Their Wicked Ways (3 page)

Chapter Three

Bronte strove for patience as
her mother began her harangue yet again.  “You are far too young to content
yourself with being a widow.  I could understand it if you had been truly
devoted to poor Isaac, but you and I both know that that was not the case.”

Bronte stabbed her finger
with her needle and bit back the urge to say something unladylike.  She had
never been much for needlework, but she was bored stiff and the weather was too
inclement for a ride at the moment.  “I loved Isaac.”

“Of course you did, my dear. 
It’s a wife’s duty.”

Bronte studied her mother for
several moments.  “Is that how you felt about my father?”

Elizabeth Millford glanced at
her daughter uncomfortably.  “I had a great deal of respect for your father,
and grew to feel affection for him, as well, God rest his soul.”

Bronte studied the mess in
her lap.  “The Americans often marry for love.”

Elizabeth Millford snorted. 
“I would not be surprised in the least … upstarts.  I hope they have not put
such silly notions in your head.”

Bronte sighed. “No,” she said
somewhat doubtfully, working at untangling the silken threads she’d mangled. 
“But it is a great trial only to be a ‘duty’.”

Her mother seemed to mull
over the comments for a few moments.  “I knew it was a very bad notion for you
to go and live with my sister.  She has put this silly notion in your head
about not remarrying, hasn’t she?”

Bronte rose abruptly, tossing
her abandoned needlework into the seat she’d vacated.  “It is not silly,
mother.  It’s … practical. I’ve no need to wed again, after all.  Besides....”

When she didn’t continue, her
mother favored her with a piercing look.  “Besides?” she prompted.

Bronte wrung her hands.  “The
doctor tells me there’s a very good chance that I’m barren.  I did not provide
poor Isaac with an heir.  It would not be right to marry when I cannot give my
husband children.”

Elizabeth snorted.  “In the
first place, doctors rarely know what they’re talking about.  In the second …
why you needn’t wed a man in need of an heir.  We shall just put our heads
together and make up a list of men who already have their heirs and are looking
for someone to mother their children.”

Oh joy, Bronte thought,
trying not to look as revolted by the notion as she felt.  She had no interest
in becoming a free governess or nanny.  “I would far prefer to remain a widow
than to become someone’s duty or a nursemaid to tend their obnoxious brood
while they trot off philandering.”

“A gentleman will respect his
wife and practice discretion,” Elizabeth pointed out.

Bronte lost her temper.  “If
they will not honor their vows, I see no reason to take them myself,” she
snapped irritably.

Elizabeth’s brows rose. 
Despite her reproving look, however, Bronte saw that her mother was truly
shocked to hear such a concept sprout from her daughter’s lips. She looked very
much as if she was suddenly uncertain that Bronte actually was whom she claimed
to be, as if an impostor had dropped upon her doorstep.  “Yes, well I am sure a
woman’s place is a sad trial to us all, but … My dear!  If it were left up to
men we would all still be living in caves!

“It is a woman’s place to
provide the comforts of home and family, and if you are clever, you can keep
your man from straying … overmuch,” she added after a significant pause.  “In
any case, if they did not, every female of childbearing years would be with
child nine months of every year.  It’s a blessing, really. For you must know
that men cannot control their baser instincts.”

Bronte gave her mother a
look, tempted to demand to know why that was an excuse for men when women were
not similarly excused from such behavior.  She saw no reason to shock her
mother further, though.  She knew very well her mother was not likely to come
around to her way of thinking.

They were both distracted by
a scratching upon the door to the parlor.

Elizabeth looked at her
butler questioningly.  “What is it, Fillmore?”

“A couple of gentleman have
come to call, my lady,” he announced, walking sedately across the parlor and
presenting Lady Millford with a tray, upon which resided two handsome calling
cards.

Elizabeth’s brows rose even
higher as she peered blindly at the cards, pretending to peruse them, too vain
to admit her sight was so poor the tray itself was little more than a blur, let
alone the cards.  “Come to call?” she repeated blankly and then smiled thinly.  “I
collect you mean that they have broken down or something of the sort?”

“No, my lady.  I have shown
them into the salon.”

“Who in the world...?”

“Who?” Bronte asked the
butler point blank.

