by Jaide Fox
His face hardened. “Fairfax didn't call Nick out. Nick called Fairfax out. The only reason neither one of them are dead now is because Fairfax refused to meet him on the field. They went a few rounds at the boxing salon instead."
Fear clutched at Bronte's insides. “Darcy, this must stop."
"It must,” he said grimly. “You'll have to choose between us, Bronte. If it's Nick, I'll learn to live with it, but I'll tell you plain out, unless you tell me right now that you care nothing for me at all, I won't step aside for anyone else."
Dismay filled her. It was all very well to say he would learn to live with it, but what about her? Could she live with it? She swallowed with an effort, wishing she had thought of an excuse not to dance with him for she didn't at all care for the direction the conversation seemed to be taking and she couldn't for the life of her think of anything to say to turn it. “You would know that I was lying if I told you I did not care for you."
He seemed to relax fractionally, though she had been so unnerved herself she didn't realize until that moment that he had tensed as if expecting a blow. “Then marry me."
It was just as well that the dance ended at that moment for Bronte was so stunned she froze in shock, gaping up at him stupidly.
He reddened slightly. “For God's sake, Bronte, don't look at me like that. Everyone will begin to think I offered you an insult."
Bronte closed her mouth, but when she looked around, her head swum dizzily. The fear seized her that she was going to disgrace herself by fainting dead away in the middle of the dance floor, and perhaps even worse, that she would distress Darcy by doing so. Try though she might to fight it off, however, the darkness seemed to close in more firmly upon her. “I think I may have gotten a little overheated,” she said through strangely numb lips.
Nearly as white faced as Bronte was by that time, Darcy glanced around a little desperately and finally spied her mother seated near the refreshment table. “Can you make it to the chair just there?"
Bronte couldn't see the chair, but she nodded hopefully. “I think so."
He tucked her firmly against his side. “I suppose I should take this as a definite no,” he said hesitantly, drawing a quick look from her.
"Please don't think like that, Darcy! I'm just feeling a little dizzy."
She began to feel a little better when he'd helped her into the chair, but only in the sense that she was no longer in plain view of everyone if she should keel over in a dead faint. Her mother took one look at her and immediately began to fuss about the heat of the overcrowded room. She drew far more attention than Bronte cared for, but it was a relief that everyone seemed to accept that it was no more than an understandable episode brought on by tight stays and too much exertion in a heated room. Darcy brought her a glass of punch and when she'd drunk it she began to feel better in truth, but she did not argue when her mother insisted that they go home.
They had no more than settled in the carriage than her mother dropped all pretense of believing Bronte had become ill from the heat.
"What in the world happened?” she demanded.
Bronte slumped into one corner, closing her eyes, for she still felt more than a little ill. “Darcy proposed."
"Darcy St. James?” Lady Millford exclaimed.
Bronte winced, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. “What other Darcy would I be talking about?” she asked testily.
"I can't say that I care for your tone."
"Please excuse me, Mother. It's just that I'm not feeling at all the thing."
Lady Millford sniffed. “Well, I must say I am not surprised you nearly fainted dead away. If you had told me before, I am sure I would have. Darcy St. James! You are certain you heard him correctly?"
Bronte burst into tearful wails. “I can only imagine what he must have thought when I nearly passed out on the dance floor! I have behaved so dreadfully, but I could not help it, Mother. Truly, I couldn't. I was just so surprised."
"There, there, dear. You mustn't cry about it. I'm sure you have not wounded him too deeply. He is a disreputable rake, my dear ... worse, if you can believe it, than Nick Cain ... and both of them confirmed bachelors, though there have been many a female who has tried to entice them down the aisle from what I hear. Most likely you misunderstood something that he said to you."
Instead of comforting her, the suggestion that she had wounded Darcy made Bronte cry harder, for she couldn't help but remember the expression of dismay on his face, or his comment about taking her faint as a refusal of his proposal.
"You are not seriously considering a proposal from him, are you? Assuming, of course, that you did hear him correctly and it was not some silly bet or something of that nature."
Bronte sniffed her tears back, searching for her handkerchief. Far from being insulted at her mother's suggestion, she felt a ray of hope that, perhaps, she had not wounded Darcy after all, and that she needn't torment herself with trying to think of some way she might decline without hurting or angering him.
"You think it might have been something like that?"
Lady Millford rolled her eyes. “Men! They will wager on anything, up to and including which male fly will mount the female first, though I am not at all sure how it is that they can tell which are male and which female."
"Mother!” Bronte gasped in shock, torn between amusement and horror.
Her mother gave her a complacent smile. “I did not find you in a garden patch, my dear. I do know a little something."
Lady Millford did not cease to marvel over the fact that Darcy had proposed, and Bronte began to think that perhaps she had heard him incorrectly. He came to visit the following day to see how she was, but he said nothing, nor did he behave as if anything at all had happened.
On the other hand he had been much the same about the night he had climbed into her window and she'd become convinced then that he had been so foxed he either didn't remember it at all, or he wasn't certain what woman's bed he had climbed into. Since he'd proved her wrong that time, she couldn't decide whether he was merely allowing her time to come to terms with the idea and decide upon an answer, or if her mother was right after all.
