by Jaide Fox
"Since when did we care about that?"
"Since we decided on the hunt for Bronte,” Nick retorted with determined patience. “I see no sense in cooling my heels any longer than necessary. If we dally too long the hostess is bound to expect us to sign dance cards and I, for one, am not in the mood to be twirling some giggling debutante around the room."
Darcy subsided. “I'd forgotten why we usually don't attend this sort of thing."
Silence fell for several moments. Nick broke it. “How's your face?"
"You missed my nose this time. At least I won't have another black eye."
"In that case, perhaps you'll want to brush just a little of that powder off."
Darcy eyed him with a mixture of annoyance and suspicion, but finally dragged his handkerchief out and rubbed at his cheek.
"How's your jaw?"
"It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, thank you. I believe you may have loosened a couple of teeth,” Nick responded tartly.
The carriage rocked to a halt at their first destination. Nick gestured toward the door when the footman had opened it and let down the steps. “After you,” he said politely.
Darcy grinned. “You're not going to push me down the stairs, are you?"
Almost reluctantly, an answering smile lit Nick's face. “Now why didn't I think of that?"
They managed to elude their determined hostess for almost two hours, but since Bronte didn't show and they saw the hostess bearing down on them, they took their leave and moved on to the next stop. It was as well they'd started out in a lighthearted frame of mind. Neither of them were in a particularly good mood when they gave up at last and headed for their own apartments.
"If you asked me, I think it'd be a hell of a lot easier just to park outside her house and wait to see where she goes."
"Subtlety was never your strong suit."
"I suppose you think calling Smythe out on her front doorstep was subtle?"
"There is a time and place for subtlety. That wasn't one of them."
Darcy studied him irritably for several moments. “What next?"
Nick considered it. “Tonight?"
"I think we can consider tonight a total bust."
"I agree."
"The theater?"
Nick uttered a sound of impatience. “We might as well."
* * * *
Bronte let go of the drape and stepped back guiltily, then ground her teeth in irritation. She knew very well that Nick and Darcy hadn't seen her. They couldn't know it had been her peering down at them.
They thought it was her, though, so even if it hadn't been, it might as well have been. She could well imagine how pleased they were with themselves!
The last dregs of her sense of satisfaction vanished. She had no idea what Nick had said to Lord Smythe, but she had a feeling she wouldn't be seeing him again. Nick and Darcy's ‘big brother’ attitude had irritated her when she'd been a child. Now it really infuriated her. She knew they'd run off one of her best prospects and there wasn't a thing she could do about it!
She stalked to her room and fumed about it for a while, but some of her irritation dissipated as it occurred to her that at least Nick and Darcy were still friendly enough to join forces to annoy her. It helped her feelings some to know she hadn't permanently damaged their friendship.
She was still annoyed at their determination to interfere.
She was still resolved on her course.
It would've been easier if she could've simply run for it. She couldn't, though, not all the way back to America, and she wasn't about to languish in the country through the winter, not even for Darcy and Nick.
She needed a distraction.
She thought it was possible that seeing Nick and Darcy again had only resurrected her girlhood infatuation. That combined with her natural needs as an adult could be the problem. If she found someone she was as equally attracted to, she would probably experience just as much lust, except that she could indulge herself without creating problems for anyone else and get it out of her system.
If Darcy and Nick meant to guard her, though, she was going to run into a problem. Those two were bound to scare off possibilities, and if they didn't, then things could get much worse.
They could end up on the dueling field.
Terror suffused her at that thought.
With an effort, she tamped it. There was no sense in scaring herself with her imaginings. Neither Nick, nor Darcy, were so dead set on having their way that they'd go that far ... she hoped.
The most immediate problem was what to do now?
She finally decided she simply wasn't up to dealing with either of them at the moment, which left her with two choices. She could stay home until she did feel up to the challenge. Or, she would have to avoid those places they would be looking for her.
That ruled out most of the ton parties.
"I've been giving some thought to what we might do for entertainment this evening,” she told her mother as they dined.
Lady Millford sent her daughter a long suffering look. “I'm not at all certain that I'm up to going out this evening. My head has been throbbing all day. I'm very much afraid I might be coming down with something."
"You poor thing!” Bronte said without much sympathy, for, as much as she loved her mother, Elizabeth Millford had been enjoying poor health her entire life and it was difficult to get excited about it. “I'd thought we might go to the theater."
"Oh! What a lovely notion!” Lady Millford said, clapping her hands in delight. “I haven't been to the theater in.... “She thought it over. “Well, I declare, I can't recall! No matter! It's just the thing."
"You're certain?"
Lady Millford massaged her temples. “I shall lie down and rest for a little bit and then I'm sure I can manage."
Chapter Twelve
They arrived at the theater unfashionably early. Lady Millford seemed completely unaware of the fact that the ton considered enthusiasm gauche. Sophistication required a degree of ennui and arriving early at any function was just not done. Bronte was aware of it, but she didn't particularly care what the ton might think of it, especially since she found that she was looking forward to the play with almost as much excitement as her mother was.
