by Jaide Fox
Darcy frowned. “You'll be staying for the season, surely?"
"Winter isn't the best of times for a crossing."
Darcy looked stunned. “You don't mean to say you're going back to the colonies?"
She frowned. “Good Lord! Does everyone here still refer to the United States as the colonies? We gained our independence quite a few years ago."
"We?” he echoed, obviously still stunned by her revelation.
"I'm a citizen of the United States now. Didn't I mention that?"
"I thought you were.... That is, I was under the impression that you intended to marry again."
Bronte's smile faded. “Once was enough. In any case, I wouldn't consider marrying an Englishman. America is my home. I wouldn't think of marrying anyone who would expect me to give it up and live here."
Pulling his coat from her shoulders, she handed it back to him. “I should go inside. Mother's bound to hear of it and be distressed that I spent more than five minutes, alone, on a balcony, with one of England's most notorious rakes."
Relieved that she'd managed to pull off the encounter reasonably well, Bronte left Darcy standing on the balcony and returned to the ball room. She'd scarcely taken two steps inside, however, when she heard a voice that made her knees go weak.
"I can't help but be curious,” he murmured in that deep, silky voice that always seemed to curl inside of her.
Chapter Seven
She glanced at Nick guiltily, feeling a blush climb into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?"
His dark brows rose. He glanced pointedly at the doors to the balcony before he moved toward her, a faint smile curling his lips. “I would not be so ungentlemanly as to ask why you seem so pleased with yourself, particularly when I have a very good idea I know the answer. I was referring to your rather ... precipitate departure for London."
A denial sprang to her lips, but she'd no more than thought it then she realized it would only make her appear more guilty. Not that it was any of his business if she had been kissing Darcy on the balcony. “Did it seem so to you?” she asked with feigned surprise. “I must not have mentioned that I had business in London. Did you conclude your own business in the country so swiftly then? It seemed to me that you expected to be there for a while."
She hadn't really expected to rattle him, but she was disappointed when she didn't.
His smile widened. “Indeed I did. Imagine my pleasure to discover it was so neatly and swiftly concluded."
Bronte forced a smile. Despite what she'd considered a small success, she really wasn't up to fencing with Nick. “I'm pleased for you."
"Are you? Somehow I have the feeling that you would've been far more pleased if I had been detained for a while longer in the country."
Bronte rubbed her throbbing temple absently, glancing around in hopes of finding rescue. It was then that she discovered that Nick had somehow managed to back her into a corner. Dimly, she realized that she'd stepped back when he'd moved to block her path.
Subtly, so unobtrusively that she hadn't noticed, he'd been advancing, steadily forcing her into retreat. Taking another step back, she came up against the wall. “I can't imagine what I might have said or done to lead you to that conclusion,” she said a little breathlessly.
He moved closer, until she could feel the heat of his body. Dizziness washed through her.
"No?"
She blinked up at him, having completely lost the thread of the conversation. “What are you doing?” she asked a little desperately as his face filled her vision and the world around them faded into a blur.
"Call it ... an experiment,” he murmured, capturing her lips beneath his own.
Bronte gasped at the heat of his mouth, allowing him to breach the barrier of her lips without resistance or even thought of protest. Fire swarmed over her body like thousands of stinging insects as his scent and taste and touch invaded her entire being like a strong intoxicant. Without quite knowing how it happened, Bronte found herself clutching his jacket as he surged toward her, pinning her more tightly between the wall behind her and his body, until she could feel every inch of him against her, feel the hard ridge of his cock digging into her lower belly.
The muscles of her femininity quaked in response, fisting as if they grasped his turgid flesh, her passage growing damp in invitation. She made a sound in her throat that began as a protest. It emerged as a sound of intemperate need as his tongue caressed hers, teased the sensitive inner surfaces of her mouth, as she felt the pressure of his hard cock teasing at the very edge of her clit and arched against him without thought, aching to feel his touch.
Her response fueled his own desire. His kiss became more of a mating, their desperate breaths mingling, the heat rising between them sizzled.
The opening of the door jarred them from their absorption, breaking them apart guilty. Gasping for breath, Bronte stared up at Nick, drunk on the taste of him that still lingered in her mouth.
His expression was hard, uncompromising, but his eyes gleamed with his own needs, his breath rasping harshly from his chest. She saw satisfaction there as well, and it brought forth a surge of anger at herself—at him. Her palm itched to slap that look from his face.
"Not entirely indifferent."
Her lips tightened. She curled her fingers into her palms and finally managed to force a cold smile to her lips. “Sadly, no, but then it's been a while since I had a man between my legs. I suppose I should find one to scratch the itch,” she said coldly, thrusting past him and hurrying across the room.
Nick watched her until she'd disappeared into the crowd before he slid a cold glance in Darcy's direction. “You're timing could not have been poorer."
"I'm inclined to agree,” Darcy growled, holding his own fury in check with an effort. “If I'd come in sooner you might have reconsidered accosting her in the midst of a crowded room."
Nick flushed faintly. “I'm not entirely certain I would have,” he said coolly.
"No?” Darcy growled challengingly.
