Where Dreams Begin

by Lisa Kleypas

  Holly kept Rose by her side as they proceeded to a circuit of ornate receiving rooms. They entered a parlor decorated with alternating panels of embossed green velvet and gold panels, and French furniture covered in gold leaf. Two women awaited them, both rising anxiously to their feet. The younger, a tall, strikingly attractive girl with a mass of unruly black curls pinned atop her head, came forward. “Welcome, Lady Holland,” she exclaimed, smiling broadly, although her gaze flickered over Holly in a wary survey.

  “My sister Elizabeth,” Bronson murmured.

  “I couldn't believe my ears when Zach told us you would be coming to live here,” the girl exclaimed. “You're very brave to take on the lot of us. We'll try not to make it an ordeal for you.”

  “Not at all,” Holly replied, liking Bronson's sister at once. “I only hope to be of assistance to you, and perhaps offer some guidance when required.”

  “Oh, we'll require a great deal of guidance,” Elizabeth assured her with a laugh.

  There was a definite likeness between Bronson and his younger sister. They possessed the same black hair, flashing dark eyes and roguish smiles. They also shared the same sense of barely repressed energy, as if their active brains and supreme physical health would not allow them to relax for more than a few minutes.

  It would not be difficult for Elizabeth to attract suitors, Holly thought. However, Elizabeth would require a strong partner, as the combination of her brother's wealth and her own robust spirit would prove intimidating for many men.

  Elizabeth grinned, seeming to understand the thoughts behind Holly's discreet assessment. “The only reason Zach wants me to acquire some polish is to make it easier for him to engineer a marriage between me and some well-heeled aristocrat,” she said bluntly. “However, I should warn you that my idea of a good match is vastly different from Zach's.”

  “Having heard some of your brother's views on the subject,” Holly said evenly, “I am entirely prepared to take your side, Miss Bronson.”

  The girl laughed in delight. “Oh, I do like you, my lady,” she exclaimed, and turned her attention to the child that waited patiently beside Holly. “Why, you must be Rose.” Her voice gentled as she continued. “I think you're quite the prettiest little girl I've ever seen.”

  “You're pretty too, like a gypsy,” Rose said frankly.

  “Rose,” Holly said reprovingly, afraid that Elizabeth would take exception to the remark, but the young woman laughed.

  “What a darling you are,” she exclaimed, sinking to her knees and examining Rose's button string.

  As Rose proceeded to demonstrate the wonders of her button collection to Elizabeth, Holly turned her attention to the other woman in the room, who seemed as if she would prefer to shrink back into the corner. Bronson's mother, she thought, and felt a surge of kindly sympathy as she saw how uncomfortable the woman was as her son made the introductions.

  It was clear that Mrs. Paula Bronson had once been a beautiful woman, but years of work and worry had taken their toll. Her hands were permanently rough and reddened from physical toil, and her face was heavily lined for a woman her age. The locks of hair that were twisted tightly and pinned at the back of her head had once been jet-black, but were now streaked liberally with silver. The beauty of her bone structure remained, however, and her eyes were warm and velvety brown. Overcome with apparent shyness, Paula managed a murmur of welcome.

  “Milady,” she said, forcing herself to meet Holly's gaze, “my son has a way of…of making people do things they don't want to do. I hope you are not here against your will.”

  “Mother,” Zachary muttered, his black eyes gleaming with amusement. “You make it sound as though I dragged Lady Holland here in chains. And I never make people do things they don't want to do. I always give them a choice.”

  Throwing him a skeptical glance, Holly approached his mother. “Mrs. Bronson,” she said warmly, taking the woman's hand and pressing gently, “I assure you, I have every wish to be here. I take great pleasure at the prospect of being useful. For the past three years I've been in mourning and…” She paused, searching for the right words, and Rose interrupted with what she considered to be a salient comment.

  “My Papa's not coming to live here with us because he's in heaven now. Isn't that right, Mama?”

