Their Wicked Ways (17 page)

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 to 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
though 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 drawn 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, assessing the situation.  “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, hitching up one corner of his mouth in a disreputable
half-smile.  “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 without asking
questions.”

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?”

Nick nodded.  “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.

“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,” Nick
said, sounding slightly disgusted.

“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 surrendered to the power and heat of
Darcy’s 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 as if she could become one with 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 in irritation.