“Other peoples' ancestors,” he replied dryly. “Mine weren't the kind to sit for paintings.”
Holly had heard of other men with newly made fortunes doing the same thing—hanging portraits of strangers in their homes to give the impression of an illustrious family lineage. However, Zachary Bronson was the first man in her experience who had openly admitted to it.
She handed him a small plate and napkin. “Do you reside here alone?”
“No, my mother and younger sister Elizabeth also live here.”
Holly's interest was piqued. “I don't believe anyone has mentioned before that you have a sister.”
Bronson seemed to answer with great care. “I've been waiting for the right time to bring Elizabeth out in society. I'm afraid—circumstances being what they are—things might be difficult for her. She hasn't been taught how to…” He paused, clearly searching for a word to describe the intricate knowledge a young woman was expected to have of manners and social skills.
“I see.” Holly nodded in immediate understanding, her brows knitting together. Difficult indeed, for a girl who had not been rigorously trained in such matters. Society could be merciless. On top of that, the Bronson family was undistinguished in every area but money, and the last thing they needed was a plague of fortune hunters to descend on Elizabeth. “Have you considered sending her to finishing school, Mr. Bronson? If you like, I could recommend one—”
“She's twenty-one,” he said flatly. “She would be older than all the other girls—she informs me that she would ‘rather die’ than attend one. She wants to live at home.”
“Of course.” Deftly Holly poured the tea through a small silver strainer with a bird-shaped handle. “Do you prefer your tea strong, Mr. Bronson, or shall I add a splash of water?”
“Strong, please.”
“One lump or two?” she asked with a pair of delicate tongs hovering over the sugar bowl.
“Three. And no milk.”
For some reason Holly felt an irresistible smile come to her face. “You have a sweet tooth, Mr. Bronson.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Not at all,” Holly replied softly. “I was just thinking that you would enjoy one of my daughter's tea parties. For Rose, three lumps is the absolute minimum.”
“Maybe I'll ask Rose to pour for me one day, then.”
Holly wasn't certain what he meant by that, but the intimacy it implied, the promise of familiarity, made her uneasy. Tearing her gaze from his, she returned her attention to the tea. Having prepared a cup for Bronson, she set about finishing her own, adding a touch of sugar and a generous splash of milk.
“My mother pours the milk in first,” Bronson remarked, watching her.
“Perhaps you might suggest to her that it is easier to judge the tea by its color when the milk is added last,” Holly murmured. “The nobility tends to disparage people who pour the milk in first, as it is usually done by nannies and servants and…”
“People of my class,” he said wryly.
“Yes.” Holly forced herself to meet his gaze. “Th
ere is a saying among the peerage when a woman hasn't sufficient breeding…they say she is rather a ‘milk-in-first’ sort.”
It was presumptuous of her to offer such advice, no matter how helpfully intended, and some would have taken offense. However, Bronson accepted it comfortably. “I'll tell my mother,” he said. “Thank you.”
Relaxing a little, Holly reached for a biscuit. It was delicate, sweet and slightly spongy, a perfect accompaniment to the crisp tea. “The cook is having a good day,” she pronounced after swallowing a bite.
Bronson laughed, the sound quiet and deep, utterly attractive. “Thank God,” he said.
The conversation was easy and companionable after that, although it was strange to Holly, being alone with a man who was neither a relative nor a long-held acquaintance. Any trace of self-consciousness was soon submerged by her fascination with Zachary Bronson. He was an extraordinary man, with an ambition and drive that made all other men she had known seem like weak, passive creatures.
She sipped her tea as she listened to him describe the latest experiments with the steam carriage, or locomotive, in Durham. He talked about feed pumps injecting hot water into boilers, and the steam blasts that were channeled through the smokestack at the top of the vehicle, and various attempts to improve the draft in the furnace to increase power. Someday soon, he claimed, the locomotive would be used not only to carry freight, but livestock and even human passengers, and rail lines would cross through every town of importance in England. Holly was skeptical but fascinated. It was the kind of subject that a gentleman rarely discussed with a lady, as ladies were thought to be far more interested in matters of family, society and religion. But it was refreshing to hear something other than society gossip, and Bronson managed to explain the technical subjects in a way that Holly could easily understand.
Zachary Bronson came from a world so different from her own, a world of businessmen, inventors, entrepreneurs…It was so clear that he would never fit comfortably into a stodgy aristocracy steeped in centuries of tradition. However, it was also clear that he was determined to make a place for himself in first society, and heaven help anyone who tried to deter him.
It must be exhausting to live with him, Holly mused, wondering how his mother and sister dealt with his relentless energy. He had such an active brain and so many interests, and his obvious appetite for life amazed her. One wondered if he ever made time to sleep. She couldn't help comparing him to George, who had loved long, lazy walks, and reading quietly with her beside the hearth on rainy afternoons, and lounging with her in the mornings to watch their baby play. She couldn't imagine Zachary Bronson ever sitting still to watch something as mundane as a child learning to crawl.
Somehow the conversation was gently steered into more personal matters, and Holly found herself describing her life with George's family, and the facts of her widowhood. Usually when she discussed George with someone who had known him, her throat became tight and her eyes misted with tears. However, Bronson had no knowledge of George, and for some reason it was much easier for Holly to discuss her husband with a stranger.