by Lisa Kleypas
“Fine,” Bronson said immediately, his gaze still on her mouth. “We'll send him to Devon at once to see what he makes of the property.”
“It may take some time before Mr. Somers is able to oblige you. From what I understand, his services are much in demand, and his schedule is constantly filled.”
“Oh, he'll go to Devon without delay, once you mention my name,” Bronson assured her cynically. “Every architect dreams of landing a patron like me.”
Holly couldn't help laughing. “Does your arrogance know no limits?”
“Wait and see,” he advised. “Somers will deliver a set of plans to me within a fortnight.”
As Bronson had predicted, Jason Somers did indeed come to the estate with a bundle of sketches and partial floor plans in a remarkably short time—sixteen days, to be exact.
“Elizabeth, I'm afraid we'll have to cut the morning lesson short today,” Holly murmured, glancing out the window as she saw Somers's modest black carriage traveling along the drive toward the house. Her cousin drove himself, handling the ribbons with clear expertise. “The architect is arriving, and your brother has insisted that I attend the meeting with them.”
“Well, if you must…” Elizabeth said with apparent regret, shrugging her shoulders.
Holly suppressed a smile, knowing that Elizabeth's sorrow at canceling the lesson was entirely false. The girl had little patience for their current subject, the rules of correspondence. As an energetic young lady with a passion for riding, archery and other physical pursuits, Elizabeth found the act of putting pen to paper exceedingly tiresome.
“Would you like to meet Mr. Somers?” Holly offered. “His work is quite good, and I'm certain your brother would have no objection—”
“Dear me, no. I've better things to do than view the sketches and scratchings of some stuffy old architect. It's just a beautiful morning; I think I'll go for a ride.”
“Very well. I'll see you at midday, then.”
Taking leave of the girl, Holly descended the grand staircase with an eager step. She found herself smiling at the prospect of seeing her distant cousin. The last time they visited had been at a family gathering at least five years earlier, when Jason was barely out of his teens. A warm-natured boy with a ready sense of humor and an engaging smile, Jason had always been a family favorite. From the time he had been a small child, he had drawn and sketched compulsively, resulting in many a scolding for his perpetually ink-stained fingers. Now, however, he was in the process of building a formidable reputation for his unique style of “natural” architecture that was designed to blend into the landscape.
“Cousin Jason,” Holly exclaimed, reaching the entrance hall just as he did.
Somers broke into a smile the moment he saw her, stopping to remove his hat and execute a well-practiced bow. Holly was pleased to see that in the past few years Jason had grown into a wonderfully attractive man. His heavy shock of chestnut-brown hair was cut close to his head, and his green eyes gleamed with intelligence. Although he still possessed the physical lankiness of youth, he had a surprising air of maturity for a man only in his midtwenties.
“My lady,” Jason said in a pleasantly raspy baritone. Holly gave him her hand, and he squeezed it gently. His smile turned regretful as he continued in a softer tone, “Please accept a long-overdue apology for missing your husband's funeral.”
Holly regarded him fondly. There was no reason for Jason to apologize, as he had been traveling the continent at the time of George's unexpected death. Since the journey had been too long for Jason to return for the funeral, he had written a letter of condolence. Sweet, a bit awkward and wonderfully heartfelt, the letter had expressed a sincere sympathy that had touched her heart.
“No apology is necessary, as you well know,” she replied softly.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Burney, came forward to take Jason's hat and coat.
“Mrs. Burney,” Holly murmured, “can you tell me where Mr. Bronson is at present?”
“I believe he's in the library, milady.”
“I will show Mr. Somers there.” Taking her cousin's arm. Holly guided him through the house, while he carried his plans beneath his other arm.
Glancing at his surroundings as they walked, Jason emitted a sigh that combined amazement with distaste. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Excess upon excess. My lady, if this is the style that Bronson prefers, you would have done better to approach another architect. I couldn't force myself to design something like this.”
