Their Wicked Ways (6 page)

Lord Connolly was a serious
minded young man, around the age that Isaac would have been now, if he had
lived.  In fact, with his fair hair and gray eyes, his slender build, he had
reminded her a good deal of Isaac.  He shared a number of personality traits,
as well, from what she’d seen.

Unfortunately, he seemed to
lack one rather important one.  In their childhood days, Isaac’s eyes, as often
as not, had gleamed with devilment.  He’d been very much like Darcy in that,
prone to teasing and mischief.  She’d seen little enough of it after they were
wed, but she had always thought it his most endearing trait.

Nevertheless, if she had been
husband hunting, Lord Connolly would certainly be a good catch.  He was
attractive, wealthy, and titled.  The fact that he was also boring, pompous,
and controlling would not be considered flaws of any consequence by most
females, but Bronte had no intention of marrying again, and certainly none of
settling in England permanently.  She had returned for one reason only--to lay
the ghosts of her past to rest.

She was not happy that the
‘ghosts’ she particularly wished to banish were not only far more devastating
to her senses than she recalled, but they had shown every indication of making
things as difficult for her as possible by arbitrarily setting out to enthrall
her once more.

She thought that was what
they were about.  She knew they could not be seriously pursuing her, if for no
other reason than the fact that both were nearing thirty and had shown no
indication of ever giving up their status as England’s most eligible
bachelors.  The only reason she could think that they might pursue her was to
prove to themselves that they could win her over no matter how determined she
was to resist their considerable charm.

It was so like the two of
them, she was convinced of it--almost.

She had not really expected
that Darcy and Nick would show up in London so swiftly on her heels, and
certainly not at the gathering tonight, but she’d thought it best to make
certain her dance card was full on the off chance that they might.  She was
glad now that she had, for as disturbing as it was to know they were near, at
least she could keep them at a distance.

It was late in the evening
and she’d just begun to actually relax and begin to enjoy herself when both men
proved that they were far more formidable foes than she’d anticipated.  The
musicians were already tuning up for the last waltz when she looked up to
discover Darcy had presented himself.  “May I have this dance?”

Bronte blinked, glanced
around a little uneasily. “I’m sorry, but this dance is taken--”

“By Mr. Dixon, who asked me
to tender his apologies since he was called away.”

Bronte felt her polite smile
waver.  “Oh?” she asked, so flustered she had placed her hand in his
reflexively and found herself on the dance floor before she quite realized
she’d allowed him to lead her off without a whimper of protest. Heat suffused
her the moment he drew her close, further undermining her defenses.

“He suffered an unfortunate
accident with a glass of punch,” Darcy explained, his eyes alight with both
mischievous amusement and blatant desire as he looked down at her.

The two together deprived her
of breath, scattering her wits.  “He did?” she asked shakily, feeling his hand
burning into her back where it rode low on her waist, uncomfortably aware of
the way his other hand engulfed hers as he curled his fingers around her gloved
hand.

“I have always been a clumsy
fellow,” he retorted unabashedly, and completely untruthfully.  “Large men,
don’t you know.”

His candor surprised a
chuckle out of her.  “And growing still,” she retorted.

He grinned, drawing her a
little closer.  “Now I will have to admit that I was forced to borrow my finery
tonight from … a friend.”

Bronte lifted her brows
questioningly. “Did you suffer an unfortunate accident as well?”

“Of a sort.  I’ve misplaced
my manservant.  I fear he may have run off with my personal effects.”

Bronte bit her lip to contain
the chuckle that bit of news threatened to evoke.  “You are jesting?”

“I hope so.  I will be most
put out if I’m forced to go and look for him.”

He fell silent for a few
turns.  “We were not used to be so formal with one another, Bronte.  I find it
a little disconcerting to behave as if we’re practically strangers.”

It took no more than that to
remind her of past hurts.  She looked away from him, studying her hand where it
rested on his broad shoulder.  When she glanced at him once more, she saw from
the look in his eyes that he’d seen far more than she wished for him to see. 
“I’ve grown up, and I’ve been away a long time.  I suppose we are … strangers. 
Perhaps we always were.”

He held her gaze steadily. 
“You’ve changed so much then?”

She forced a smile. “You have
not.”

“I get the distinct
impression that that was not a compliment.”

“Were you fishing for one?”
she countered.

He chuckled, flashing a grin
that increased the tempo of her heart and made her skin flush with unbidden
heat. “It might soothe my wounded ego.”

Bronte lifted her brows.  “Is
it wounded?  You see?  I could not know you at all well, for I thought it armor
plated.”

“Ouch!”

Despite her anger, simmering
just below the surface at his reminder of their past, Bronte chuckled.  “Now I
have wounded it again?”

