His Wicked Ways

by Jaide Fox

  "That's the ticket,” Darcy said with satisfaction, winking at the elderly lady in the box directly across from them.

  Embarrassed and irritated, Bronte moved to the rear of the theater box, glaring at their backs as they stared down the curious patrons of the theater. After a few minutes, Nick and Darcy turned to look at her and then moved toward her purposefully.

  Bronte eyed them uneasily as they approached and stood towering over her. “What are you doing here?"

  Darcy glanced at Nick and shrugged. “Your mother is too light a sleeper and, anyway, Nick wasn't keen on the idea of carrying a ladder to your window. I checked. They haven't fixed the trellis yet."

  Bronte blinked at him, then turned to look at Nick.

  "But ... why would you want to climb into my window at all?"

  Nick studied her pensively. “Because, my darling Bronte, you have developed a very bad habit of either barring the door to us when you are distressed, or taking flight."

  Bronte flushed. “But I didn't ... this time."

  He shrugged. “There was still the little impediment of your mother and far too many servants."

  Bronte frowned. “Why would they be an impediment? To what?"

  Nick and Darcy exchanged a glance. “To helping you make up your mind,” Nick responded coolly.

  "About what?” Bronte asked uneasily.

  "Which of us you want, darlin',” Darcy said, a slow grin curling his lips.

  "Oh ... Oh no. You don't think ... you don't mean. What do you mean?” Bronte asked nervously.

  "You're confused,” Darcy told her, not without a good deal of sympathy.

  "I am?” She frowned, thinking it over. “I am, completely. I don't understand this at all. How is this supposed to help me make up my mind?"

  Nick and Darcy exchanged another look and Nick moved to the door, placing his shoulders firmly against it and folding his arms over his chest.

  Bronte stared at him in dismay. “What are you doing?"

  "Guarding the door."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged, sending a narrow eyed glare in Darcy's direction. “He won the toss."

  "What toss?” Bronte asked, looking up at Darcy as he pulled her into his arms.

  Threading his fingers through her hair, he curled his hand around the back of her head and leaned down to brush his lips lightly across hers. Bronte stiffened, placing her palms on his shoulders and pulling away to look at him.

  "Pretend he isn't there,” Darcy murmured, lowering his head and capturing her lips beneath his.

  Resistance was futile, for he held her far too tightly to escape, and in any case, the moment his lips covered hers, the moment he plunged his tongue between her lips and possessed her mouth with his heat and taste, caressing her tongue with his own, Bronte's entire being focused upon him, her body surrendering without a whimper of protest to the drugging euphoria of his touch. Desire blossomed, pumping through her blood stream like molten fire and bringing every point where their bodies brushed to pulsing, aching life until she was disoriented from the barrage of sensations pelting her beleaguered mind from every direction.

  Weak, dizzy with the flood of desire, she curled her fingers into his jacket, pressing more tightly against him.

  The dull scrape of a chair along the floor intruded. Reluctantly, Darcy withdrew his mouth from hers, lifting his head, gasping hoarsely. Weakly, Bronte leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Darcy's arms loosened around her. Gently, he disentangled her fingers from his jacket and set her away from him. She swayed, looking around in confusion as he moved away.

  Nick caught her against him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as he tipped her head back against the crook of his arm to study her face. “I knew I was going to hate being second,” he muttered, caressing her cheek with one long finger.

  "I don't know why you're complaining when I warmed her up for you,” Darcy muttered.

  Nick sent him a narrow eyed glare. “Precisely because of that. How am I to tell how much is for me?"

  The comment roused Bronte from her stupor sufficiently that she frowned, trying to decide what they were arguing about.

  Nick smiled at her faintly. “Do I have your attention now?"

  "Yes."

  "Good girl,” he murmured, lowering his head to brush his lips lightly across hers.

  Bronte sucked in a gasping breath, pulling his heated breath, his taste, his scent inside of her where it curled around her vitals, making her heart hammer erratically and forcing her lungs to labor with the effort to drag in enough air. Heat suffused her in a heady, fiery rush. “Nick,” she murmured.

