Where Dreams Begin

by Lisa Kleypas

  Tucking Miss Crumpet beneath one arm, Rose went to Bronson. “I'm only a ‘Miss,’” she informed him, having listened to their discussion of the peerage. “But when I marry a prince someday, I'll be ‘Princess Rose,’ and then you may call me ‘Your Highness.’”

  Bronson laughed, his tension seeming to dispel. “You're already a princess,” he said, scooping the little girl up and setting her on his knee.

  Caught by surprise, Rose let out a squealing laugh. “No, I'm not! I don't have a crown!”

  Bronson appeared to take the point seriously. “What kind of crown would you like, Princess Rose?”

  “Well, let me think…” Rose screwed up her small face in deep concentration.

  “Silver?” Bronson prompted. “Gold? With colored stones, or pearls?”

  “Rose does not need a crown,” Holly intervened with a touch of alarm, realizing that Bronson was more than ready to purchase some ostentatious headpiece for the child. “Back to play, Rose—unless you would care to take an afternoon nap, in which case I'll ring for Maude.”

  “Oh, no, I don't want a nap,” the little girl said, immediately sliding from Bronson's knee. “May I have another cake, Mama?”

  Holly smiled fondly and shook her head. “No, you may not. You'll spoil your dinner.”

  “Oh, Mama, can't I have just one more? One of the little ones?”

  “I've just said no, Rose. Now please play quietly while Mr. Bronson and I finish our discussion.”

  Obeying reluctantly, Rose glanced back at Bronson. “Why is your nose crooked, Mr. Bronson?”

  “Rose,” Holly reproved sharply. “You know very well that we never make observations about a person's appearance.”

  However, Bronson answered the child with a grin. “I ran into something once.”

  “A door?” The child guessed. “A wall?”

  “A hard left hook.”

  “Oh.” Rose stared at him contemplatively. “What does that mean?”

  “It's a fighting term.”

  “Fighting is bad,” the little girl said firmly. “Very, very bad.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lowering his head, Bronson tried to look chastened, but his air of repentance was far from convincing.

  “Rose,” Holly said in a warning tone. “There'll be no further interruptions, I hope.”

  “No, Mama.” Obediently the child returned to her play area. As she walked behind Bronson's chair, he surreptitiously handed her another cake. Grabbing the tidbit, Rose hurried to the corner like a furtive squirrel.

  Holly gave Bronson a look of reproof. “I won't have my daughter indulged, sir. She'll become accustomed to all your extravagances, and after this year is through, she'll have a difficult time returning to her normal existence.”

  Mindful of the small imp playing nearby, Bronson kept his tone low. “It won't hurt her to be spoiled a little. They're only children for a short time.”

  “Rose must not be sheltered from the realities and responsibilities of life—”

  “Is that the prevailing thought in child-rearing these days?” he asked lazily. “It explains why most of the aristocratic children I've seen are pale, repressed creatures with sullen expressions. I suspect many parents are just a little too eager to expose their brats to ‘reality.’”

  Instantly offended, Holly opened her mouth to disagree, but found to her chagrin that she could not. The Taylors reared their own children with an eye toward proving a “good stiff preparation for life,” and frequently encouraged Holly to do the same with Rose. Discipline, constant moral training, and deprivation were all methods employed to make a child properly obedient and well-mannered. Not that it worked, of course. The Taylor children were little hellions, and Holly thought that Rose might have been, too, had she not been far more gentle with her daughter than the Taylors had advised. And yet their views were common for noble families and shared by most people of their rank.

  “Childhood should be wonderful,” Bronson said abruptly. “Worry-free. Happy. I don't give a damn if anyone agrees with me or not. I only wish…” Suddenly his dark gaze dropped to the papers before him.

  “Yes?” Holly prompted gently, leaning forward.

  Bronson answered without looking at her. “I wish I could have made it that way for Lizzie. She went through hell during her childhood years. We were poor and dirty and starving most of the time. I failed her.”

  “But you're not that much older than Elizabeth,” Holly murmured. “You were only a child yourself, with a great burden of responsibility.”