What, she wondered, might he have said that she could have misunderstood though?
Try though she might, she couldn't remember the precise words that he'd used. It had not been the least like a formal declaration, but then she would not have expected Darcy to be at all formal. Still ... on the dance floor? Almost as if it were one of his peculiar impulses? Was that it?
He was impulsive. Perhaps something had prompted him to ask, and he'd immediately regretted it, and he was hoping she wouldn't bring it up again?
Nick called upon her later that same day and asked to speak with her alone in the parlor. Bronte had no idea why it popped into her mind that Darcy had asked him to come and explain that he hadn't really meant it, but that was the trend of her mind when her mother left them alone.
When he knelt and took her hand, Bronte merely stared at him blankly, wondering what in the world he was doing on the floor. He seemed to be having difficulty saying anything at all, however, and he looked so pale that she began to wonder after a few moments if he was quite all right.
His poor face was battered still, and she wondered what Lord Fairfax must look like. She couldn't imagine how such a handsome man could be so careless of his looks as to allow other men to punch it with such regularity, although, to do him justice, except for when he fought with Darcy, he generally managed to avoid flying fists.
"Are you feeling all right?” she asked finally. “You're not unwell?"
He flushed. “You are not making this easy, Bronte."
Bronte stared at him, feeling the blood leave her face. “This isn't bad news, is it, Nick?” she asked breathlessly, her mind instantly supplying her with a half a dozen horrible possibilities.
"I should bloody well hope not,” he said irritably.
The response jolted Bronte from her tormented thoughts but did nothing t
o calm her racing heart.
"I wanted to ask if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife."
Bronte merely stared at him for a couple of moments and then burst into tears.
Nick stared at her in dismay, turning whiter if possible. “I take it those are not tears of joy,” he finally managed to say.
Bronte searched frantically for her handkerchief, wailing louder. After a moment, Nick pulled his from his pocket and handed it to her.
Lady Millford burst into the room, stared at the tableaux before her in horror for a couple of seconds, then fell back against the door, holding her heart. “Who? Who? Has someone died?"
Reddening, Nick got to his feet. “Perhaps I should go."
"No!” Bronte cried, grasping his hand. “Please don't. I'm so sorry. Mother, please! Everything is fine ... really."
"No one died?” Lady Millford asked, obviously confused.
Nick sent her a chagrinned look.
Lady Millford glanced from Nick to Bronte and finally shook her head and departed without another word, closing the door once more. When she had gone, Nick settled beside Bronte, studied her for several moments and finally grasped her hand. “It's all right, sweetheart. Don't cry."
Bronte felt her chin wobble and tried to fight off a fresh onslaught of tears. Finally, she flung herself upon Nick's chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and burrowing her face against his neck cloth. “It isn't all right. I'm so sorry to behave so badly. It's just ... I had this terrible feeling that something very bad had happened."
"I didn't mean to scare you,” Nick murmured wryly. “Darcy is fine."
Bronte stiffened. She should have known that Nick would know instantly that it was fear for Darcy that had upset her so. She lifted her head, placing her palm on his cheek and urging him to look at her.
"Do you love him?"
Tears filled her eyes again and ran down her cheeks. “No more than I love you."
He swallowed with an effort. “You meant it then, the other night when you said that you could only think of me and Darcy as brothers."
He was offering her a way out of the mess she'd become embroiled in and she wanted to take it, but either way, if they cared for her, they would be hurt. At the very least, she wanted to tell him the truth. “I don't honestly think that I ever thought of either of you as my brothers. I absolutely adore both of you with all my heart. I always have. I suppose I always will, though I'd hoped when I came here that I would find that I was wrong. I wish that I had not been. I wanted to find that it had been nothing more than a girlish infatuation that I had outgrown. Please, try not to hate me. I can't help it. I couldn't accept you, not because I don't love you, but because I couldn't bear to hurt Darcy ... any more than I can accept him."
"He asked you to marry him?"
Bronte sighed, laying her head on his shoulder once more. “Tell me how I can undo the harm I've done. I never meant to come between the two of you. I can't bear to think I've destroyed the bond between you and Darcy."
His arms tightened around her. “Shhh. Don't worry about that."
"I wish it was that easy."
Nick sighed wearily. “You're right. This is a hell of a mess."
Bronte sniffed, dabbing at her eyes and nose with his handkerchief. “It is ... and it's all my fault. I should not have come."
"Don't say that. Don't even think it. I'll think of something."
Bronte sat up, feeling a touch of hopefulness. “You will?"
He smiled a little crookedly. “I'll have to, won't I?"
Chapter Seventeen
The sense of hopefulness that Bronte had felt when Nick had told her that he would think of some way to solve the dilemma didn't last. She had spent much of her time since she'd been in London trying to think of something she could live with and the only thing that had come to mind was to simply refuse to choose either of them and return home. It was just about as miserable a solution as choosing one of them, but the only thing that had come to mind that had seemed acceptable.