The butler opened his mouth. 
Before he could utter a word, however, Lady Millford waved him away. 
“Neighbors, I’m sure.  No doubt they’ve heard you’re home at last and have come
to pay their respects.  Fetch them, Fillmore, if you please, and show them in
here.  The salon is far too drafty for my constitution.”

“Yes, my lady,” Fillmore
responded.  Bowing, he retreated once more, closing the parlor door behind him.

“I wish you had not, mother.”

“Oh posh!  You cannot eschew
society all together.  I do hope it isn’t Vicar Collins and his son.  Such a
prosy … but a very good man, of course.  You must watch young Mr. Collins,
however.  He fancies himself a ladies man.  He will be trying to peer down your
décolletage, my dear, and to be sure as disgracefully low as yours is it will
be no great feat.”

Bronte’s lips tightened at
the rebuke.  She’d stopped in London on her way home and ordered up the gown. 
The emerald hued gown with its scooped neckline was certainly no more risqué
than any other female of polite society might wear.

She considered it as she
paced restlessly to the window to peer out at the gloomy day.  Honesty
compelled her to amend that thought, for although it had been recommended as
the first stare of elegance, the proprietress had also pointed out that it was
the extreme of fashion and only something a very daring young woman would feel
comfortable wearing.

She was perfectly comfortable
wearing it, however.  She felt the need to behave outrageously, if the truth
were known, and had absolutely no compunction about doing so.

Her birth had ensured her a
position in society, but the ton had never considered that required them to be
kind as well, only to allow her entree.  She could not truly be said to have
had a season, for she’d been promised to Isaac long before that--not that that
was a great source of joy for poor Isaac.

Everyone had deemed it for
the best that she be properly paraded before the ton before she were properly
wed and thereafter properly relegated to the obscurity of a country estate
where she would, in time, properly produce the required heir.

No one had made a push to be
anything more than polite, however, and then only to her face.  Behind her
back, they had whispered, shredding her confidence with their observations
about her awkwardness, her shyness, and her general appearance, comments that
were perfectly audible, as they were well aware.

Well, she had no need for
their approval!  She was a widow now, not a young girl in need of the
acceptance of her peers, and quite comfortably well off.  She had yielded at
last to her mother’s demand that she return to her ‘homeland’, but she had
every intention of thumbing her nose at England’s ‘polite’ society, and then
taking herself, and her fortune, off to America once more.

The opening door broke into
her unpleasant thoughts and Bronte turned to see who their visitors were.

She would’ve liked to have
discovered that neither man was recognizable to her.  Unfortunately, not only
were they not strangers, they had changed very little over the years, except,
possibly, grown more handsome than she remembered.  Her heart lurched painfully
in her chest, pumping hurt through her, and anger.

There had been a time when
she was a little girl that she had worshipped them as young gods, when she had
been desperate for their approval, even so much as a crumb of it.  Isaac, their
junior by three years, had been almost as desperate for it as she was.

That adoration, that
desperation to show them he was good enough, had led him to his death.

She would never forgive them
for that, no more than she could forgive them for the hurtful things that Isaac
had said and done to her, influenced, she knew, by their amused contempt for
her.  If they had not made it so obvious they pitied Isaac for having to take
her as his wife, he might have been willing to accept her, at least, if he
could not bring himself to love her.

Instead, she knew every time
he actually looked at her, every time he came to perform his ‘duty’ that he was
embarrassed to be tied to her because he went to great lengths to keep her
tucked away in the very background of his life.

She’d had a great deal of
practice in concealing her hurt, however, and after a moment she blinked the
blurriness from her eyes, summoned the coldly polite, insincere smile of a
society hostess and moved away from the window.

She knew the moment she did
so that neither Nick nor Darcy had noticed her before.

She also knew that neither
one of them recognized her.  Nick, always the cool one, contained his shock far
better, though she could tell from the slight pallor and the flicker of doubt
and surprise in his eyes the moment recognition hit him.  Darcy merely gaped at
her as if he’d been pole-axed.

“Bronte?” Darcy said
doubtfully.

Chapter Four

Lady Millford tittered
nervously.  “I hardly recognized her myself when she first arrived.”

Lifting her abandoned
needlework from the chair she’d been occupying, Bronte settled, eyeing both men
coolly.  “America agrees with me.  I must suppose it’s the country bumpkin in
me.”

Darcy blinked several times
and glanced at Nick.  Nick, however, had not taken his eyes off of Bronte. 
After several moments he seemed to collect himself and moved to the settee
across from Bronte.  Darcy frowned, looked around the room and finally sat next
to Nick.

