“Roulette?” Holly frowned quizzically at the unfamiliar term.
“A gamble,” he explained. “On a good day, my cook is unsurpassed. On a bad one…well, you could break a tooth on one of her biscuits.”
Holly laughed suddenly, losing some of her nervousness at the disclosure that Bronson had household complaints just as ordinary men did.
“Surely with a little management—” she began, then stopped suddenly as she realized she had been about to give him unasked-for advice.
“There is no real management in my household, my lady. We all muddle along without direction, but that is something I want to discuss with you later.”
Was that why he had summoned her to his estate? To receive her thoughts on the smooth running of a house-hold? Of course not. He must suspect she was the woman he had encountered at the Bellemont ball. He was toying with her, perhaps. He would ask her a few sly questions to see if she would rise to the bait.
If so, the best defense was to bring everything out into the open
right now. She would simply explain that he had surprised her that evening, that she had behaved completely unlike herself because he had caught her off guard.
“Mr. Bronson,” she said, having to drag each word from her clenched throat, “there is something I sh-should tell you…”
“Yes?” He stared at her with keen black eyes.
Suddenly Holly found it impossible to believe that she had kissed this large masculine creature, that she had embraced him and caressed the shaven bristle of his jaw…that he had kissed the tears from her cheeks. In the few stolen moments they had met, she had shared more intimacy with him than she ever had with any man except George.
“Y-you…” Her heart slammed repeatedly against her ribs. Damning herself for a coward, Holly abandoned the attempt at confession. “You have a very beautiful home.”
He smiled slightly. “I thought it might not be to your taste.”
“It isn't, exactly. But it serves its purpose magnificently.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“Why, to announce to everyone that you have arrived.”
“That's right.” He gave her an arrested stare. “A few days ago some pompous baron called me an ‘arriviste.’ I didn't realize what it meant until just now.”
“Yes,” Holly said with a gentle smile. “You're a recent arrival to society.”
“It wasn't a compliment,” he said dryly.
Guessing that he must have received hundreds of subtle set-downs from the peers he had encountered so far, Holly felt a touch of sympathy. It was hardly Bronson's fault that he had come from less-than-stellar beginnings. However, the English aristocracy felt as a whole that a man should never “rise above his buttons.” People in the serving class, or the working class, could never elevate themselves to the upper levels of society, no matter how great their fortunes might be. And yet Holly rather thought that achievement alone should be enough to make a man like this acceptable to “first society.” She wondered if George would have agreed with her, or what he would have thought about this man. She truly had no idea.
“In my opinion your accomplishments are worthy of admiration, Mr. Bronson,” she said. “Most of English nobility are merely retaining wealth that was granted to their families by ancient kings as a reward for service. You have made your own wealth, and that requires great intelligence and will. Although the baron was not paying you a compliment by calling you an arriviste, it should have been one.”
He stared at her for an unaccountably long moment. “Thank you,” he finally muttered.
To Holly's surprise, her words had caused a tide of color to creep up from Bronson's collar. She guessed that he was not accustomed to such direct praise. She hoped he would not think she was trying to flatter him for some reason. “Mr. Bronson, I was not being unctuous just now,” she said.
A smile tugged at the left side of his mouth. “I'm sure you would never be unctuous…whatever that means.”
Two maids arrived bearing huge silver trays, and they busied themselves with arranging the tea table. The stout maid, who set out little plates of sandwiches, toast and biscuits, seemed nervous and was inclined to giggle as she performed her task. The smaller one fumbled with the silverware and napkins and deposited the cups and saucers on the wrong side of the place setting. They struggled to set the kettle properly over a small flame, nearly overturning it. Secretly pained by the inept service when the girls clearly required a few words of direction, Holly made her face into a polite mask.
She was surprised by the maids' obvious lack of training. A man of Mr. Bronson's position should have the very best of service. A well-trained servant was quiet and efficient, making himself or herself part of the scenery. In Holly's experience, a housemaid would certainly never draw attention to herself and would rather be shot than giggle in front of a guest.
When at last the preparations were made and the maids had left, Holly began to unbutton the wrists of her little gray gloves and tug them neatly from her fingertips. She paused as she felt Mr. Bronson's intent gaze on her, and looked up with an inquiring smile. “Shall I?” she asked, gesturing toward the tea service, and he nodded, his attention immediately returning to her hands.
There was something in Bronson's eyes, some disquieting glow that made Holly feel as if she were unbuttoning her blouse instead of simply removing her gloves. It was an ordinary thing to bare one's hands before a gentleman, and yet the way he stared at her made the task seem strangely intimate.
She rinsed the Sevres teapot with boiling water to warm it, then poured the liquid into a china bowl. Expertly she measured and spooned the fragrant tea leaves into the teapot and added hot water. While the tea steeped, Holly arranged a selection of sandwiches and biscuits on the plates and made idle conversation. Bronson seemed content to follow her lead.
“You have filled your library with a lovely collection of portraits, Mr. Bronson.”