His eyes slid half closed, a
slow grin curling his lips.  “You could always kiss it and make it better.”

“I’m sure it will recover
without my kisses,” Bronte retorted, trying to ignore the frantic fluttering of
her heart at the thought of kissing him.

“Heartless baggage,” he
accused without heat.

The accusation wounded her
inexplicably.  She looked away once more.  “It is an acquired thing, necessary
for a girl growing up among a throng of heedless young men, I should think.” 
To her relief, the waltz ended.  Instead of escorting her back to her seat,
however, Darcy laced her arm through his and, after glancing around, headed
toward the balcony.  Dismayed when she realized his intent, Bronte made an
effort to pull free, but she didn’t particularly want to attract attention, and
Darcy refused to release her.

“I’m not letting you off that
easily.  I require an explanation.”

“I’m not wearing my wrap,”
Bronte said coolly.  “And I’m not aware of any obligation to explain myself.”

He pulled her onto the
balcony despite her protests.

Removing his coat, he draped
it around her shoulders.  Bronte shivered as his heat enveloped her along with
the scent of his cologne, the pomade he’d used to tame his hair, and the scent
that was his alone.

Her throat went dry as she
looked up at him and met his gaze.  How could she possibly have forgotten how
absolutely devastating he was to her senses, she wondered?  How could she have
been such a fool as to believe time and distance had done anything more than
dim her memory?  She hadn’t gotten over anything.  She had only forgotten how
powerful it was, and her hurt, and anger, and distrust were flimsy shields at
best.

She looked away after a
moment, moving to stare down at the garden.

He came to stand behind her,
further disordering her thoughts.  “I suppose I was heedless, but how does that
make me any different from any other young man?”

Irritation surfaced.  He had
made her witless with his attentiveness.  She had not intended to confront him,
only to cure herself of the last of her fantasies.  Instead, she found herself
in the position trying to explain something she’d rather not, because it
revealed how deeply she’d been wounded, which could never have happened if she
had not cared so much.  “Not much, I suppose, but then I knew no others so I’m
hardly in a position to judge.”

“There were some good
memories, surely?” he said after a moment.

She supposed there had been,
else she would not have felt anything beyond hate, but she had not cherished
them.  She’d deliberately purged them from her mind, needing something powerful
to fill the void.  She didn’t know whether she was more surprised, or more
dismayed, to find that she didn’t hate Darcy, or Nick for that matter.  She had
wanted to.  She still wanted to.  She shook her head, more to shake her
thoughts than in disagreement.  “I suppose there were … once.”

With an effort, she pulled
herself together and turned to him, forcing a smile.  “It’s of no consequence. 
The past is dead and best left that way.  And I’ll be going home soon.”

Darcy frowned.  “You’ll be
staying for the season, surely?”

“Winter isn’t the best of
times for a crossing.”

Darcy looked stunned.  “You
don’t mean to say you’re going back to the colonies?”

She frowned.  “Good Lord! 
Does everyone here still refer to the United States as the colonies?  We gained
our independence quite a few years ago.”

“We?” he echoed, obviously
still stunned by her revelation.

“I’m a citizen of the United
States now.  Didn’t I mention that?”

“I thought you were.…  That
is, I was under the impression that you intended to marry again.”

Bronte’s smile faded.  “Once
was enough.  In any case, I wouldn’t consider marrying an Englishman.  America
is my home.  I wouldn’t think of marrying anyone who would expect me to give it
up and live here.”

Pulling his coat from her
shoulders, she handed it back to him.  “I should go inside.  Mother’s bound to
hear of it and be distressed that I spent more than five minutes, alone, on a
balcony, with one of England’s most notorious rakes.”

Relieved that she’d managed
to pull off the encounter reasonably well, Bronte left Darcy standing on the
balcony and returned to the ball room.  She’d scarcely taken two steps inside,
however, when she heard a voice that made her knees go weak.

“I can’t help but be
curious,” Nick murmured in that deep, silky voice that always seemed to curl
inside of her.

Chapter Seven

She glanced at Nick guiltily,
feeling a blush climb into her cheeks.  “I beg your pardon?”

His dark brows rose.  He
glanced pointedly at the doors to the balcony before he moved toward her, a
faint smile curling his lips.  “I would not be so ungentlemanly as to ask why
you seem so pleased with yourself, particularly when I have a very good idea I
know the answer.  I was referring to your rather … precipitate departure for
London.”

A denial sprang to her lips,
but she’d no more than thought it than she realized it would only make her
appear more guilty.  Not that it was any of his business if she had been
kissing Darcy on the balcony.  “Did it seem so to you?” she asked with feigned
surprise.  “I must not have mentioned that I had business in London.  Did you
conclude your own business in the country so swiftly then?  It seemed to me
that you expected to be there for a while.”