“We’d heard you had come
home,” Darcy said after a moment.

Bronte smiled thinly.  “And
the rumor was correct … for once.”  She almost smiled when the two exchanged a
speaking glance, remembering the habit from her childhood.  Then, she’d found
it nothing short of amazing that they seemed so in accord with one another that
they had only to share a look and their minds appeared to work as one, so that
each knew the other’s thoughts precisely.

Lady Millford jangled the
bell on the table beside her nervously, summoning the butler, who’d only just
departed.  “Refreshments for our guests, Fillmore.”

Fillmore nodded and departed
once more.

Bronte slanted an amused
glance at her mother.  Contrary to what Lady Millford apparently feared,
however, she had every intention of behaving politely, regardless of how she
felt about Nick and Darcy.

Darcy cleared his throat. 
“You’re looking well,” he commented.  “You’ve changed.”

Nick sent him a look. “Don’t
be shy, Darcy.  We are old friends here.  Just say precisely what you think.”

The comments sent both hurt
and anger through Bronte, but Nick’s tart response evoked a touch of amusement,
as well.  “I am staring at five and twenty now.  Did you think I would not?”
she said to Darcy, who was glaring at Nick.

Darcy flushed.  “I beg your
pardon.  I meant that as a compliment.”

“I’m sure you did,” Bronte
said coolly, then smiled.  “Thank you … I think.”

He looked uncomfortable. 
“I’m not usually so cow handed.  It’s just such a surprise to see you.”

Bronte’s brows rose.  “I
thought you said that you’d heard that I was home for a visit?”

“I’m sure someone mentioned
it,” Darcy said evasively.  “It’s just that … you’re beautiful.”

“I’m sure Bronte doesn’t need
us to tell her that,” Nick said coolly.

Bronte met his gaze.  “Certainly
not, but a compliment now and then is always nice.  Even between old friends
who were never prone to stand on ceremony or utter polite lies only to make one
feel better,” she said, smiling.

“There you are!” Lady
Millford said in obvious relief when her butler entered the room bearing a
tray.  “I’d begun to think you got lost between here and the kitchen.”

“I apologize, my lady.  The
scones were not quite done.”

Lady Millford waved him
away.  “Will you pour, my dear?”

“Certainly,” Bronte said
promptly.  “How do you take your tea?” she asked her visitors.  “Cream and
sugar?” 
In your lap?
She thought.

Nick’s gaze was wary. 
“Black, thank you.”

“Both,” Darcy responded,
sounding almost as relieved as her mother that Fillmore had provided a distraction.

As if he’d read her thoughts,
Nick leaned forward to take the cup from her.  She sent him an amused glance
and returned her attention to the tray.

“What brings you to the
countryside at this time of year?” she asked politely when she’d served tea all
around.

Darcy inhaled, as if to
speak.  Nick cut him off.  “Business.  But as we’d heard Bronte was here, we
thought we would drop by to pay our respects.”

“That is most kind!” Lady
Millford spoke before Bronte could respond.  “You won’t be in the area long
then?  Such a pity.  I’d planned a little gathering for Bronte tomorrow evening
and most everyone is in town now.”

“I’m sure I could come,”
Darcy said promptly.  “It is Nick who is here on business.  I merely tagged
along.”

“Oh!  How delightful!  You’re
certain we can’t prevail upon you to come, as well, Mr. Cain?”

Nick smiled with an effort.
“I never like to disappoint a lady.  Most certainly, I will come.”

They took their leave shortly
afterward, staying only the precise fifteen minutes.

It was a severe trial to
Bronte nevertheless.  “I cannot believe you invited them!” she said once the
butler had shown them out.

Lady Millford studied her tea
guiltily.  “It was the polite thing to do.  Although I must say it will make us
uneven for dinner.  It’s very difficult when everyone is gone to London for the
season,” she said peevishly.

“It would not be uneven if
you had not invited Nick and Darcy,” Bronte pointed out.

Lady Millford feigned a look
of surprise.  “But … you were always such friends when you were children.  I
was certain it would be a special treat for you.”

* * * *

“I’m not entirely certain of
what just happened, but I do believe that was the most uncomfortable fifteen
minutes of my entire life,” Darcy muttered once he’d joined Nick in the coach. 
“Who would’ve thought our skinny, freckled Bronte would grow up into such a
beautiful woman?”

