His Wicked Ways

by Jaide Fox

  Unable to meet his gaze, Bronte looked away. With unimaginable relief, she saw that the carriage had turned at last upon her street. “I won't,” she managed to say after a moment. “For Isaac never entered my mind, but I have tasted passion and it has been a very long time for me. You will have to agree, at least, that passion has no conscience and one's needs can often override ... other considerations."

  "In other words, all cats are gray in the dark?” he said tightly as the carriage came to a stop at last.

  It took an effort, but Bronte managed the lie with a semblance of truthfulness. “Yes."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The entire episode threw Bronte into such turmoil that she decided to withdraw from company until she could find some semblance of rational thought processes. Lady Millford was rarely at home to guests at any time since she enjoyed the poorest of health, particularly at any time that anything might be required of her, and so she was unaware that the servants had been ordered to turn away any and all visitors. If she had been aware of it, her curiosity about the reason behind it might have stirred her sufficiently to draw her downstairs to question Bronte, but since she remained ignorant of the situation, Bronte was allowed to mentally thrash herself in peace.

  To Bronte's mind, there did not seem to be a satisfactory solution. She was tempted to urge her mother to return to the dower house in the country, but she was not entirely certain even she could pry her mother from the room she'd ensconced herself in. Her mother had sworn all the way to London that she felt herself slipping into a decline due to the rigors of winter travel on England's roads. It seemed doubtful that anything short of manhandling her mother into the carriage and whisking her away despite her protests would succeed.

  In any case, Bronte wasn't at all convinced that Darcy and Nick would not follow her. In London, she had least had some buffer between herself and them. The opinion of society did not seem to hold a great deal of sway over them, but it had, thus far, seemed to rein in some of their wilder impulses. They had both gone far beyond acceptable behavior, taken liberties they should not have, but they had been careful to practice a modicum of discretion.

  Finally, she decided she could not simply hide herself away. Somehow, she would have to find the resolve and the wit to handle Darcy and Nick until the time came when she could return home.

  That fact was borne up four days after Mrs. Bolington's party. Roused from sleep by a clattering outside that seemed out of keeping with the typical city noises, Bronte was just beginning to drift to sleep once more when she heard the scrape of a shoe on the floor, the creak of a board, and then heavy breathing very close by. Opening her eyes, she discovered a man rounding the foot of her bed and moving quickly toward her. Instantly wide awake, she bolted upright, gasping in a sharp intake of breath to scream. The man promptly clamped a hand over her mouth that covered most of her face.

  "Now is that any way to greet me when I've gone to all the trouble to climb that twice damned trellis just to talk to you?"

  Bronte's terror instantly vanished. “Darcy?” she mumbled against his palm.

  He released her. “You have other men climbing in your bedroom window at night?” he growled angrily.

  "I haven't had any men climbing into my window!” Bronte snapped tartly. “I recognized your voice ... and that ham sized hand of yours. What in the world are you doing here?"

  Grinning as if she'd uttered an invitation, he settled one hip on the edge of her bed, bounced experimentally a couple of times, as if testing the sturdiness of it, and then lay back, dragging in a deep, relaxing breath. “It's a good deal harder to climb up than down,” he muttered. “Particularly on something that shaky. What in the hell is the point of putting something like that on a house when it won't even hold one's weight?"

  He'd come to lecture her about the party, Bronte suspected, but had apparently been diverted from his original intention by the difficulties he'd encountered in actually executing his plan. After peering at him suspiciously for several moments, Bronte leaned close to him to sniff his breath. As she'd suspected, he reeked of whiskey. Before she could sit back, he wrapped both arms around her. The weight of those massive arms alone was enough to bring her crashing down on his chest.

  "I knew you had missed me,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear and sending a rash of goose flesh scurrying across her flesh.

  Bronte struggled for a few moments and finally managed to push herself away from him far enough to look down at him. “You are foxed!” she said with a mixture of amusement and accusation.

  "Almost,” he responded agreeably and completely inaccurately.

  "There is no ‘almost’ to it. I don't know how you managed to climb that trellis in your condition, but you're going to have to climb down again. You can't be found in my bedroom."

  He lifted his head and looked around the darkened room almost with a look of surprise. “Damned if it ain't."

  Bronte chuckled. “Darcy!"

  "Shhh! You want to wake everyone?"

  "You have to go!” she said in a fierce whisper. “You will wake everyone and then all the servants will be talking."

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the damned trellis is lying in the yard. Besides, I already told you. I came to talk."

  Since he'd removed one arm from around her shoulders and was busily examining the nightgown she was wearing with curious fingers, Bronte had the impression that talking wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

  "We need light,” he muttered finally. “It's too dark in here."

  "We don't need light."

  "Yes, we do. Can't figure out how to get this off of you."

  "I've no intention of taking it off, so it doesn't matter."

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Grasping the neck of her gown, he gave it a tug that separated the fabric almost to her waist. Her breasts, suddenly freed, bounced before his face, swaying. Bronte gasped in shocked surprise and dawning outrage. Before she could do more than suck in a sharp intake of breath, however, Darcy caught the tip of one of her breasts between his teeth, biting down just hard enough it sent a keen shaft of sensation straight through her breasts and into her belly, making it clench almost painfully.