It was almost a relief when Darcy did not call again and press his suit. It had been difficult enough to tell Nick. She had dreaded having to go through it with Darcy as well, and decided that, perhaps, Nick had told him that she had refused them both.
It was a cowardly way to get around a difficult situation and she knew it. She owed it to Darcy to speak to him herself, not through Nick, but she could not but be glad that they had spared her that much.
Her mother had demanded to know what had transpired the moment Nick departed, naturally enough, even that she'd suspected what had transpired. She had studied Bronte with an expression almost of fascination. Bronte could see that she was torn between curiosity to know what Bronte might have done that had prompted proposals from two of England's most confirmed bachelors and an equal desire not to know if it was what she suspected.
Bronte didn't know whether to be amused or insulted that her mother was so stunned about the proposals.
She was very supportive of Bronte's decision not to accept either, however, mostly because she was certain that if Bronte could wring proposals out of Nick and Darcy, she could certainly do even better. They were wealthy, of course, but not titled.
Bronte didn't even try to explain her position. She simply reminded her mother, again, that she could not accept a proposal from a titled gentleman, even if one was forthcoming. She might not be barren, but the chances were very good that she was and it would be completely unethical to accept a proposal from anyone knowing that.
A few days after Nick's proposal, Lord Sheffield called to invite her to go to the theater with him. He was sweet, young, eager to please, and the only one of her admirers who hadn't vanished after Nick and Darcy had set out to clear the field. Bronte was actually more than a little surprised to discover that they hadn't managed to frighten him off, and she wasn't at all certain, under the circumstances, that they might not take a good deal of exception to her going off with Lord Sheffield. She rather thought that a night out with someone less unnerving might improve her spirits, however, and decided to accept.
Lady Millford begged off at the last minute. Bronte felt like strangling her for such an obvious attempt at matchmaking, but since Lord Sheffield didn't seem the least suspicious and she didn't want to relieve him of his illusions, she merely begged off herself, saying she could not feel right about leaving her poor, dear, sick mother at home alone.
Lady Millford was having none of that, however. She kept insisting that Bronte go on without her until it was becoming increasingly evident, even to Lord Sheffield, that something was going on.
Bronte went, but much of her enthusiasm had waned.
It got far worse. Halfway through the play, she looked down into the pit and discovered that Nick and Darcy had arrived. She spotted them at almost the same moment they spied her.
Their expressions were so nearly identical in anger and purposefulness that it might have been amusing if it had been directed at anyone else. Bronte couldn't like the look at all and had to fight the desire to flee before they had the chance to catch up to her.
Poor Lord Sheffield was completely unaware of his imminent danger. When the brisk knock that Bronte had been more than half expecting came at the door to his box, he merely turned to her in surprise. “Who do you suppose that is?"
Bronte sent him a helpless smile.
When it came again, more forcefully, he rose and opened the door, whereupon Darcy seized him by the lapels of his jacket, lifted him off his feet, and tossed him out the door. He was on the point of leaping to his feet when he looked up and saw Nick standing over him. One look at Nick's face was sufficient. He subsided.
Bronte, who'd leapt to her feet, watched the exchange in stunned disbelief. “Darcy! You can't...."
"Of course I can. I just did."
"But ... Darcy! It's his box!"
Darcy studied her a moment and finally went to the door and snatched it open. “We have a few things of a private nature to
discuss. You don't mind if we borrow your box for a bit, do you?"
Lord Sheffield gave him a resentful glare. “Not at all,” he responded tightly.
"Thank you. Now take yourself off."
When he closed the door once more, Nick leaned against it, folding his arms over his chest.
"Nick?” Bronte said nervously.
He lifted his draw brows questioningly.
Before Bronte could think of anything to say, someone tried the door knob then rapped smartly at the panel of the door. Nick stepped away from the door and pulled it open. Lord Sheffield stood in the opening. “Now see here...."
He got no further. Nick's fist caught him in a neat upper cut that snapped his head back on his shoulders. His eyes rolled back and he went down like a felled tree.
Nick and Darcy stared down at Lord Sheffield assessingly. “You can't leave him there,” Darcy pointed out. “Somebody will trip over him."
Nick uttered an irritated sigh. “Good point. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"
"Certainly."
"Don't start without me."
"Start what?” Bronte asked uneasily, watching as Nick knelt at the young man's head, grasped him beneath his arms and stood once more, dragging him down the hallway.
Darcy closed the door and leaned against the wall. “We'll talk when Nick gets back."
Bronte gave him a look and finally returned to her seat, flopping down in the chair and folding her arms angrily. Minutes passed. Bronte was just beginning to get uneasy about the length of time Nick had been gone when he tapped at the door and entered. “Sorry. I had to find a cabby willing to take him home."
Bronte got up from her chair and moved to the back of the box. “What in the world are you two doing? Half the people in the theater are staring at this box instead of the stage!"
Nick frowned and moved to the front, glancing around the theater. After a moment, Darcy joined him. “What do you think?"
"She's right. They seem a bit more interested than I like."
Grinning, Darcy waved at several of the older ladies that were giving him disapproving glares. Lifting their noses, they turned away pointedly.
