“George was never sick,” she said. “He never had fevers or headaches—he was always fit and healthy. But then one day he began to complain of fatigue, and pains in his joints, and he was unable to eat. The doctor diagnosed it as typhoid fever, which I knew was exceedingly dangerous, but many people live through it. I convinced myself that with good nursing and a great deal of rest, George would recover.” She stared at the empty cup in her saucer and traced her finger around the delicate gilded edge. “Day by day he shrank before my eyes. The fever turned to delirium. In two weeks he was gone.”
“I'm sorry,” Bronson said quietly.
I'm sorry was something people always said. There really wasn't anything else to say. But there was a gleam of warmth in Bronson's black eyes that conveyed genuine sympathy, and she felt that he truly understood the magnitude of her loss.
A long silence extended between them, until Bronson spoke again. “Do you like living with the Taylor family, my lady?”
She smiled faintly. “It's not really a matter of like or dislike. It is the only choice available to me.”
“What of your own family?”
“My parents are still supporting three remaining daughters and trying to find good matches for them. I did not want to add to their burden by returning home with my child. And in abiding with the Taylors, I feel somewhat closer to George.”
Bronson's wide mouth tightened at the last sentence. Glancing at her empty cup and plate, he stood and extended a hand to her. “Come walk with me.”
Startled by his abruptness, Holly obeyed automatically, taking his proffered hand. Her fingers tingled at the warm shock of his touch, and her breath caught in her throat. Pulling her upward, Bronson tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her away from the tea table. He had touched her far too familiarly—not even George's brothers would dare to reach for her bare hand. But it seemed that Mr. Bronson did not know better.
As they walked, Bronson had to adjust his long strides to match her short ones, and she suspected that he seldom walked at this slow a pace. He was not the kind of man to meander.
The library suite opened to a huge private art gallery, sided by long windows that displayed a view of the formal gardens outside. The gallery was filled with a stunning collection of Old Masters. There were works by Titian, Rembrandt, Vermeer and Botticelli, all striking in their rich color and romanticism. “What, nothing by Leonardo da Vinci?” Holly asked lightly, knowing that Bronson's private collection was undoubtedly the most impressive in England.
Bronson gazed at the rows of paintings and frowned as if the lack of a da Vinci were a glaring omission. “Should I buy one?”
“No, no, I was only jesting,” Holly said hastily. “Really, Mr. Bronson, your collection is magnificent, and more than complete. Besides, a da Vinci would be impossible to acquire.”
Making a noncommittal sound in his throat, Bronson focused on a bare place on the wall, clearly considering how much it would take to put a da Vinci there.
Holly slipped her hand from the crook of his arm and turned to face him. “Mr. Bronson…won't you tell me why you've invited me here today?”
Bronson wandered to a marble bust mounted on a pedestal, and rubbed a bit of dust from it with this thumb. He slid Holly an assessing sideways glance as she stood in a rectangle of sunlight from the tall window.
“You were described to me as the perfect lady,” he said. “Now, having met you, I agree completely.”
Holly's eyes widened, and she thought in a flurry of guilt and nervousness that he would never have made such a statement if he were aware that she was the woman who had wantonly responded to his kiss a few nights ago.
“You have an impeccable reputation,” he continued, “you are received everywhere, and you have knowledge and influence that I need. Badly. So I would like to employ you as a sort of…social guide.”
Stunned, Holly could only stare at him. It took a half-minute for her to find her voice. “Sir, I am not seeking employment of any kind.”
“I know that.”
“Then you will understand why I must refuse—”
He stopped her with a subtly restraining gesture. “Hear me out first.”
Holly nodded for the sake of courtesy, although there was no possibility that she would accept his offer. There were times when a widow was forced to seek genteel employment out of financial necessity, but she was far from that state. George's family would never hear of it, and neither would her own. It was not the same as entering the working class, but it would most definitely alter her status in society. And to be employed by a man like Zachary Bronson, no matter how rich he was…the fact was, there were people and places that might no longer receive her.
“I need some polish,” Bronson continued evenly. “I need introductions. No doubt you'll hear me referred to as a social climber, which I assuredly am. I've come damned far on my own, but I need help to get to the next rung. Your help. I also need someone to teach Elizabeth how to be…well, like you are. Teach her how to do the things that London ladies do. It's the only way for her to land a decent match.”
“Mr. Bronson,” Holly said carefully, staring hard at the marble bench beside him, “I am sincerely flattered. I wish I could help you. However, there are many others who would be much more suitable than I—”
“I don't want anyone else. I want you.”
“I cannot, Mr. Bronson,” she said firmly. “Among my many reservations, there is my daughter to consider. Taking care of Rose is the most important responsibility in the world to me.”
“Yes, there is Rose to consider.” Bronson slid his hands in his pockets, deceptively relaxed as he paced around the bench. “There's no delicate way to put this, Lady Holland, so I'm going to be blunt. What are your plans for your daughter's future? You'll want to send Rose to expensive schools…travel the continent…give her a dowry to attract titled suitors. But in your current circumstances, you won't be able to provide those things for her. With no dowry, she'll only be able to land a member of the lesser gentry—if that.” He paused and added silkily, “If Rose had a large dowry, combined with her good bloodlines, she would someday land the kind of aristocratic husband that George would have wanted her to have.”
Holly stared at him, stunned. Now she understood how Bronson had been able to conquer so many business opponents. He would stop at nothing to get his way—he was using her own daughter to convince her to do what he wanted. Zachary Bronson could be completely ruthless when it served his purpose.