  He covered her mouth with his then, thrusting his tongue past her parted lips and exploring the sensitive inner surfaces of her mouth before he stroked his tongue along hers in a possessive caress. A shock wave of fire hit her, melting the strength from bone and tissue until she felt as limp as a rag doll. She lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck to hold herself upright, pressing her achingly sensitive breasts tightly against his hard chest. His arms tightened. His kiss became more demanding, devastating her senses.

  When he broke the kiss at last, she leaned weakly against him, struggling to lock her knees to hold herself upright. He steadied her and finally released her, stepping back.

  Bronte swayed, looked around vaguely and finally leaned back against the back wall of the box, fanning herself. “I feel a little warm. Is it warm in here?” she asked vaguely of no one in particular.

  After a few moments, she noticed that Darcy and Nick were studying her frowningly.

  "What?"

  They exchanged a look.

  "Hard to tell,” Darcy muttered, shaking his head. “Let me try again."

  Nick sent him a cool look. “Second round, I'm first."

  Bronte glanced from one man to the other but before she'd entirely digested the gist of their conversation, Nick caught her shoulders, pinning her body between the wall and his own as he lowered his mouth to capture hers once more. She uttered a sound that was half protest, half pure delight as his essence consumed her senses in fiery delight once more. She slipped her arms around his waist, stroking his back.

  He arched his hips against hers, digging his erection into her soft belly. Bronte moaned with equal parts pleasure and frustration as the pressure teased but missed the one point that needed it most, feeling heated desire flood her woman's passage with the dampness of need.

  When he drew away from her at last, they were both gasping hoarsely. Bronte opened her eyes with a strenuous effort and looked up at him reproachfully. For a moment, she thought that he would take her into his arms once more. He stiffened, but even as he reached for her Darcy grasped her around the waist, dragging her toward him and crushing her against his length.

  Her entire body seemed to clench as she felt his hard body press tightly against her, felt the heated length of his desire digging into her mound. She shifted restlessly, trying to assuage the ache by rocking her hips against his. Groaning, he slipped a hand down to her buttocks, lifting her against him.

  Just as she felt her body beginning to struggle toward her peak, he withdrew abruptly. Bronte staggered back a step when he let go of her, bumped against the wall. Her knees wobbled, gave out and she slid ungracefully to the floor in a heap.

  Nick and Darcy knelt in front of her, studying her face as she looked up at them in utter confusion.

  Nick shook his head. “I still can't tell,” he said hoarsely.

  "Can't tell what?” Bronte gasped weakly.

  Darcy dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. “Me either,” Darcy managed to gasp out finally. “Here, darlin'. Let me help you up."

  Grasping her beneath her arms, Darcy hauled her to her feet once more. Bronte swayed against him dizzily as he slipped one arm around her. Slipping his other hand inside her bodice, he bent her back over the arm he was using to support her, popped one breast from the confines of the gown, and covered it with his mouth. The moment his mouth closed over h
er achingly sensitive nipple, a groan was torn from her.

  Nick caught her jaw. “They'll hear you, sweetheart,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his and catching her little whimpering cries as Darcy fondled her breast with his mouth and tongue unmercifully.

  Darkness began to swarm around the fringes of her consciousness. Bronte gripped ... someone's arm frantically as she felt her body soaring upward, felt the tension inside of her winding tighter and tighter until she began to think that she would faint, or die, if she didn't find surcease.

  Almost as if he'd read her mind, Darcy ceased to tease her. Cool air brushed her skin as he lifted his head, making her nipple pucker more tightly still, throbbing almost painfully. Nick broke the kiss, lifting his head to study her face, she knew. With an effort, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  "How do you feel?"

  Bronte blinked at him. “I ... uh ... a little faint, actually."

  Darcy frowned. “A little? Or a lot?"

  She felt as if her eye balls were rolling around in her head drunkenly. “Very,” she managed after a few moment's thought.