  Bronson reacted with a dismissive gesture, clearly wanting no excuses to be made for himself. “I failed her,” he repeated gruffly. “The only thing I can do is try to make things right for her now, and for my own children when I have them.”

  “And you'll spoil my daughter unmercifully in the meantime?” Holly said, a faint smile curving her lips.

  “Maybe I'll spoil you as well.” There was a teasing edge to his voice, but his gaze contained a flash of challenge that stunned her. She did not know how to react. Indignation or rebuke would only earn his mockery. Yet she could not allow him to play with her this way. Cat-and-mouse-games were not her forte, and she did not enjoy them.

  She made her voice crisp and unruffled. “You've already given me a handsome salary, Mr. Bronson, which I intend to earn by educating you thoroughly in the social graces. Now, if you'll refer to the second page of notes, we will discuss the differences between correct forms of address in correspondence and conversation. For example, you would never refer to a man as ‘The Honourable’ in person, but you would on paper—”

  “Later,” Bronson interrupted, lacing his long fingers together and settling them against his lean midriff. “My brain is filled with titles. I've had enough for today.”

  “All right. Shall I leave you, then?”

  “Do you want to leave?” he asked softly.

  She blinked at the question, then felt her throat tighten with a catch of laughter. “Mr. Bronson, I wish you would stop trying to disconcert me!”

  A mocking smile appeared in his eyes. “Now, what is so disconcerting about a simple question?”

  “Because if I said yes it would be rude, and if I said no—”

  “—then it might imply a liking for my company,” he finished for her, his white teeth flashing in a grin. “Go, then. God knows I wouldn't force you to make such a damning admission.”

  Holly remained in her chair. “I'll stay if you'll tell me about the time you broke your nose.”

  Bronson's smile lingered as he touched the angled bridge of his nose reflectively. “I got this while sparring with Tom Crib, the former coal porter they called the ‘Black Diamond.’ He had fists as big as hams and a left hook that made you see stars.”

  “Who won?” Holly asked, unable to resist.

  “I outlasted Crib after twenty rounds and finally knocked him down. It was after that fight that I got my name—‘Bronson the Butcher.’”

  The obvious masculine pride he took in the name made Holly feel slightly queasy. “How charming,” she murmured in a dry tone that made him laugh.

  “It didn't improve my looks much, having Crib smash my beak,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I wasn't a pretty sort to begin with. Now I'll definitely never be mistaken for an aristocrat.”

  “You wouldn't have anyway.”

  Bronson pretended to wince. “That's as painful a jab as any I received in the rope ring, my lady. So you don't exactly fancy my beat-up mug, is that what you're saying?”

  “You know very well that you're an attractive man, Mr. Bronson. Just not in an aristocratic way. For one thing, you have too many…that is, you're too…muscular.” She gestured to his bulging coat sleeves and shoulders.

  “Pampered noblemen don't have arms like that.”

  “So my tailor tells me.”

  “Isn't there any way to make them, well…smaller?”

  “Not that I'm aware of. But just to sa
tisfy my curiosity, how much would I have to shrivel to pass for a gentleman?”

  Holly laughed and shook her head. “Physical appearance is the least of your worries, sir. You need to acquire a proper air of dignity. You're far too irreverent.”

  “But attractive,” he countered. “You did say I was attractive.”

  “Did I? I'm certain I meant to use the word ‘incorrigible.’”

  A shared smile caused a mixture of delight and heat to ripple over Holly. Hurriedly she dropped her gaze to her lap, breathing a little faster than normal. She felt odd, barely contained, as if the pressure of excitement within her would cause her to leap from her chair. She didn't dare look at Bronson, fearing her own reaction if she did. He made her want to…well, she wasn't certain what. All she knew was that the memory of his kiss, the sweet, warm invasion of his mouth, was suddenly at the forefront of her mind. She turned scarlet and folded her hands tightly together, repressing herself.

  “My fighting career didn't last for long,” she heard Bronson say. “I only did it to make enough money to acquire interest in a steamship.”