She hadn’t really expected to
rattle him, but she was disappointed when she didn’t.

His smile widened.  “Indeed I
did.  Imagine my pleasure to discover it was so neatly and swiftly concluded.”

Bronte forced a smile. 
Despite what she’d considered a small success, she really wasn’t up to fencing
with Nick.  “I’m pleased for you.”

“Are you?  Somehow I have the
feeling that you would’ve been far more pleased if I had been detained for a
while longer in the country.”

Bronte rubbed her throbbing
temple absently, glancing around in hopes of finding rescue.  It was then that
she discovered that Nick had somehow managed to back her into a corner.  Dimly,
she realized that she’d stepped back when he’d moved to block her path.

Subtly, so unobtrusively that
she hadn’t noticed, he’d been advancing, steadily forcing her into retreat. 
Taking another step back, she came up against the wall.  “I can’t imagine what
I might have said or done to lead you to that conclusion,” she said a little
breathlessly.

He moved closer, until she
could feel the heat of his body.  Dizziness washed through her, making her feel
weak and wanton.

“No?”

She blinked up at him, having
completely lost the thread of the conversation.  “What are you doing?” she
asked a little desperately as his face filled her vision and the world around
them faded into a blur.

“Call it … an experiment,” he
murmured, capturing her lips beneath his own.

Bronte gasped at the heat of
his mouth, allowing him to breach the barrier of her lips without resistance or
even thought of protest.  Fire swarmed over her body like thousands of stinging
insects as his scent and taste and touch invaded her entire being like a strong
intoxicant.  Without quite knowing how it happened, Bronte found herself
clutching his jacket as he surged toward her, pinning her more tightly between
the wall behind her and his body, until she could feel every inch of him
against her, feel the hard ridge of his cock digging into her lower belly.

The muscles of her femininity
quaked in response, fisting as if they grasped his turgid flesh, her passage
growing damp in invitation. She made a sound in her throat that began as a
protest.  It emerged as a sound of intemperate need as his tongue caressed
hers, teased the sensitive inner surfaces of her mouth, as she felt the
pressure of his hard cock teasing at the very edge of her clit and arched
against him without thought, aching to feel his touch.

Her response fueled his own desire. 
His kiss became more of a mating, their desperate breaths mingling, the heat
rising between them sizzled.

The opening of the door
jarred them from their absorption, breaking them apart guilty.  Gasping for
breath, Bronte stared up at Nick, drunk on the taste of him that still lingered
in her mouth.

His expression was hard,
uncompromising, but his eyes gleamed with his own needs, his breath rasping
harshly from his chest.  She saw satisfaction there as well, and it brought
forth a surge of anger at herself--at him.  Her palm itched to slap that look
from his face.

“Not entirely indifferent.”

Her lips tightened.  She
curled her fingers into her palms and finally managed to force a cold smile to
her lips.  “Sadly, no, but then it’s been a while since I had a man between my
legs.  I suppose I should find one to scratch the itch,” she said coldly,
thrusting past him and hurrying across the room.

Nick watched her until she’d
disappeared into the crowd before he slid a cold glance in Darcy’s direction. 
“You’re timing could not have been poorer.”

“I’m inclined to agree,”
Darcy growled, holding his own fury in check with an effort.  “If I’d come in
sooner you might have reconsidered accosting her in the midst of a crowded
room.”

Nick flushed faintly.  “I’m
not entirely certain I would have,” he said coolly.

“No?” Darcy growled
challengingly.

Nick adjusted his jacket. 
“Since I did not intend to accost her in the first place, and I’m not in the
habit of accosting women, period, I hardly think your presence would have been
a deterrent when the presence of half the ton was not,” he said tightly.  With
that, he strode away.

Darcy glared at his
retreating back until he’d crossed the salon and strode through the doors. 
Muttering an expletive beneath his breath, he glanced toward the knot of men
once more surrounding Bronte and finally left the salon himself.

Nick had vanished by the time
Darcy reached the street.  He decided it was just as well. He’d fully intended
to punch Nick’s lights out if he caught up with him and there was no sense in
creating a scandal by engaging in fisticuffs on Lord and Lady Sheffield’s
doorstep.

He went to his own
apartments, but he was still spoiling for a fight when he managed to run into
Nick the following day at Jim’s Boxing Salon.  Nick’s mood, he quickly
discovered, was as foul as his own.  They locked horns in the ring and battered
at one another for the better part of an hour before Big Jim managed to
separate them and had them escorted from the premises.  They were banished from
use of the ring for a fortnight.

They faced off once Jim’s
heavies had left them, but since neither one of them particularly relished the
idea of trying to outrun the watch, or spending any time at all in jail, they
parted company and headed for their own quarters to nurse their battered
bodies.