Nick grunted, which might
have been construed as an agreement, but forbore comment.

“Stunning.  Absolutely
stunning.”

“Obviously, she stunned you,”
Nick said sardonically.

Darcy frowned, trying to
recall anything about his behavior that might have elicited that comment, but
realized he recalled very little about the visit beyond his reaction to
Bronte.  “You are not going to sit there and tell me you were not surprised.”

“I’m not.”

Darcy sent him a look. 
“And?”

“As you say, she is quite
stunningly beautiful.”

Darcy pondered over it a
bit.  “Try as I might, all I can recall about her as a child was that shock of
red hair, huge eyes, big nose, big mouth.  Even her bones looked too big for
her.”

“She was thin.”

“She certainly is not thin
now.  I’ll wager she’s a cozy armful.”  That and more.  The emerald gown she’d
worn had emphasized breasts that would fit comfortably, heavily, in a man’s
palms.  Her waist, as she’d turned and the gown caught at it, was trim and
curved to hips he could only fantasize about.  More than that though, her face
was softer now with maturity, the harsh, angular bones of youth gone, and the
freckled skin had mellowed into a uniform color not unlike milk and honey.  She
looked delectable, and in fact, with the deep auburn of her hair, he was hard
pressed not to think she’d taste of berries and cream.  His mouth practically
watered at the thought of tasting her skin.

He cleared his throat
uncomfortably.  From the look on Nick’s face, Darcy gathered his thoughts were
running along the same lines as his own.

“I shouldn’t imagine you will
discover whether she is or not,” Nick said in his customary terse manner.

Darcy frowned, pausing a
moment in his stride of thought to look at his friend.  “And I suppose you
think you will?”

“Probably not.”

Nonplussed, Darcy merely
stared at him for several moments.

“I couldn’t help but notice
she didn’t seem at all pleased to see us,” Nick said pensively.

“She didn’t?” Darcy said
doubtfully, recalling the truth of that.  She had seemed cold, but he’d put
that down to their unexpected visit.  Now that he thought on it, however, it
was remarkably strange of her, given how attached she’d been to them as a girl.

Nick eyed him speculatively
for several moments.  “You are not generally quite so dense, Darcy.  No.  She
was not pleased.”

Darcy frowned.  “You think
you were right?  She blames us for Isaac’s death?”

“Possibly.  Whatever the
reason, I’m fairly certain that she does not remember us fondly.”

Darcy was annoyed.  “Well, if
that isn’t the outside of enough!  When you and I both nearly got our asses
shot off trying to rescue the numbskull!  My shoulder has never been quite the
same since that ball I took.”  He rubbed it absently, as if merely the memory
caused an ache.

“We did not succeed,
however,” Nick pointed out.

“And that’s our fault?” Darcy
demanded, outraged. “The young fool should have known better than to charge
that hill.  I tried to reason with him.  You tried, but nothing would do for
him but to be a hero.”

Nick was silent for several
moments.  Finally, he sighed tiredly. “We were not entirely blameless, Darcy.”

“I don’t see how you figure
that.”

“He should not have gone off
at all.  He was his father’s heir, but he was determined to join up the moment
we did.”

Darcy frowned.  “You think?”

“I do.  I also think he was
determined to take that hill to show us he was a better man … perhaps he did.”

“It was a cock brained thing
to do!  And against orders, I might add.  The retreat had already been
sounded.”

Nick turned to stare at the
passing scenery.  “I know you’re right in a sense.  Isaac was a man full grown,
and made his own decisions.  I also know we tried to save him from his folly,
but the fact remains that he’d spent most of his youth trying to best the two
of us, and it was that that led him to his death.”

Darcy rubbed his chin
pensively.  “We should explain it to Bronte.”

Nick smiled faintly.  “Do you
think you could?” he asked with interest.

“You could explain it
better.”

“I think not,” Nick said
coolly.

Darcy frowned.  “Why not?”

“Because she is not only
beautiful, she is intelligent.  I see no point in trying to explain something
that she must know already.  She still blames us.  She would regardless of what
I, or you, might say.”

Darcy digested that for a
while.  “You don’t mean to make a push for her then?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed on
Darcy.  “I did not say that. Only that it presents a challenge I hadn’t
expected.”

Darcy grinned.