  “Really?” Holly asked, finally able to look at him once more. “I rather wonder if you didn't enjoy it a little.”

  “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I like to compete. And to win. But there was too much pain and too little profit from prizefighting. And I soon learned that there are ways to down a man without bloodying your hands.”

  “My goodness, Mr. Bronson. Must you lead your life as if it's a constant battle for supremacy?”

  “How else should I behave?”

  “You could try relaxing a bit and enjoying what you've accomplished.”

  His dark, cinnamon-flecked eyes mocked her. ‘Did you ever play king of the mountain when you were a child, Lady Holly? Probably not—it's hardly a game for respectable little girls. You find a pile of dirt or refuse and compete with your comrades to see who can fight his way to the top. And that's the easy part.”

  “What is the difficult part, Mr. Bronson?”

  “Staying there.”

  “I'll bet you managed to stay there from sunrise to nightfall,” she said softly. “Kicking and pummeling all the boys who tried to replace you.”

  “Only until suppertime,” he confessed with a sudden grin. “I was always defeated by my stomach.”

  Holly let out a sudden peal of unladylike laughter. She couldn't seem to hold it in, not even when her daughter, clearly surprised by the sound, came to stand by her chair. “What is it, Mama?”

  “Mr. Bronson,” Holly explained, “was just telling me a story about when he was a little boy.”

  Although Rose had no idea what the joke was, she began to laugh, too.

  As Bronson watched them both, his brown eyes were lit with a peculiar warm glow. “I believe the two of you are the prettiest sight I've ever seen.”

  Holly's amusement faded, and she stood in sudden consternation, obliging Bronson to stand as well. I shouldn't be here, was the uppermost thought in her mind. I should never have agreed to work for him, no matter what the enticement. She realized now how inexperienced and sheltered she was, otherwise he wouldn't be able to throw her off balance so easily. If she didn't guard herself against him, he was going to play havoc with her emotions. Was it because she had been so long without a man that she was so flustered by his attentions? Or was it because he was so unlike any other man she had ever known?

  Worst of all was the feeling that any enjoyment of his company, and any appreciation of his robust, street-seasoned handsomeness, was a betrayal of George.

  For a moment Holly remembered the days of utter despair after her husband had died, and the black wish that had consumed her. She had wanted with all her heart to die along with him. It was only the love and concern Holly felt for her infant daughter that had kept her sane. Instead, she had vowed to honor George by spending the rest of her life loving only him, thinking only of him and his wishes. It had never occurred to Holly that such a vow might be difficult to keep. But here was an utter stranger, gently wooing her away from propriety a step at a time.

  “Mr. Bronson,” she said a bit unsteadily, “I—I will see you at supper.”

  Bronson's face wore an expression of seriousness identical to her own. “Let Rose eat with us,” he said. “Don't any upper-class children have supper with their families?”

  Holly took a long moment to answer. “In some country homes the children are allowed to eat en famille. However, in most well-to-do households the children take separate nursery meals. Rose has become accustomed to the arrangement at the Taylor' mansion, and I should dislike to change a familiar ritual—”

  “But there she had other children to eat with, didn't she?” Bronson pointed out. “And here she has to take most meals by herself.”

  Holly glanced into her daughter's small face. Rose seemed to be holding her breath, waiting with silent excitement to see if her unexpected champion would succeed at gaining her a place at the adults' dinner table. It would be easy for Holly to insist that Rose adhere to the traditional mealtime separation between grown-ups and children. However, as Bronson and the little girl both stared at her expectantly, Holly realized with a flash of amused despair that yet another boundary was to be broken.

  “Very well,” she said. “If Rose behaves well, she may take meals with the family from now on.”

  To Holly's surprise, Rose flew to Bronson with an exclamation of happiness and threw her arms around his leg. “Oh, Mr. Bronson,” she cried, “thank you!”

  Grinning, Bronson disentangled her little arms and sank to his haunches. “Thank your mother, princess. I only asked. She was the one who gave permission.”