  The group was suddenly silent. Holly glanced at Zachary Bronson's face and saw that it was expressionless. “That's right, darling,” she answered her daughter softly.

  The mention of George had cast a pall over the scene, and Holly searched for words to dispel the sudden awkwardness. However, the longer the silence stretched, the more difficult it seemed to break. She couldn't help reflecting in a flash of despair that if George were alive, she would never be in this position, coming to live in a house of strangers, accepting employment from a man like Zachary Bronson.

  Suddenly Elizabeth broke the pause with a bright, if slightly forced, smile. “Rose, let me show you upstairs to your new room. Do you know that my brother has bought the contents of an entire toy shop for you? Dolls and books, and the biggest doll house you've ever seen.”

  As the little girl squealed with delight and followed her at once, Holly stared at Zachary Bronson with rapidly dawning disapproval. “An entire toy shop?”

  “It was nothing like that,” Bronson said immediately. “Elizabeth is prone to exaggeration.” He threw a warning glance at Paula, silently demanding that she agree with him. “Isn't that right, Mother?”

  “Well,” Paula said uncertainly, “actually, you did rather—”

  “I'm certain Lady Holland will want a tour of the house while her belongings are unpacked,” Bronson interrupted hastily. “Why don't you take her around?”

  Clearly overwhelmed by shyness, Mrs. Bronson gave a noncommittal murmur and sped away, leaving the two of them alone in the parlor.

  Faced with Holly's disapproving stare, Zachary shoved his hands in his pockets, while the toe of his expensive shoe beat a quick, impatient rhythm on the floor. “What harm is there in an extra toy or two?” he finally said in an excessively reasonable tone. “Her room was about as cheerful as a prison cell. I thought a doll and a handful of books would make the place more appealing for her—”

  “First of all,” Holly interrupted, “I doubt that any room in this house could be described as a prison cell. Second…I will not have my daughter spoiled and overwhelmed, and influenced by your taste for excess.”

  “Fine,” he said with a gathering scowl. “We'll get rid of the damned toys, then.”

  “Please do not swear in my presence,” Holly said, and sighed. “How am I to remove the toys after Rose has seen them? You don't know very much about children, do you?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “Only how to bribe them.”

  Holly shook her head, her displeasure warring with sudden amusement. “There is no need to bribe Rose—or me, for that matter. I gave you my word that I would not break our agreement. And please do not tap your foot that way…it is not good deportment.”

  The impatient rhythm ceased at once, and Bronson gave her a darkly ironic glance. “Anything else about my deportment you'd like to change?”

  “Yes, actually.” Holly hesitated as their gazes met. It felt odd to give directions to a man like this. Especially a man as powerful and physically imposing as Bronson. However, he had hired her for this specific purpose, and she would prove herself equal to the challenge. “You mustn't stand with your hands in your pockets—it isn't good form.”

  “Why?” he asked, removing them.

  Her brow puckered thoughtfully. “I suppose because it implies that you have something to hide.”

  “Maybe I do.” His intent gaze remained on her face as she approached him.

  “I was schooled excessively on proper carriage of the body,” Holly said. “Ladies and gentleman must appear composed at all times. Try never to shrug your shoulders or shift your weight, and keep your gestures to a minimum.”

  “This explains why aristoc
rats are always as stiff as corpses,” Bronson muttered.

  Smothering a laugh, Holly regarded him gravely. “Bow to me, please,” she commanded. “When you greeted us outside, I thought I detected something…”

  Bronson glanced at the doorway of the parlor to make certain they were not being observed. “Why don't we start the lessons tomorrow? I'm sure you want to unpack and accustom yourself to the place—”

  “There's no time like the present,” she assured him. “Bow, please.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath, he complied.

  “There,” Holly said softly, “you did it again.”

  “What did I do?”

  “When you bow, you must keep your gaze on the person you're addressing—you must not hide your eyes, even for an instant. It seems a little thing, but it's quite important.” Only servants and inferiors bowed with their gaze downcast, and being unaware of this fact would put a man at an instant disadvantage.

