His Wicked Ways

by Jaide Fox

Bronte glanced at Nick as they started up. “I have a touch of headache myself...."

  He slid an assessing glance at her. “And yet you seemed quite well only a few moments ago."

  Bronte glanced from Nick to the butler. “I don't really feel like discussing this ... now."

  Nick smiled faintly. “If this is about what happened between the two of us...."

  "Why don't we have a little visit in the parlor?” Bronte said quickly.

  He offered his arm, but she pretended she didn't notice and hurried ahead of him, taking a seat in a chair. Looking torn between amusement and irritation, he settled in the chair across from her.

  "You've suffered a strange assortment of maladies of late."

  Bronte eyed him with disfavor. “Is that a question?"

  Nick's eyes narrowed. “I believe it is."

  Darcy strode into the parlor at that moment, closing the door firmly behind him. “What the devil are you about mixing with the Wicked Widow's set?"

  Bronte blinked at him in surprise, then frowned. “Mrs. Bolington?"

  "Don't bat those innocent baby blues at me! You know very well I'm talking about the widow Bolington."

  "They're green,” Bronte said tartly.

  "What?"

  "My eyes are green."

  Darcy frowned. “Don't try to change the subject,” he muttered, flinging himself onto a chair facing her.

  Bronte studied him, then looked at Nick. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw set with determination. “I'll ‘mix’ with whomever I please,” she said tightly.

  "If I catch you hanging around that ... uh ... female, I'll turn you over my knee!” Darcy snapped angrily, sitting forward in his chair to glare at her.

  Bronte eyed him for several moments and finally leaned toward him. “Bare? Or with my clothes on?"

  Darcy's jaw dropped, his face turning fiery red. “Bronte!"

  Suppressing the urge to giggle at his shocked expression, Bronte sat back in her chair. “I'm not a child anymore, Darcy, in case you haven't noticed."

  Darcy swallowed as if he had an egg in his throat and glanced at Nick for help.

  "We had noticed,” Nick said dryly. “Nevertheless, I would prefer it if you avoided further contact with Mrs. Bolington."

  It irritated Bronte to be told what to do, particularly by two people who had no business ordering her around. It was even more annoying that she'd already decided that she didn't care to pursue that friendship, for now they would think that she had bowed to their demands when it had been her idea all along. “Why?"

  "Because she is a notorious—” Darcy broke off in irritation, running a hand through his hair in irritation.

  Bronte lifted her brows, studying both men. “She was your mistress?"

  Nick sent Darcy a look of annoyance.

  "Yours too?"

  Nick's lips tightened.

  She hadn't expected it to hurt. It shouldn't have. It was none of her business what either of them did, past or present, any more than what she did was their business. When all was said and done, they only shared a past. She still liked to think they'd been friends when they were children. Obviously, they'd considered themselves in the light of older brothers, and just as obviously they still considered themselves in that light, at least to some extent or they wouldn't be laboring under the impression that it was their ‘job’ to look out for her. “Well,” she said, getting to her feet. “I can certainly see that it wouldn't be at all convenient for either of you for me to become friends with your mistress! I'll consider your suggestions, though I have to tell you I really don't give a damn about her reputation, one way or the other. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now. I'm tired. I've had a very long, very eventful day."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bronte never actually came to a decision about Mrs. Bolington. If she had, she might have opted to pursue the friendship for no other reason than to show Darcy and Nick that she would do as she pleased.

  On the other hand, she was no more interested in befriending the woman both men had slept with than they were in having her associate with their mistress—she hadn't asked if it was a current affair, and she didn't particularly want to know. It was enough that the woman had been their lover.

  Mrs. Bolington had decided to pursue the friendship, however, and without being unforgivably rude, Bronte had no idea how to scotch it. She called the following day to invite Bronte to a ‘little gathering’ she'd planned. Since she made a point of assuring Lady Millford that she intended to safeguard Bronte herself and Lady Millford had come to the conclusion that she actually had had a ‘spell’ the evening before, she added her encouragement to the proposed plan the moment she realized that she wouldn't be put to the trouble of escorting Bronte.

  As reluctant as she was to have anything more to do with the ‘wicked widow', Bronte couldn't help but be curious about the woman who had charmed both Nick and Darcy into her bed and finally agreed to attend Mrs. Bolington's diner party. She would go just this once, she decided, to show Nick and Darcy that she had no intention of yielding to their demands, to appease her curiosity about the woman who'd captured their interest, however briefly, and also because she did not want to give the appearance of discourtesy when Mrs. Bolington had made a special trip to invite her.

  Her mood that evening as she performed her toilet was an odd mixture of excitement, uneasiness, and rebelliousness. She felt as if she were doing something wicked, and she enjoyed the feeling, despite the occasional twinge of guilt. She had not previously socialized a great deal. Because she was betrothed so young, she had not actually had her debut. She had followed the drum when she had wed Isaac, which had removed her far from London and the ton, and in any case Isaac had not cared to socialize as a couple.