  "Close,” Darcy said with a touch of triumph.

  Nick gave him a look. “She didn't faint, though."

  "Am I supposed to faint?” Bronte asked, thoroughly confused. “Why am I supposed to faint?"

  Instead of replying, Nick scooped her other breast from the neck of her gown. Cupping the trembling globe in his hand, he bent his head and covered the tip with his mouth. Bronte gasped, feeling her head swim, moaning mindlessly at the pleasurable sensations until she remembered Nick had said she must be quiet. She was no longer entirely certain why she was supposed to be quiet, but she bit her lip, trying her best to contain the urge to cry out.

  She thought at first when she felt the wafting of cool air across her heated flesh that it was the flash of chill that presaged a full fledged faint, which was probably why the two palms that skated up her bare thighs and around her hips to cup her buttocks sent a jolt of surprise through her. She shuddered as she felt heated breath against her mound. When his tongue found the opening in her pantaloons and parted her cleft, teasing her clit, she could no longer contain herself. She felt like she was suffocating from a lack of air and began to pant a little desperately, trying to drag air into her laboring lungs.

  Having discovered bud nestled there, however, he caught it beneath his mouth, sucking it and dragging a ragged cry from her. Nick released her breast abruptly, lifting his head to assess the situation and Bronte opened her eyes, clutching at him as she felt her body beginning to quake with release.

  He dipped his head, covering her mouth with his and capturing her cries as her release swept over her with a force that completed her descent into oblivion.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bronte was not fully aware of her surroundings again until she felt herself being lowered to a firm surface. Blackness surrounded her when she opened her eyes, but after a few disoriented moments, she realized that the hood of her cloak was over her face. Lifting her hand with an effort, she pushed it back as she felt the seat beneath her dip.

  Darcy settled in the seat across from her. After a moment, Nick climbed into the carriage.

  "What are we doing here?” Bronte asked in confusion.

  "You fainted,” Nick said tightly, settling beside her and slipping his arm around her.

  She settled against him gratefully, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I did?"

  Darcy grinned at her.

  Nick glared at him.

  Darcy flushed, looking at Bronte a little sheepishly. “I got a little carried away."

  Bronte reddened, remembering abruptly what had happened just before she'd blacked out. She covered her face with her hand. “Oh my god! We were in the theater."

  "I'm sure nobody's any the wiser,” Darcy said soothingly. “Nick brought you out the back after you ... uh ... fainted. And he covered your mouth to keep you from crying out when you ... ah ... well, you know."

  Bronte bit her lip, trying to decide whether she was more outraged, embarrassed, or just plain stunned by what they'd done.

  "I didn't have a great deal of choice,” Nick said tightly. “Someone would've summoned the watch."

  Bronte lowered her hand and sat back. “Where are you taking me?"

  "Home."

  Nick was clearly furious. Bronte wracked her brain to think of something that would ease the tension between the two of them and came up empty. “I swear if you two fight over this ... insane thing ... I'll never speak to either one of you again."

  Nick slid a narrow eyed glance at her. “The insanity was his idea, but you're right. I could not have been in my right mind to agree with it."

  "It proved my point,” Darcy said angrily.

  "Do you think so?” Nick asked coldly. He turned to Bronte. “What do you think?"

  Bronte blinked at him. “I'm not sure,” she said cautiously. “What was the point supposed to be?"

  "Do we have a clear winner, or not?” Darcy demanded impatiently.

  Bronte clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the insane urge to giggle. “That was ... that was ... like a duel?"

  Nick reddened, but his lips twitched. “I suppose you could call it that."

  Darcy didn't look terribly amused. “Nick said you couldn't make up your mind. I figured ... well, you kept harping about taking a lover, damn it!"

  Bronte covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with the effort to keep from laughing.

  "Now look what you've done,” Darcy said irritably.

  "I?” Nick demanded indignantly.