  Bronson nodded, taking the point as seriously as she had intended. He bowed again, this time staring steadily at her. Holly suddenly felt breathless, unable to stop staring into the midnight depths of his eyes…so wicked and dark they were.

  “That's much better,” she managed to say. “I think I'll spend the rest of the day making a list of the subjects we'll need to study: deportment, rules of conduct in the street and in the home, rules for calling and for conversation, ballroom etiquette and…do you know how to dance, Mr. Bronson?”

  “Not well.”

  “We'll have to begin right away, then. I am acquainted with an excellent dancing master who will instruct you on the finer points of the allemande, the reel, the quadrille and waltz—”

  “No,” Bronson said immediately. “I'll be damned if I'll learn how to dance from some fop. Hire him for Elizabeth, if you like. She doesn't know any more about dancing than I do.”

  “Then who will teach you?” Holly asked, making her voice very patient.

  “You.”

  She shook her head with a protesting laugh. “Mr. Bronson, I am not qualified to instruct you in the intricacies of dancing.”

  “You know how, don't you?”

  “There is a vast difference between knowing how to do something and teaching someone else. You must allow me to hire a proficient dancing master—”

  “I want you,” he said stubbornly. “I'm paying you a fortune, Lady Holland, and I expect to get my money's worth. Whatever I learn over the next several months. I'm going to learn from you.”

  “Very well. I will do my best, Mr. Bronson. But do not blame me if you attend a ball someday and can barely manage the figures of a quadrille.”

  Bronson smiled. “Don't underestimate your abilities, my lady. I've never met anyone with such a knack for telling me what to do. Except my mother, of course.” He crooked his arm for her to take. “Come with me to the gallery—I want to show you my da Vinci.”

  “What?” Holly asked, startled. “You have no da Vinci, Mr. Bronson. At least, you hadn't as of last week, and no one could possibly—” She broke off as she saw the gleam in his eyes. “You've acquired a da Vinci?” she asked faintly. “How…where…”

  “The National Gallery,” he replied, walking her toward the library and the gallery beyond. “I had to trade a few of my other paintings and promise to build them an alcove for a Roman statuary collection. And technically the painting still isn't mine—I paid a king's ransom just to get them to loan the damn thing to me for a period of five years. You should have been at the negotiations. It's difficult enough to make deals with bankers and London businessmen, but as it turns out, museum directors are the greediest bastards of all—”

  “Mr. Bronson, your language,” Holly reproved. “Which painting did you acquire?”

  “A Madonna and child. They said it was a superb example of some Italian art technique for light and shadow—”

  “Chiaroscuro?”

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “Good Lord,” Holly said, bemused. “You have a da Vinci. One wonders if anything is beyond your financial reach.” There was something in his manner—a touch of boastfulness, a boyish enthusiasm—that caused a warm, unexpected pang in her heart. Zachary Bronson was a ruthless man whom many people doubtless feared. However, she sensed a vulnerability in his need to belong to the society that was so determined to reject him. Being an intelligent man, he had acquired all the trappings—the house and lands, the Thoroughbreds and paintings and well-tailored clothes—but his ultimate goal was still far away.

  “Unfortunately there are still a few things I can't buy,” Bronson said, as if he could read her thoughts.

  Holly stared at him in fascination. “What do you want most?”

  “To be a gentleman, of course.”

  “I don't think so,” she murmured. “You don't really want to be a gentleman, Mr. Bronson. You just want the appearance of being one.”

  Bronson stopped and turned to face her, his brows arched in ironic amusement.

  Holly's breath caught as she realized what she had just said. “Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I don't know why I—”

  “You're right. If I really were a gentleman, instead of merely trying to ape one, I'd never be a success at business. Real gentlemen don't have the heads or the guts for making money.”

  “I don't believe that.”