  She had socialized some after she'd made her home in America, but it was nothing like the London scene, and in any case, she had certainly never attended a function by a person of ill repute.

  Her excitement waned and uneasiness grasped the upper hand when Lord Fairfax arrived to escort her. His behavior was above reproach, however, and she mentally chastised herself for being suspicious.

  There were already a number of carriages lined up to let down their passengers when they arrived at Mrs. Bolington's and some of Bronte's anxiety subsided. She'd been under the impression that it was to be a more intimate gathering and feared she had arbitrarily been paired with Lord Fairfax.

  She had her first inkling that there was reason to be uncomfortable when they went inside. There was nothing outwardly unsavory about the gathering, but there were few people that she recognized.

  She dismissed it. It was not as if she'd had a great deal of time to get to know the ton.

  Her second warning was the fact that the guests were not quite as sedate as she was accustomed to. The noise level, considering the size of the gathering, seemed a little louder than it should have, the laughter a little freer.

  She dismissed that, as well, chiding herself for looking for fault when most likely the primary reason was that the guests were of a younger set. Lord Fairfax, in his mid to late thirties, seemed to be among the oldest of those present. By far, the majority of the guests appeared to be in their early to mid twenties.

  There were also far more men than women and that circumstance evoked Bronte's third warning bell.

  She was just wondering if there was any way to gracefully exit when Mrs. Bolington arrived, all a flutter and breathless with the success of her party, which showed every indication of being a ‘crush'. Slipping her arm through Bronte's, she ‘stole’ Bronte away from Lord Fairfax, secured a glass of punch for each of them, and introduced Bronte around.

  The punch was spiked. Bronte noticed it immediately. She was accustomed to drinking wine, however, and although she thought it a bit odd, she saw no reason to object. Perhaps, she thought, it was a new sort fad. It was certainly good, a little sweeter than she was accustomed to, but quite tasty and she thought as along as she drank sparingly of it that she shouldn't h
ave to concern herself with becoming tipsy.

  Some of her tension eased and she began to enjoy herself when the first sets formed up for country dances, soothed by the familiarity.

  She did not lack for partners and she rather enjoyed the rousing dances. After the third or fourth, however, she'd begun to feel a little uncomfortably overheated and very thirsty.

  She asked her dance partner, a young man near her own age, to bring her a glass of punch, sans the spirits. He chuckled and disappeared, returning with a brimming glass a few minutes later. It tasted suspiciously like the punch she'd had before, but she decided that Mrs. Bolington had undoubtedly had only the one punch, one bowl spiked, the other not, for she couldn't detect spirits in it.

  By the time she'd drained her glass, she knew without a doubt that it was the same punch, with spirits, not without, but she had reached a state by then where she didn't feel particularly concerned about it. No one looked at her strangely, and she decided that they couldn't tell that she was more than a little tipsy, perhaps because they were more than a little tipsy themselves.

  The party became louder, and rowdier. There were a few mishaps on the dance floor, due to the punch, Bronte didn't doubt.

  When Mrs. Bolington announced that they would forego dancing for a bit and engage in parlor games, Bronte thought it quite clever of her, for really everyone seemed a little uncoordinated by now.

  Vaguely aware that the offered dinner had not yet been announced and that she was in need of something to offset the effects of the punch, Bronte was glad to see that they'd moved on to something a little more sedate than the rousing country dances.

  She'd never played blind man's bluff in quite the way Mrs. Bolington announced, but she hardly thought it was worth objecting. The crowd was large enough she thought the chances of being captured fairly remote, and she had no real objection to forfeiting a kiss in any case.

  It went a little beyond a forfeited kiss. The blind man, after stumbling around the room for several moments, ‘mauled’ the young ‘lady’ he captured rather shockingly, and she, instead of slapping his face for blatantly groping her, giggled. Despite the number of glasses of punch that Bronte had consumed by that time, and the certainty that she was more than a little tipsy, her judgment wasn't so impaired that that didn't make her very uncomfortable and she began to look around for her hostess to excuse herself.

  She'd stayed long enough for the sake of politeness, she decided.

  The young woman—Bronte decided she was certainly no lady—who'd been captured, was duly blindfolded and proceeded to behave even more shockingly than the young man had. Bronte inched her way to the rear, no great feat when the men were crowding toward the front to make themselves available.

  She met up with Lord Fairfax before she'd made much headway, however, and threw him an uneasy smile. “I was just coming to look for you."

  He leaned down to hear her above the roar of the crowd. His eyes were glittering with a mixture of amusement and something else that Bronte didn't quite like when he responded. “Were you, my dear?"