Neither of them were disappointed. The troop performing was experienced professionals who took their work seriously and knew how to play to a crowd of bored aristocrats. The sets, once the lights were dimmed, were excellent, and the comedic skit, which they began the night with, was bawdy but highly diverting nevertheless. By the time the first intermission was announced, the theater had filled considerably, but since Bronte saw no sign of either Darcy or Nick, she felt more relaxed than she had since she'd arrived in London.
Lady Millford wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about taking a turn around the theater while the performers changed the set, but since Bronte seemed determined to do so and she felt it her duty to escort her daughter, she capitulated.
Since a number of ladies of the ton stopped to speak to them, Lady Millford was feeling more in charity with her daughter after only a few moments and entirely forgot that it not only hadn't been her idea to ‘walk a bit’ but that she'd been loud in disclaiming any interest in doing so.
"There!” she said complacently. “Aren't you glad we decided to walk about a bit after all? Lady Connolly was most kind to invite us to her soiree on such short notice! And it's bound to be a crush, for invitations to her affairs have always been much sought after."
Bronte smiled. She'd forgotten her mother's tendency to consider good fortune of her making and bad luck as someone else's idea. It was strange that one could miss such an annoying habit.
"Who is that young woman waving at us over by the door?"
Bronte followed the direction of her mother's gaze and frowned. “I'm not certain. She looks familiar, and I'm sure I should recall her name, but ... perhaps she is waving at someone else?"
"Oh? She does appear to be heading this way."
"Lady Millford, Lady Dunmore! How delightful to run into you again!"
Bronte smiled, casting wildly about in her mind for the woman's name. It eluded her, but the woman had made a point of singling her out and she felt sure it was she who was supposed to know her.
"Let me make you known to a couple of very dear friends of mine. Mrs. Bolington. And this is Lord Ashley Fairfax."
Mrs. Bolington's smile was friendly, despite the hint of hardness Bronte detected about her eyes and Bronte found herself smiling with an equal friendliness. “How do you do?"
"Tolerably well, thank you! Though I must say I'm disappointed in the offering tonight thus far."
Bronte's brows rose. “I suppose I've become a rustic. I found it amusing."
Mrs. Bolington chuckled.
Lord Fairfax, a rather dashing figure, who exuded the sort of dangerous mannerisms of a conformed rake, smiled, an expression that softened his rather harsh features appealingly. “I hear you've only just returned from the Americas."
Bronte felt her heart flutter with an unmistakable sense of attraction at his smile and the deep timber of his voice. “You heard incorrectly, I'm afraid."
His dark brows rose questioningly.
"I make my home there now. I am only visiting."
He seemed intrigued by that, but since the announcement was made just then that the play was about to begin, it didn't seem likely they would be able to pursue their new acquaintance.
Without quite knowing how it came about, Bronte found that she and her mother had been invited to Mrs. Bolington's private box. Mrs. Bolington, she discovered, was much of an age with her, and widowed, giving them a good deal in common. From the little she said, and the great deal left unsaid, Bronte also gathered Mr. Bolington wasn't deeply mourned and gained the sense that, quite possibly, she and Mrs. Bolington had a very great deal in common. She couldn't help but wonder if her own bitterness showed in her face as it did Mrs. Bolington's.
Lord Fairfax's interest was both flattering and unnerving. To her mind, no man was quite as handsome as Darcy or Nick, but he did not miss it by more than a hair and was very well built, as well. He looked to be a few years older than Nick, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, but it sat very well upon him.
He seemed amused by her reluctance to talk during the play, but entertained both her and himself by leaning close enough to convey low voiced observations regarding the play, as well as the various members of the ton in attendance. He'd just directed her attention to a macaroni mincing about the pit in the most absurd costume, provoking a chuckle from her, when Bronte's gaze was arrested by two men in the pit below whose attention was directed, not at the stage, but at the box in which she sat.
Her heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned. Even from this distance, their displeasure was evident. Lifting her chin at them, Bronte pointedly turned her attention to the stage.
"I believe I see two of your admirers in the pit."
Bronte glanced at Lord Fairfax sharply.
He nodded his chin in Nick and Darcy's direction. “Cain and St. James."
Bronte managed a dismissive smile. “They are only friends."
His dark brows rose. Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “That will be a blow to them, I'm certain."
Bronte's smile was easier that time and carried a hint of responsive amusement. “I take leave to doubt that, but certainly it will not wound them to any lasting degree. They grew up on estates that march with my family's and were prone to look upon me as an annoying younger sister when we were children. We are still quite friendly, but no more than that."
His smile broadened to a wry grin. “Men are not generally inclined to view beautiful young women as friends, my dear, but I confess I'm relieved to hear your feelings on the matter."
Bronte's smile stiffened. A faint color rose to her cheeks. “Does such effusive flattery generally please the London ladies? I confess, I'm fonder of temperance since it allows me the illusion that the compliment might be sincere."
Confusion filled Lord Fairfax's eyes. “I beg your pardon. It's obvious I've offended, but I confess I'm at a loss as to how that may be so."
Bronte smiled tightly, her color deepening as she struggled to tamp her irritation. “It's of no consequence. I should beg pardon myself for being so waspish. I believe I may be developing a headache."