“Wait until you talk with Mr. Bronson,” Holly coaxed.
“All right.” Jason smiled at her as they strolled together. “Lady Holly, I know it is because of your influence that I am here, and for that opportunity I thank you. But I must ask…what caused you to work for Bronson?” A note of amusement lightened his voice. “As you're no doubt aware, the family in general is ‘not pleased.’”
“My mother has informed me of that fact,” Holly admitted with a rueful smile.
Upon being informed of Holly's plans to accept employment from Bronson, her parents had made their disapproval clear. Her mother had actually questioned her sanity, suggesting that prolonged grief had undone Holly's ability to make rational decisions. Her father, however, being an exceedingly practical man, had ceased his objections once Holly had described the trust Bronson was providing for Rose's future. As the father of four daughters, three still unmarried, he was all too cognizant of the importance of a large dowry.
“Well?” Jason prompted.
“It's difficult to refuse Mr. Bronson,” Holly said dryly. “You'll find out soon enough.”
She brought her cousin into the library, where Bronson was waiting. To his credit, Jason showed no sign of intimidation at the sight of the brawny man rising from his massive chair. As Holly knew from her own experience, meeting Bronson for the first time was nothing if not memorable. Few men possessed his powerful larger-than-life presence. Had no one ever told Holly a single thing about Bronson, she would have instinctively known that he was a man who shaped not only his own fate, but the destinies of other men.
Meeting Bronson's sharp black gaze directly, Jason shook his hand. “Mr. Bronson,” he said in his frank, friendly way, “let me thank you at once for the invitation to your estate, and for the opportunity of showing you my work.”
“Lady Holly is the one you should thank,” Bronson replied. “It was her suggestion that I approach you.”
Holly blinked in surprise. Something subtle in Bronson's manner had implied that her suggestions, her opinions, held great value for him. To her consternation, the implication had not escaped Jason Somer's notice. He threw her a quick speculative glance, then returned his attention to Bronson.
“Let us hope that I've justified Lady Holly's faith in me, then,” Jason said, hefting the bundle of drawings a bit higher beneath his arm.
Bronson indicated his wide mahogany desk, which had been cleared, and the architect spread his drawings over the polished surface.
Though she had decided to remain neutral while viewing her cousin's work, Holly could not prevent a pleased exclamation as she leaned over the plans. With its romantic gothic overtones, the house was charming but sophisticated, with an abundance of windows—long sheets of what seemed to be undivided plate glass—to bring the landscape “inside.” Large main rooms and airy conservatories would provide spectacular settings for parties, but there were also wings that allowed privacy and seclusion for the family.
Holly hoped that Bronson would appreciate the design's unpretentious style, and that he would not make the mistake of thinking elegance was synonymous with heavy embellishment. She was certain that he would at least be pleased by the abundance of modern technology, including running water on all floors, a large number of water closets and tiled shower-bath rooms, and “hot walls” to give warmth and comfort in the winter.
Bronson showed no expression as he stared at the plans, only asked a question or two that Jason hastened to answer. In the midst of the
inspection, Holly became aware of someone entering the room. It was Elizabeth, dressed in a smart rose-colored riding habit trimmed in scarlet. The clothes, with their simple but dashing cut, and the feminine froth of white lace at her throat, were especially becoming. With her black curls tightly braided and topped with a scarlet hat, and her dark, heavily lashed eyes, Elizabeth looked young, fresh and exotically alluring.
“I couldn't resist having a look at the plans before I went out…” Elizabeth began to say, but her voice faded as Jason Somers turned and bowed. Quickly Holly made the introductions, watching with pride as Elizabeth returned Jason's bow with a perfectly executed curtsy. With the initial greeting concluded, they paused to study each other in a moment of brief but electric curiosity. Then Somers turned back to the table and focused his attention on a question Bronson had posed. He seemed not to notice Elizabeth at all.