Nick adjusted his jacket. “Since I did not intend to accost her in the first place, and I'm not in the habit of accosting women, period, I hardly think your presence would have been a deterrent when the presence of half the ton wasn't,” he said tightly. With that, he strode away.
Darcy glared at his retreating back until he'd crossed the salon and strode through the doors. Muttering an expletive beneath his breath, he glanced toward the knot of men once more surrounding Bronte and finally left the salon himself.
Nick had vanished by the time Darcy reached the street. He decided it was just as well. He'd fully intended to punch Nick's lights out if he caught up with him and there was no sense in creating a scandal by engaging in fisticuffs on Lord and Lady Sheffield's doorstep.
He went to his own apartments, but he was still spoiling for a fight when he managed to run into Nick the following day at Jim's Boxing Salon. Nick's mood, he quickly discovered, was as foul as his own. They locked horns in the ring and battered at one another for the better part of an hour before Big Jim managed to separate them and had them escorted from the premises. They were banished from use of the ring for a fortnight.
They faced off once Jim's heavies had left them, but since neither one of them particularly relished the idea of trying to outrun the watch, or spending any time at all in jail, they parted company and headed for their own quarters to nurse their battered bodies.
Two days later Darcy banged on Nick's door until his butler answered it. The butler promptly tried manfully to bar the door, but Darcy tossed him on his ass in the street and stalked inside anyway.
Nick eyed him speculatively as he paused in the doorway of the main salon. “I'd as soon not be forced to the necessity of purchasing new furniture,” he said coolly.
Darcy massaged his sore shoulder and finally stalked over to the nearest chair and sprawled in it. “I'm too sore to have another go at it just now,” he said irritably.
The butler had summoned assistance. Nic
k waved his menservants away from the door and poured another drink. Striding toward Darcy, he handed him a tumbler and settled in the chair opposite him. Darcy downed it in two gulps and then looked Nick over and burst out laughing.
Nick's lips twitched. “I'm glad you find this so amusing."
Darcy grimaced. “I'm not sure I would except for the matching shiners."
Nick frowned. “Ah!” he said finally. “Mine and yours? Yours looks worse,” he added with a touch of satisfaction when Darcy nodded.
Darcy's lips tightened. After a moment, however, he shrugged, got to his feet, and fetched the decanter then returned to his chair and had a seat once more, refilling his tumbler.
Nick watched him speculatively throughout. “If you did not come to resume the match, then why did you come?"
Darcy settled back in his seat, propping his booted feet on Nick's table. Nick studied the boots for several moments and finally propped his on the table. He saw when he returned his attention to Darcy that he was frowning in thought.
"I do believe I came to ask you what your intentions are toward Bronte."
Nick lifted one dark brow. “Did you?"
Darcy's frown deepened. “I believe I did."
Nick studied the amber liquid in his glass for several moments. “It didn't occur to you, I suppose, that I might tell you it was none of your damned business?"
They assessed one another for several moments. “It did, but I think I'm making it my business,” Darcy finally responded.
"Or that I might ask you the same question?” Nick queried pensively.
Darcy dragged his fingers through his hair. “You know I always had a soft spot for Bronte, poor little mite."
"Homely little mite, I believe you phrased it,” Nick said tightly. He took a sip from his glass.
Darcy flushed. “She was, but I was fond of her anyway."
Nick's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he leaned forward and refilled his own glass. “She wasn't, but that's a matter of opinion."
Darcy stared at him in surprise. “You didn't think so?"
"No."
Darcy frowned, obviously casting his mind back. Finally, he smiled. “She was cute, wasn't she? Pesky as hell, but cute.” He was silent for a while, chasing some errant memory. “Isaac was the one that used to call her names."
Nick's lips tightened in response. “He did. I found her crying her eyes out over it more than once."
"That's why you beat the living hell out of him that time?"
Nick grimaced. “For all the good it did.” He studied the liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “I always had an uneasy feeling that Isaac had a cruel streak in him."
Darcy's eyes widened. “Hell!” he exclaimed, surging to his feet and beginning to pace back and forth agitatedly. “I'd forgotten that! That's what she meant. I thought she was saying she'd never gotten over Isaac, but that wasn't what she meant at all!
"That little weasel! If I'd known that at the time, I'm not so sure I'd have taken a bullet trying to save his hide."
"I took two, but I don't bemoan the fact constantly,” Nick reminded him wryly. “I damn well wouldn't have if not for Bronte. I never did understand what she saw in him, if you want the truth of it."
Darcy shrugged. “He was a pain in the ass, but I figured it was just because he was younger than us. I might have known it was his damned fault!"
Nick sighed. “I wish you would sit down and stop trying to wear a hole in my rug."
He studied Darcy irritably for several moments after he'd finally sprawled in his chair once more, his eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to tell me that you and Bronte were talking?"
Darcy didn't pretend to misunderstand. “Of course we were. If you didn't have a nasty, suspicious mind you would've known that."
"If I didn't know you as well as I do I might have guessed that,” Nick retorted tartly.