Two days later Darcy banged
on Nick’s door until his butler answered it.  The butler promptly tried
manfully to bar the door, but Darcy tossed him on his ass in the street and
stalked inside anyway.

Nick eyed him speculatively
as he paused in the doorway of the main salon.  “I’d as soon not be forced to
the necessity of purchasing new furniture,” he said coolly.

Darcy massaged his sore
shoulder and finally stalked over to the nearest chair and sprawled in it. 
“I’m too sore to have another go at it just now,” he said irritably.

The butler had summoned
assistance.  Nick waved his menservants away from the door and poured another
drink.  Striding toward Darcy, he handed him a tumbler and settled in the chair
opposite him.  Darcy downed it in two gulps and then looked Nick over and burst
out laughing.

Nick’s lips twitched.  “I’m
glad you find this so amusing.”

Darcy grimaced.  “I’m not
sure I would except for the matching shiners.”

Nick frowned.  “Ah!” he said
finally.  “Mine and yours?  Yours looks worse,” he added with a touch of
satisfaction when Darcy nodded.

Darcy’s lips tightened. 
After a moment, however, he shrugged, got to his feet, and fetched the decanter
then returned to his chair and had a seat once more, refilling his tumbler.

Nick watched him
speculatively throughout.  “If you did not come to resume the match, then why
did you come?”

Darcy settled back in his
seat, propping his booted feet on Nick’s table.  Nick studied the boots for
several moments and finally propped his on the table.  He saw when he returned
his attention to Darcy that he was frowning in thought.

“I do believe I came to ask
you what your intentions are toward Bronte.”

Nick lifted one dark brow. 
“Did you?”

Darcy’s frown deepened.  “I
believe I did.”

Nick studied the amber liquid
in his glass for several moments.  “It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, that I
might tell you it was none of your damned business?”

They assessed one another for
several moments. “It did, but I think I’m making it my business,” Darcy finally
responded.

“Or that I might ask you the
same question?” Nick queried pensively.

Darcy dragged his fingers
through his hair.  “You know I always had a soft spot for Bronte, poor little
mite.”

“Homely little mite, I
believe you phrased it,” Nick said tightly.  He took a sip from his glass.

Darcy flushed.  “She was, but
I was fond of her anyway.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed.  After
a moment, he leaned forward and refilled his own glass.  “She wasn’t, but
that’s a matter of opinion.”

Darcy stared at him in
surprise.  “You didn’t think so?”

“No.”

Darcy frowned, obviously
casting his mind back.  Finally, he smiled. “She was cute, wasn’t she?  Pesky
as hell, but cute.”  He was silent for a while, chasing some errant memory. 
“Isaac was the one that used to call her names.”

Nick’s lips tightened in
response.  “He did.  I found her crying her eyes out over it more than once.”

“That’s why you beat the
living hell out of him that time?”

Nick grimaced.  “For all the
good it did.”  He studied the liquid in his glass thoughtfully.  “I always had
an uneasy feeling that Isaac had a cruel streak in him.”

Darcy’s eyes widened. 
“Hell!” he exclaimed, surging to his feet and beginning to pace back and forth
agitatedly.  “I’d forgotten that!  That’s what she meant.  I thought she was
saying she’d never gotten over Isaac, but that wasn’t what she meant at all!

“That little weasel!  If I’d
known that at the time, I’m not so sure I’d have taken a bullet trying to save
his hide.”

“I took two, but I don’t
bemoan the fact constantly,” Nick reminded him wryly.  “I damn well wouldn’t
have if not for Bronte.  I never did understand what she saw in him, if you
want the truth of it.”

Darcy shrugged.  “He was a
pain in the ass, but I figured it was just because he was younger than us.  I
might have known it was his damned fault!”

Nick sighed.  “I wish you
would sit down and stop trying to wear a hole in my rug.”

He studied Darcy irritably
for several moments after he’d finally sprawled in his chair once more, his
eyes narrowed.  “Do you mean to tell me that you and Bronte were
talking
?”

Darcy didn’t pretend to
misunderstand.  “Of course we were.  If you didn’t have a nasty, suspicious
mind you would’ve known that.”

“If I didn’t know you as well
as I do I might have guessed that,” Nick retorted tartly.

Darcy flushed.  “All right,
so I did have it in mind to test the waters when I took her out onto the
balcony.  I’d said something stupid and thoughtless, though, and she had this
look in her eyes.  And I started wondering just what was going through her
mind.”

“What, precisely, did you say
to her?”

“I don’t recall,” Darcy said
evasively.  He met Nick’s penetrating gaze and finally shrugged irritably.  “I
called her a heartless baggage, but I was only teasing.  I’ve said the same
thing to plenty of others and they didn’t take it to heart.  In fact, I got the
impression they were rather pleased about it.”