Puzzled by his apparent indifference, Holly wondered how he or any other healthy young male could fail to be captivated by the girl's dazzling looks. As the girl joined them at the table, however, Holly noticed that Jason's gaze returned to Elizabeth in a rapid but thorough sweep. He was interested, Holly thought with well-concealed amusement, but he was clever enough not to show it.
A bit piqued by the stranger's lack of attention, Elizabeth stood between Jason and Holly and inspected the plans.
“As you can see,” Jason murmured to Bronson, “I've tried to design a place that would be harmonious with the landscape. In other words, one couldn't merely take this house and set it somewhere else and have it look appropriate—”
“I know what ‘harmonious’ means,” Bronson said with a wry smile. He continued to assess the drawings, his keen gaze noting every detail. Having some understanding of the way Bronson absorbed information, Holly knew that in a few minutes he would have nearly as great a familiarity with the floor plans as Jason Somers himself. Bronson had an astonishing memory, although he applied it only to subjects that interested him.
Elizabeth also surveyed the plans, her velvety dark eyes narrowed critically. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to a section of the drawing. “I'm not certain I like that at all.”
Jason replied in a voice that seemed a shade or two deeper than usual, “Kindly remove your finger from my plans, Miss Bronson.”
“Yes, but what is this…this misaligned thing, this odd projection—”
“It's called a wing,” Jason said shortly. “And those little rectangles are what we architects like to call windows and doors.”
“Your east wing doesn't match the west wing.”
“Someday I would love to explain why,” Jason muttered in a tone that implied just the opposite.
“Well, it looks lopsided,” Elizabeth persisted.
Their gazes met in challenge, and Holly suspected that both were secretly enjoying the exchange.
“Stop provoking the man, Lizzie,” Zachary muttered, ignoring the unspoken interplay. His attention was firmly secured on Holly. “What do you think of the plans, my lady?”
“I think the house would be magnificent,” she replied.
He gave a decisive nod. “Then I'll have it built.”
“Not merely because of my liking for it, I hope,” Holly said, vaguely alarmed.
“Why not?”
“Because you must decide on it only as a matter of following your own taste.”
“The plans look fine to me,” Bronson replied thoughtfully, “although I wouldn't mind a tower here and there, and some crenellation—”
“No towers,” the architect interrupted hastily.
“Crenellation?” Holly asked at the same time. Then she saw the twinkle in Bronson's eyes and realized he was teasing.
“Build it the way you've drawn it,” Bronson advised the architect with a grin.
“Just like that?” Jason asked, clearly a bit stunned by the speed of decision. “Are you certain you don't want to look over the plans in private and consider the matter at your leisure?”
“I've seen all I needed to,” Bronson assured him.
Holly could not help smiling at her cousin's surprise. She knew that Jason had never met a man as comfortable with his own authority as Zachary Bronson. Bronson liked to make decisions quickly, rarely wasting time to ponder difficult matters. He had once told her that while ten percent of his decisions turned out to be mistakes, and another twenty percent usually had benign results, the remaining seventy percent were generally fine. Holly had no idea how he had arrived at such figures, but she had no doubt that he could support them with evidence. It was a quirk of Bronson's, that he was fond of applying numbers and percentages to every situation. He had even once calculated that his sister Elizabeth had a ten percent chance of marrying a duke.
“Why only ten percent?” Elizabeth had asked pertly, having appeared near the end of that particular conversation. “I'll have you know that I could land anyone I wanted to.”
“I calculated the number of available dukes, subtracted the ones who were too elderly or infirm and factored in the number of lessons you'll need from Lady Holland to be presentable. I also took into consideration the number of young women on the marriage market you'll be competing with.” Bronson had paused and sent a sly grin to his sister. “Unfortunately, your age skewed the numbers a bit.”
“My age?” Elizabeth had cried in feigned outrage. “Are you trying to say that I'm past my prime?”
“You're over twenty-one, aren't you?” Bronson pointed out, and deftly caught the small velvet cushion that his sister had hurled at his head.