  She gasped again, this time at the intensity of heated desire that rushed through her. “Darcy,” she said despairingly.

  Ignoring her weak protest, he settled his mouth more firmly over the nipple he'd captured and dragged her across him, slipping one hand down her back to her buttocks and pressing her mound tightly against his hard erection as he arched upward, sending another rush of desire through Bronte that was so powerful she felt lightheaded. Groaning, as if in pain, he released her nipple, clutching her tightly to him and rolling over so that he was sprawled on top of her, his hips wedged firmly between her thighs. Bending his head, he nuzzled his face between her breasts. “You smell so good, Bronte,” he murmured against her skin. “You taste even better,” he added, raking his tongue over first one distended nipple and then the other before he closed his mouth over one trembling peak and sucked it.

  Bronte gasped at the dizzying wave of heat and stimulating abrasion of his tongue. His suckling mouth as it closed over the engorged tip dragged one involuntary, uncontrollable groan after another from her as jagged bolts of pleasure forked through her like lightning. It seemed that every nerve ending in her body jumped and danced with the sizzling heat radiating from that point of exquisite sensation, making every muscle in her body tense, but focusing more intensely on her breasts and the moist channel of her sex that began to quake and weep for his possession.

  She was so dizzy and weak with desire by the time he ceased to tease first one breast and then the other that no thought of protest entered her mind as he hitched himself upward and ground his engorged cock against her mound. Instinctively, she arched her hips to meet his thrust, gasping as the pressure teased at her clit beneath her night clothes, spreading her thighs wider and tipping her hips to allow him better access
, groaning in frustration when the fabric prevented the contact she needed.

  He bent his head and covered her mouth, kissing her greedily, his tongue dueling with hers as he rocked against her in a way that sent her spiraling upward toward release until she was moaning into his mouth almost incessantly, clutching at him frantically. His hands moved over her restlessly, tangling in the folds of her voluminous night gown as he sought bare skin with a touch of desperation, searching in vain for the hem of her nightgown to thrust it out of the way.

  A sharp rap on the door to Bronte's room jolted them both instantly from their mindless search for gratification. “Bronte?"

  "Hell!” Darcy muttered harshly at the sound of Lady Millford's quavering voice, rolling off of Bronte abruptly. Unfortunately, they were closer to the side of the bed than either of them realized. As Darcy, thoroughly entangled in Bronte's nightgown by now, rolled off the bed, he dragged Bronte with him. Bronte uttered a squeak of surprise as she went over the edge, grunting as the air left her lungs when she landed on top of Darcy, who'd struck the floor only seconds before so hard it rattled every piece of glass in the room.

  The door flew open.

  Grunting, Bronte scrambled to her feet.

  "What happened?” Lady Millford gasped, clutching her heart and slumping back against the door as she spied Bronte's disheveled form emerging from the shadows on the opposite side of the bed.

  "I fell out of bed,” Bronte gasped promptly.

  "But ... but I heard you moaning. I thought you were ill. What happened to your night gown?"

  It was fortunate the light from the hallway was not sufficient to illuminate the room enough Lady Millford could see the guilty, heated blush that rose in Bronte's cheeks. Belatedly, she remembered Darcy had ripped the gown in his enthusiasm. She grasped the ragged edges, pulling the gown together and clutching it in one fist. “I ... uh ... I was having a bad dream. I must have caught my nightgown on something when I fell out of bed."

  "Why are you breathing so strangely? Do you feel unwell?"

  She was gasping, but Darcy was panting far louder. Bronte kicked him warningly, realizing it was his ragged breaths her mother could hear. “I'm fine. Really. I'm sorry I startled you. Go back to bed mother."

  "I'm not feeling at all well myself. I think I may have had one of my spells. I had decided to go downstairs to get a glass of warm milk when I heard such moaning and groaning from your room it near frightened the life out of me. I thought sure you were ill. You're certain you're all right?"

  "I'm fine, Mother. It was just a very bad dream."

  "Perhaps you could help me to my room and bring me a glass of milk?"

  "Uh ... certainly. Can you wait until I've found a robe?"

  "Of course, dear. I'll just rest here on the edge of the bed...."

  Bronte's eyes widened. “No!” she yelped, holding out her hand as if she could stop her mother from approaching the bed by sheer force of will. “Stay where you are. You look so pale,” she added after a moment when she saw from her mother's expression that she was beginning to have some doubt about the story Bronte had fabricated. “You might faint and hurt yourself."

  Deciding that removing her mother from her room was far more important than what was left of her modesty, Bronte stepped over Darcy and hurried around the bed to her mother.

  "Why didn't you summon one of the maids to get you a glass of milk?” Bronte fussed as she helped her mother down the hallway to her room.

  "Pooh! They are always so slow. I thought I might as well get it myself."

  "It's the middle of the night, Mother. You can't expect them to respond quickly when you wake them."

  "I don't know why not,” Lady Millford complained. “They need only toss a robe on to see to my needs. It isn't as if I expect them to arrive perfectly groomed in the middle of the night."