He studied her with keen interest and an understanding that was as profound as it was surprising. “Beauty is a state of being as much as appearance and, when all is said and done, the opinion of those who behold it. You should not assume, only because your opinion differs, that mine was not a sincere observation."
"Very prettily said,” Mrs. Bolington said with a chuckle. “Lord Fairfax is known for his clever tongue, you must know."
Lord Fairfax sent her an inscrutable look, which seemed to disconcert her mightily.
Uneasy, though she wasn't entirely certain why, Bronte divided a conciliating smile between them. “She is right, and I thank you for the very kind sentiments, Lord Fairfax."
"I'm am always all that is kind,” Lord Fairfax said dryly.
Bronte wasn't at all certain that was true, but he was witty, he was handsome and he excited her almost as much as he unnerved her. She was fairly certain that he was not courting her with a view to offering an honorable proposal, but that hardly mattered when she was not seeking one, nor had any intention of accepting even if a proposal was forthcoming. She wasn't altogether certain that he was a ‘safe’ man to consider as a lover, however. In fact, she was fairly certain that he wasn't.
If either Darcy or Nick challenged him, he would not back down.
Reluctantly, she decided that as intriguing as he was, she could not pursue the matter. She would have to take care to avoid him in the future.
By the time the second intermission was called, Bronte had a headache in truth, primarily, she was certain, from nerves. She could not like the situation she found herself in. As attractive as Lord Fairfax was, she knew that it would only cause more problems if she yielded to the temptation to pursue the flirtation he'd begun, but she discovered fairly quickly that she was way out of her league.
He was older than any of the other swains who'd thrown lures in her direction, and far more experienced and sophisticated.
In short, she didn't know how to handle him. Mere courtesy required politeness and yet Lord Fairfax seemed oblivious to the coolly polite manner that Bronte had found generally held men at arm's length. More accurately, she supposed, he seemed to find it both intriguing and amusing.
Acutely conscious of the fact that Darcy and Nick were both present and either watching, or laying in wait for her, Bronte found her nerves winding tighter and tighter as the evening wore on and to make matters worse, she could think of nothing that wouldn't sound plainly rude to disentangle herself and her mother from Lord Fairfax and Mrs. Bolington.
Her mother had finally supplied the answer she was searching desperately for by observing, wonder of wonders, that Bronte appeared not quite herself. Bronte smiled at her wanly although she felt like leaping to her feet and kissing her mother. “I have a touch of headache."
Lady Millford looked vaguely disappointed, but she got to her feet readily enough. “We should go home then. I have something that will fix you right up."
Lord Fairfax stood, as well. “I would be delighted to escort the two of you home."
Bronte had already opened her mouth to object when her mother spoke. “That is most kind of you, Lord Fairfax! I always feel much better with an escort. The streets are so unsafe."
"We wouldn't want to impose,” Bronte said weakly.
He lifted her hand, brushing a kiss across her fingers. “I assure you, it would be my pleasure."
It was unfortunate that Mrs. Bolington chose that moment to open the door to the box, that Darcy and Nick happened to be standing just outside, apparently in the act of knocking—and equally unfortunate that Bronte could not forebear glancing at them guiltily. She wasn't at all c
ertain that any expression would have appeased them, but the appearance of having been caught at something she shouldn't was probably the worst possible scenario.
Darcy, reddened with anger. Nick paled, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
Lord Fairfax lifted his head and fixed them both with a look of amused satisfaction.
Lady Millford chose that moment to swoon, bless her. It had the effect of averting disaster by creating chaos. Nick instinctively surged forward to catch her. Darcy, slightly behind Nick, also stepped forward, but collided Mrs. Bolington, who would have fallen if he hadn't reached out to steady her. All attention thus diverted to Elizabeth Millford, who preferred it that way and considered it the only truly acceptable situation, neither Nick nor Darcy managed to provoke a fight with Lord Fairfax.
By the time Lady Millford decided she had recovered sufficiently to make her way to the carriage, so long as someone would lend her support, some of the tension between the three men had eased. Since she looked pointedly at both Darcy and Nick when she said it, they both politely offered to do so and she was escorted from the theater with one on either arm. Bronte, bringing up the rear with Lord Fairfax and Mrs. Bolington, wasn't certain whether to be more amused or more horrified by her mother's manipulation. It was fairly apparent that the entire episode had been manufactured although everyone was far too polite to treat it as the fabrication it so obviously was.
Neither she nor her mother were terribly amused, however, when Darcy and Nick insisted upon escorting her all the way home, particularly since that required that the six of them wedge themselves into a carriage that would've seated four a good deal more comfortably. Once there, she politely but firmly bid Mrs. Bolington and Lord Fairfax a good evening. She would have preferred to have bid Darcy and Nick goodbye, as well, but feared that they might use the opportunity to resume hostilities with Lord Fairfax if she insisted upon sending them away.
Lady Millford made a bid toward miraculous recovery once the four of them were inside, but Darcy insisted upon lending his support all the way upstairs and handing her over to her maid's tender care.