“Elizabeth, a lady does not throw things when a gentleman displeases her,” Holly said, laughing at the boisterous pair.
“May a lady crown her infuriating brother over the head with a fireplace poker?” Elizabeth advanced upon Bronson in a threatening manner.
“Unfortunately not,” Holly answered. “And considering the hardness of Mr. Bronson's head, that effort would likely have little effect.”
Bronson had pretended to look insulted, though a swift grin escaped him.
“Then how is a lady to have revenge?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Indifference,” Holly replied softly. “Withdrawal.”
Elizabeth flopped into a chair, her long legs splayed willy-nilly beneath her skirts. “I was hoping for something more painful.”
“A bashing with an iron poker doesn't cause so much as a twinge of fear,” Bronson had told his sister with a low laugh. “But Lady Holly's indifference…” He pretended to shiver, as if he had suddenly been thrust into an arctic blast. “That's more punishment than any man should have to bear.”
Holly had shaken her head in amusement, while inwardly she had reflected that no woman could remain indifferent to a man like Zachary Bronson.
There were days, however, when Bronson did not make her smile…days when he could be irascible and obstinate, venting his bad temper on everyone around him. It seemed at times that demons drove him. Even Holly was not exempt from his jeers or sarcasm, and it seemed that the cooler and more courteous she became, the higher it drove his flames of discontent. She guessed that there was something he wanted but had decided was not obtainable, and whatever it was, he suffered mightily from bitter longing. Just what the “something” was, whether social acceptability or perhaps a business deal that had eluded him, was impossible to discern. Holly was certain that it was not loneliness, as Bronson did not lack for the company of women. Like the rest of the household, she was well aware of his ceaseless nocturnal activities, his frequent coming and goings, the signs of excess drinking and debauchery that showed on his face after a particularly wild evening.
His appetites for entertainment and women began to bother Holly more and more. She rationalized that he was no different from many other men in this regard. There were many aristocratic men who behaved even worse, carousing all night and sleeping off their excesses during the daylight hours. The fact that Bronson somehow managed to roam all night and work during the day was proof of a remarka
bly energetic constitution. But she was not easily able to shrug off his womanizing, and in a moment of raw honesty she admitted to herself that her disapproval had far less to do with morality than her own personal feelings.
The thought of Bronson in another woman's arms made her feel strangely bleak. And unbearably curious. Every evening when he left the house for a night of womanizing, her imagination ran rampant. She knew somehow that Bronson's sexual activities were different in every way from the sweet, gentle interludes she had shared with George. Although her husband had not been a virgin on their wedding night, his experience in such matters had been greatly limited. In bed, George had been respectful and kind, loving rather than lustful, and despite his warm nature, he had believed that sexual intercourse was a pleasure that should not be indulged in too often. He had never visited her bedroom more than once a week. Such occasions had been all the sweeter and more special, never to be taken for granted by either of them.
Zachary Bronson, however, had all the self-restraint of a tomcat. The way he had kissed her in the conservatory was evidence of a sexual knowledge that went far beyond her own experience, or George's. Holly knew she should be repelled by this aspect of Bronson. If only she could suppress the dreams that sometimes awakened her at night, the same tangled, erotic images that had bothered her ever since George's death. Dreams of herself being touched, kissed, held naked against a man's body…except that the images were more disturbing than ever before, because now the stranger in her dreams had a face. It was Zachary Bronson's dark features above her, his hot mouth possessing hers, his hands touching her intimately.
Holly would always wake from these dreams troubled and sweating, and she was hardly able to look at Bronson the next day without flushing scarlet. She had always thought herself above such base desires, had even felt sorry for people who seemed unable to master their physical passion. She had never been troubled by lust. But there was no other word for it, this sweet ache that sometimes overwhelmed her, this terrible preoccupation with Zachary Bronson…this awful wish that she could be one of the women he visited to satisfy his needs.