  "But ... never mind,” Bronte said, deciding as she helped her mother into her bed and tucked the covers around her, that it was useless to remind her mother that some people functioned very poorly when woken from a sound sleep. “I'll be back momentarily with a glass of milk."

  "And perhaps a sliver of the cake cook baked earlier,” Lady Millford added as Bronte reached the door again.

  Bronte hesitated, turning to look back at her mother. “Should you—? Never mind. Anything else?"

  "Well, perhaps a bit more than a sliver, but just a small piece, mind you."

  Darcy grabbed Bronte the moment she entered her room, shoving her back against the wall and kissing her as avidly as if they had not been thoroughly interrupted.

  As tempted as she was to allow herself to be dragged once more under his spell, Bronte had had time for more cool headed thinking. After a moment, she pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Darcy, you have to go."

  He dragged in a shuddering breath, fighting for control with an obvious effort. “I had a very bad feeling you were going to say that."

  Bronte couldn't help but chuckle at his expression. “I have to fetch Mother something from the kitchen. If you'll be really quiet I'll let you out the back so you won't have to go out the way you came in."

  He nodded. “I'd as soon not try the window again. It wasn't easy coming up with the trellis."

  Bronte shook her head at him, feeling a surge of both affection and amusement. “You are the most incorrigible rogue. How am I to explain the broken trellis?"

  He grinned at her unrepentantly. “Pretend ignorance, darlin'. That's usually the best bet. Trying to come up with a story only creates more problems because then you have to remember what lies you told."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "You and I have unfinished business,” Darcy murmured close to her ear as he twirled Bronte about the dance floor in a waltz, bringing a flood of color into her cheeks. She sent him a startled glance, for up until that moment, he'd behaved as if the incident of two nights ago had never occurred.

  He grinned at her expression, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. “That. Too. I don't mind telling you I'm sorely in need and I can offer you no guarantees—if you continue to tease me so unmercifully and then withhold your favors—that I will remember next time that I'm supposed to be a gentleman."

  Bronte felt her heart flutter at the promise/threat, felt her breath catch in her chest. “You are more rogue than gentleman, and always were, Darcy St. James! And what's more, I could as easily lay that accusation at your door as the other way around, for you know very well I did not initiate anything."

  Amusement gleamed in his eyes as he gazed down at her. His arched one brow. “No? It seemed so to me."

  His teasing drew a smile, despite her best efforts to contain it. “You were foxed. Mother gave me a most suspicious look when she learned of the trellis."

  "I will use the door next time."

  "You will not!” Bronte gasped, uncertain of whether he was serious or not.

  He shrugged. “I'd hoped to avoid the rose canes."

  "There are no rose canes!” Bronte responded tartly. “You stomped the rose bush down."

  "I have far more reason to be outdone about that than you. It is I who spent a good deal of the night picking thorns from my arse."

  That comment provoked a chuckle. “Behave yourself or I will regret that I did not eschew your company altogether after your trespass."

  His expression became serious. “Speaking of which ... why came you to be at that disreputable gathering when I had warned you away?"

  Bronte sighed. “Nick lectured me all the way home. Is that not sufficient? Must you lecture me, as well?"

  A troubled look came into Darcy's eyes. “It might have turned out far worse than it did, Bronte."

  "I know. I was fearful that you or Nick, or both, would end up on the dueling field. I wish the two of you would stop trying to protect me. I am not a child anymore."

  He shook his head disbelievingly. “You don't truly believe it's no more than that, Bronte."

  Bronte found she couldn't maintain her gaze. She l
ooked away. “You're saying that is not a part of it?"

  She could've bitten her tongue the moment the words were out for even to her own ears it sounded as if she was fishing for some sort of declaration when she most definitely was not. A declaration of any kind was something she most desperately wanted to avoid, for then she would be put in the miserably uncomfortable position of having to decline. Nick had not bought the ‘you're too much like an older brother’ excuse, and she doubted very much that Darcy would, especially after the way she'd behaved the other night.

  Darcy frowned. “I suppose it was, in the beginning, at least. And it's for damned sure you've little more notion of how to look out for yourself now than you did when you were no more than knee high and about as big around as a green twig.

  "I wouldn't have considered it of any consequence if I had ended up in a duel, and can say with certainty that Nick wouldn't have either. I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about what might have happened to you."

  Bronte's jaw set. “It could not have been as bad as all that. I'm not a green girl, Darcy. I was married, remember?"

  "I ain't likely to forget,” Darcy said grimly. “Especially when you are so determined to throw it at me every time I open my mouth, but Isaac was damned near as green as you were when you wed, and being with your husband isn't the same thing at all."

  "How would you know? You've never married,” Bronte pointed out tartly.

  "I've been with plenty of women that were,” Darcy shot back at her. “And don't give me that look, Bronte. You know damned well I'm no saint and never claimed to be."

  "But I'm supposed to be?” Bronte demanded indignantly. “Perhaps I went because I was looking for a lover,” she added. “Did that not occur to you?"

  "No, it didn't, because I know better. Is that what you told Nick that's got him tied in knots and out looking for somebody to kill?"

  Bronte sent him a startled look, but there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he was being other than completely serious.