Darcy flushed. “All right, so I did have it in mind to test the waters when I took her out onto the balcony. I'd said something stupid and thoughtless, though, and she had this look in her eyes. And I started wondering just what was going through her mind."
"What, precisely, did you say to her?"
"I don't recall,” Darcy said evasively. He met Nick's penetrating gaze and finally shrugged irritably. “I called her a heartless baggage, but I was only teasing. I've said the same thing to plenty of others and they didn't take it to heart. In fact, I got the impression they were rather pleased about it."
"But Bronte wasn't?"
"She gave me this wounded look and told me she'd acquired it from growing up with heedless young men, which I took to mean the three of us. Which I thought was grossly unjust when we let her tag along with us most of the time, when most guys wouldn't have considering she was a girl and nearly half our age to boot! It was what she said after that, though, that bothered me."
"You weren't the least perturbed about being accused of tormenting her?
"I never did!” Darcy said indignantly. “You know damned well that was Isaac. I used to tease her, but she knew I was teasing.” He thought it over. “I thought she knew it, anyway."
"I suppose I thought so, too, but apparently it looked differently from her perspective. In any case, as someone who has had a brotherly interest in her for more than half her life, I should be asking you what you're intentions are."
Darcy gaped at him in outrage. “You're not going to sit there and tell me that was a brotherly kiss I witnessed at the Sheffield's ‘do’ the other night?"
Nick flushed faintly. “Call it ... curiosity."
"I call it a damned outrage!” Darcy snarled. “At least I had the good sense to take her onto the balcony!"
"You damned well know that your judgment wasn't the least whit better than my own,” Nick retorted sharply.
"Well, at least you admit yours wasn't!"
Nick studied him through narrowed eyes for several moments. “As it happens I've been giving some thought to settling."
"Well, if you've set your sights on Bronte, you can just unset them! In the first place, Bronte informed me that once was enough. In the second, I've more than half a mind to settle myself, and I'm thinking I might have a try at changing her mind."
"She said that?” Nick asked sharply.
"That's what I was trying to tell you. And what's more, she said even if she decided to marry again, it wouldn't be an Englishman. She's determined to go back to America."
Chapter Eight
The insidious thing about lust, Bronte reflected, was that it had no conscience and no master. She had certainly not forgiven either Darcy or Nick, not for the wounds that had never healed, and not for their assumption that she was easy pickings.
Unfortunately, she was. She didn't delude herself that it had anything to do with a drought of sexual relations in general. Isaac had been gone many years, and she hadn't suffered unduly for the lack of a bed companion. If she had, there were plenty willing and able to fill her needs.
She would've liked to think she hadn't accepted because she was too good, too much a lady. She didn't delude herself about that either. She hadn't because she hadn't been greatly tempted.
Now, she was. The devil sat upon her shoulder day and night—mostly at night, reminding her that there was really no reason why she shouldn't indulge her private fantasies. She had no intention of remaining in England, so even if a scandal broke, and there was no saying that one would, it was immaterial to her. She wasn't looking for a husband, had no intention of remarrying, so what difference did it make if her reputation did go down the drain?
She was barren. Regardless of what her mother seemed to think, she was convinced of it. Isaac might not have relished his duty, but he'd performed it. He'd had plenty of time to get a child on her if it was possible. She'd only gone to a doctor about it to confirm her suspicions.
It seemed fairly certain, even if there was still a remote chance of it, that she needn't worry about bearing a child out of wedlock.
With no real
obstacles, it was very difficult to figure out a good reason not to do as she pleased.
Her mother would die of shame if her reputation was ruined.
But her mother certainly wouldn't die, and so long as she was discreet, that wasn't a real obstacle either.
She hated them.
She'd repeated that phrase like a mantra every time her thoughts had strayed to either of them over the years, and it was obvious to her now that it hadn't done the least bit of good. She was angry with them. She was hurt, but if she'd hated them as she honestly thought she did, she would be revolted at the very thought of either one of them touching her. She certainly wouldn't have responded as she had. And there was no point in telling herself it was only lust. It simply wasn't possible, not for her at least, to lust after someone she hated. She didn't think she could even lust after a man she just plain disliked.
She managed to avoid both Darcy and Nick for nearly a week, mostly because they seemed to be avoiding her. She discovered why when Darcy came to call.
Her mother had taken to her bed and she was alone in the parlor when the butler announced him. Treacherously, her heart began to flutter with anticipation even before he came in. One look at his face, however, was enough to make her gasp.
He reddened, grinning sheepishly. “That bad?"
Bronte put her hand over her wildly beating heart. “Uh ... no,” she lied.
Darcy chuckled. “You never were a very good liar, Bronte. Don't, whatever you do, take into your head to take up poker. Take my word for it, you'd lose your ... purse."
Her lips twitched. “I'd been considering taking it up. I think I'd be good at."
He settled in the chair across from her. “You thought you'd be good at riding, too, but I've never seen anybody with a worse seat."
"I ride very well now, thank you,” she said primly. “I hardly ever fall off.” She studied his face. “It looks painful. What happened?"
"Well, darlin',” he drawled. “There were five of them as I recall...."
