her to say something.
“I was very nearly dissuaded,” she whispered. Oh, if she had only listened to George's family and stayed behind the safe walls of the Taylor estate!
“May I ask what made you decide in my favor?” His tone was so polite, so bland, that she glanced upward in surprise. The dark eyes were reassuringly devoid of mockery.
He didn't recognize her, she thought with sudden wild hope and relief. He didn't know that she was the woman he had kissed at the Bellemont ball. Licking her dry lips, she made an attempt at normal conversation. “I…don't really know,” she said. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
That elicited a quick grin. “That's as good a reason as any.” He took her hand in a welcoming grip, his long fingers engulfing hers completely. The warmth of his palm sank through the delicate weave of her glove. Holly nearly swayed at a sudden flash of memory…how hot his skin had been the evening of the Bellemont ball, how hard and warm his mouth had been as he had kissed her—
She withdrew her hand with a sound of discomfort.
“Shall we have a seat?” Bronson gestured to a pair of Louis XIV armchairs arranged beside a marble-topped tea table.
“Yes, thank you.” Holly was grateful at the prospect of occupying a chair instead of relying on the uncertain support of her own legs.
After she was seated, Bronson occupied the chair opposite hers. He sat with both feet on the floor, muscular thighs spread apart as he leaned slightly forward. “Tea, Hodges,” he muttered to the butler, then returned his attention to Holly and gave her a disarming grin. “I hope it will be acceptable to you, my lady. Taking refreshments at my home is a bit like playing roulette.”