  Bouncing back to Holly, Rose decorated her face with kisses.

  “Darling,” Holly murmured, trying not to smile, “let's go upstairs and change your pinafore and wash your face before dinner. We can't have you looking like a ragamuffin.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Rose's small hand took hers, and she skipped eagerly as she led Holly away.

  Seven

  As Holly began to correspond with a number of friends, many of whom she had not seen since George's funeral, she was surprised by their responses to the information that she was working and residing at the London estate of Mr. Zachary Bronson. Naturally many of the reactions were disapproving, even offering her a place in their own homes if she was truly that destitute. However, an unexpected majority expressed great interest in her new situation and inquired if they might come to call on her at Bronson's estate. It seemed that a great many ladies were eager to view Bronson's home and, more than that, encounter the man himself.

  Bronson did not seem surprised by the fact when Holly mentioned it to him. “It happens all the time,” he said with a cynical smile. “Women of your class would go to the guillotine before marrying a mongrel like me…but a surprising number want to be my ‘friend.’”

  “You mean they are willing to…with you…?” Holly paused in dismayed wonder. “Even the married ones?”

  “Especially the married ones,” Bronson informed her dryly. “While you were secluded in mourning at the Taylors' house, I've entertained a great many fine ladies of London between my sheets.”

  “A gentleman does not boast of his sexual conquests,” Holly had said, flushing at the information.

  “I wasn't boasting. I was stating a fact.”

  “Some facts are better kept to yourself.”

  The unusual sharpness of her tone seemed to interest him to no end. “There's a strange expression on your face, Lady Holly,” he said silkily. “It almost looks like jealousy.”

  A wave of rising annoyance nearly choked her. Zachary Bronson had a talent for rousing her temper more easily than anyone she had ever known. “Not at all. I was merely reflecting unpleasantly on the number of diseases one must catch from such a dedicated pursuit of gallantry.”

  “‘Pursuit of gallantry,’” he repeated with a low laugh. “That's the prettiest way I've ever heard it put. No, I've
never caught the pox or any other affliction from my whoring. There are ways a man can protect himself—”

  “I assure you, I do not wish to hear about them!” Horrified, Holly had clapped her hands over her ears. As the most sexually indulgent creature of her acquaintance, Bronson was all too willing to discuss intimate subjects that a gentleman should never admit to knowing. “You, sir, are a moral abyss.”

  Rather than look shamed, he actually grinned at the remark. “And you, my lady, are a prude.”

  “Thank you,” she said crisply.

  “That wasn't meant as a compliment.”

  “Any criticism of yours, Mr. Bronson, I will definitely receive as a compliment.”

  Bronson had laughed, as he did whenever she attempted to provide the smallest tidbit of moral instruction. He was interested only in the superficial lessons of how to behave like a gentleman. And when it suited him, he would be more than ready to shed his mannered facade. However, try as she might, Holly could not dislike him.

  As the days of Holly's residence at the Bronson estate lengthened into weeks, there were many things she learned about her employer, including the fact that he had many personal qualities to admire. Bronson was honest about his flaws and remarkably unpretentious about his background and lack of education. He possessed a strange sort of modesty, constantly downplaying his tremendous innate intelligence and his considerable achievements. He often used his sly charm to make her laugh against her will. In fact, he seemed to delight in provoking her until her temper began to show, then he made her laugh in the midst of her frustration.

  They spent many evenings together, sometimes with Rose playing at their feet as they talked. Occasionally they conversed alone into the night, after the lateness of the hour had caused Elizabeth and Paula to retire. As the coals glowed in the hearth, Bronson would ply Holly with glasses of rare wine and regale her with vulgar but fascinating tales of his own life. In return, he insisted on hearing stories of Holly's childhood. Holly had no idea why mundane details of her past should interest him so, but he persisted in asking until she told him about ridiculous things, like the naughty childhood cousin who had once tied her long hair to the back of her chair, or the time she had deliberately dropped a wet sponge on a footman's head from an upstairs balcony.