  Bronte fought the hysterical urge to giggle to a standstill and peered at them through her fingers. Realizing they were once more on the point of coming to blows, and that Nick was feeling particularly misused, she moved onto his lap, looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face against his neck. As she'd hoped, he subsided, rubbing her back soothingly.

  "I'm sorry as hell I upset you,” Darcy said after several minutes of absolute silence reigned in the carriage except for the clop of the horses’ hooves over the cobblestones.

  It was almost enough to set her off again. “It's all right, Darcy,” Bronte managed to say in a choked voice. “Really."

  By the time they'd turned onto her street, Bronte had sobered enough to realize that Nick's foul temper might have a cause other than irritation with Darcy's tactics. Apparently convinced that she was in a state of extreme distress, he made no attempt to release her or to return her to the seat beside him, but he shifted uncomfortably from time to time and the rock hard ridge digging into the side of her hip didn't mysteriously disappear. She'd shifted against it several times before it dawned upon her what it was.

  She stilled when she finally did realize that he was still in a good deal of distress himself, feeling a mixture of renewed desire and more than a little sympathy for his plight. No doubt Darcy was in no better condition, which probably had a good deal to do with their short fuses.

  Even if she'd wanted to, and she wasn't absolutely certain she did after the stunt they'd pulled, there was certainly nothing she could do about it at this point. As they had pointed out themselves, her mother was a light sleeper. She was also prone to get up and wander about the house at all hours. It was nothing short of a miracle that she'd managed to get Darcy out of the house without her mother discovering him and throwing a dying duck fit that would've roused the entire household if not the whole neighborhood.

  In any case, they had behaved abominably. It had felt wonderful. She wasn't going to deny that, to herself at least, but scandalously wicked, nonetheless, and about as indiscreetly as humanly possible short of making love to her on the stage itself.

  They didn't deserve a reward for it, and if they were suffering, then they certainly deserved to.

  Composing herself finally, she moved back to the seat beside Nick as they neared their destination.

  Nick and Darcy were still glaring daggers at
one another. She strongly suspected the possibility that violence would erupt the moment she was no longer between them to act as a buffer, but there seemed to be nothing that she could do to diffuse the situation.

  The two of them escorted her to the door and politely declined her equally polite offer to come in. She stopped them as they turned to leave. “I'm ... I was just wondering."

  Nick and Darcy both stopped and turned to look at her.

  She bit her lip. “If I said it was a draw, would you feel compelled to try again?"

  Nick and Darcy exchanged a look.

  She smiled at them when they turned to her once more. “Goodnight Nick. Goodnight Darcy. I had ... an extraordinary time."

  "Lord Sheffield didn't care to come in?” Lady Millford called from the front parlor as Bronte closed the door and started toward the stairs.

  As tempted as she was to fling a comment at her mother and head for the stairs, Bronte stopped and altered direction.

  Lady Millford looked her over assessingly as she reached door of the parlor and Bronte realized belatedly that she must be in a shocking state of dishabille. She reddened at the knowing look in her mother's eyes.

  "Actually, he ... uh ... no. I'm really tired, Mother. I believe I'll go up."

  Lady Millford sniffed disapprovingly. “Well, I'm sure you'll say it's not my affair, for you are a woman full grown, but my own dear mother used to say that you could not expect a man to buy the well if you allowed him to take a drink whenever he pleased."

  Bronte bit her lip. “But ... how are you to know you'll like having him drink from your well if you don't allow him a sip first?” she retorted and turned and fled for the stairs before her mother could recover sufficiently to offer a rebuttal.

  * * * *

  As blithely as Bronte had dismissed the possibility of notoriety, the actuality of it was more difficult to take than she'd expected.

  She had her first inkling that the little episode at the theater had spawned a great deal of speculation two days later when she attended her first post theater dinner party. She didn't actually notice the whispers and titters that followed her every move at first. She was accustomed to the oft times underlying maliciousness of society and thought to begin with that they must be gossiping about someone else, or that, perhaps, there was something about her toilet that was not up to their rigid standards.