  “Oh? Name one true gentleman of your acquaintance who can hold his own in the business world.”

  Holly thought for a long moment, searching silently through a list of men who were known for their financial acumen. However, the ones who could truly be called entrepreneurs, successful in the way Bronson meant, had lost the sheen of honor and integrity that had once defined them as true gentlemen. Uncomfortably she reflected that a man's character was easily damaged by the quest for financial glory. One couldn't sail through stormy waters without suffering some weathering.

  Bronson smiled smugly in the face of her silence. “Exactly.”

  Frowning, Holly walked beside him, now declining to take his arm. “Increasing one's wealth should not be the ultimate goal in a man's life, Mr. Bronson.”

  “Why not?”

  “Love, family, friendship…those are the things that matter. And they most definitely cannot be purchased.”

  “You might be surprised,” he said, and she couldn't help but laugh at his cynicism.

  “I only hope that someday, Mr. Bronson, you will encounter someone or something for which you would gladly give up your fortune. And I hope that I'll be there to witness it.”

  “Maybe you will,” he said, and steered her down another long, gleaming hallway.

  Although Holly always awakened gladly to the sight of her daughter bouncing into bed for a good-morning kiss, today she resisted being pulled from slumber. Mumbling drowsily, she burrowed further into her pillow, while Rose cavorted around her.

  “Mama,” the little girl called, climbing beneath the warm covers, “Mama, wake up! The sun is out, and it's a lovely day. I want to play in the gardens. And visit the stables. Mr. Bronson has lots of horses, did you know that?”

  Maude chose just that moment to enter the room. “Mr. Bronson has lots of everything,” came the maid's wry observation, and Holly emerged from her pillow with a smothered laugh. Busily Maude poured a hot basin of water at the marble-topped washstand and set out Holly's silver-backed brush and comb set, along with various toiletries.

  “Good morning, Maude,” Holly said, feeling unaccountably cheerful. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, and so did our Rose. I suspect she exhausted herself playing with all those toys. How did ye fare, milady?”

  “I had the most wonderful rest.” After the past several nights of tossing and turning, waking up in the middle of each night beset with doubt, Holly had finally succumbed to a deep slumber. She supposed it was only natural that she would relax, now that they were under Mr. Bronson's roof and there was no more opportunity for second-guessing. And they had been given a lovely suite of ro
oms, large and airy, decorated in beige and rose and gleaming white paneling. The windows were swathed in frothy Brussels lace, and the French armchairs had been covered with Gobelin tapestry. The bed had been carved with a curling shell motif that matched the huge armoire on the other side of the room.

  It pleased Holly that Rose's room was located right next to hers, instead of being relegated to an upper floor where nurseries were usually located. The little girl's room had been filled with child-sized cherrywood furniture, and bookshelves filled with beautifully illustrated volumes, and a mahogany table loaded with the largest doll house Holly had ever seen. Every detail of the toy was astonishingly perfect, from the tiny Aubusson rugs on its floors to the thumbnail-sized wooden hams and chickens hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

  “I had a splendid dream last night,” Holly remarked, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She sat up and began to stack a pile of downy pillows. “I was walking in a garden filled with red roses…they were so large, with velvety petals, and they seemed so real that I could actually smell them. And the most remarkable thing was, I could gather as many armfuls as I wished, and there were no thorns.”

  “Red roses, ye say?” Maude glanced at her, eyes bright with interest. “They say to dream of red roses means ye'll soon have luck in love.”

  Holly gave her a startled glance, then shook her head with a wistful smile. “I've already had that.” Glancing at the child cuddling by her side, she kissed the top of Rose's curly dark head. “All my love is for you and your papa,” she murmured.

  “Can you still love Papa when he's in heaven?” Rose asked, reaching across the embroidered silk counterpane for the doll she had brought into the room with her.

  “Of course I can. You and I still love each other even when we're not together, don't we?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Rose beamed at her and brought the doll forth. “Look—one of my new dolls. This is my favorite.”