  Bronte felt her face coloring. “I'm not feeling just the thing and I'd like to go home now."

  He lifted his dark brows, his gaze flickering over her face assessingly. “Very likely you are only in need of a little fresh air and possibly some sustenance. I heard Olivia say only a few moments ago that there had been some sort of calamity in the kitchen, but that dinner was to be served shortly. Shall I take you for a turn on the balcony for fresh air? It is a bit close in here."

  The only fresh air she wanted was what she might catch through the carriage window on her way home. Before she could think of a response that didn't sound too rude, however, the woman who'd been blindfolded groped her way up to him and ‘captured’ him with a hand strategically aimed at his groin. Chuckling, he bent her backward over one arm and forfeited a long, deep kiss.

  Bronte was still immobilized by shock when he took the blindfold and made his way to the center of the group.

  Somehow, she wasn't entirely certain of how it happened, she found herself on the front row as Lord Fairfax was turned in a circle and given a shove in the direction of the crowd. Like the tide washing in to deposit debris on the shore, the crowd surged forward, depositing the women at the edge.

  Lord Fairfax made his way around the circle, narrowly missing first one and then another of the giggling women, who darted around him teasingly. Bronte had just discovered that he was slowly but surely making his way toward her when she realized that she'd not only been disgorged at the front of the crowd, but her way of retreat was blocked by those crowding behind her.

  It almost seemed inevitable that she was captured. She was still trying to find a route of escape when she was suddenly given a push from behind that might have sent her sprawling except that she landed against Lord Fairfax, sliding down his broad chest. He caught her, amidst roars of laughter and approval, hitching her upward and molding his mouth to hers.

  Under other circumstances, she might actually have enjoyed it. As it was, her focus was far more upon her embarrassment than the heat of his mouth. She grasped the lapels of his jacket, trying to wedge her arms between them. His arms tightened. He deepened the kiss and the crowd roared encouragement.

  She was even more lightheaded when he released her at last. She swayed and had to be steadied, which seemed to delight their audience. Still more than a little stunned by the turn of events, she was escorted to the center of the group, blindfolded and turned in a tight circle.

  Blinded, completely disoriented and unsteady already from too much punch, it took every ounce of concentration for Bronte to remain on her feet when she was released and given a nudge toward the group. The mellow glow of the spirits seemed to abandon her abruptly. Holding her arms out in front of her, she moved carefully around the group, trying to decide what to do when all she really wanted to do at this point was to leave. She certainly had no desire to capture any of the men.

  On the other hand, the longer she delayed the longer she would have to stagger about the room blindly seeking.

  She was still trying to make up her mind whether to grab the first man who came near enough or to wait until she neared Lord Fairfax, whom she knew at least a little, when a man stepped directly into her path, catching her as she stumbled and fell against him. She was pulled tightly against a hard chest, one arm was slid around her waist. With his free hand, he caught her face, urging her to lift it for his kiss. The mouth that captured hers was hot, greedy, demanding. Briefly, Bronte struggled against his determined assault on the barrier of her lips, but a drugging warmth suffused her from his touch, the heat of his breath, from his scent and taste as it invaded her senses. He breached the barrier, conquered the ultra sensitive inner recesses of her mouth with his hungry caress, stroking his tongue along hers possessively. Pleasure invaded her senses, leached the strength from muscle and bone, leaving her weak, trembling. Without thought or consideration of the consequences, she returned his caress.

  The moment she yielded, he withdrew abruptly, snatching the blindfold from her eyes. Bronte blinked up at the face above hers, trying to focus her vision.

  Darcy's face swam into view. The careless grin that curled his lips did not reach his eyes. Those hazel orbs were glittering with anger, accusation ... need. “Fancy meeting you here, darlin',” he drawled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bronte gaped up at Darcy guiltily, dumb struck. Before her disordered mind had managed to wrap itself around the fact that she'd decided that what she did, or with whom, was none of his affair, they were separated by the group of merrymakers. Darcy resisted the pull, his determined smile vanishing as he was swept to the center to take his turn as blind man.

  Bronte took advantage of his distraction, working her way toward the rear of the crowd. She spotted Nick before he spied her and managed to elude him, falling into Lord Fairfax's clutches instead.

  "I promised you a stroll in the gardens,” he murmured, tucking her hand
in the crook of his arm and leading her toward the stairs.

  As relieved as she was to be rescued from Nick, whom she had no doubt would give her a thundering scold, she had no desire to be alone in the gardens with Lord Fairfax. He did not seem to be suffering unduly from too much spirits, but he had not behaved quite as gentlemanly as she'd expected that he would. “You said the balcony,” she reminded him.

  "It will be cooler in the gardens, however, and you look a little flushed."

  "I don't have my wrap and I'm certain it would be too cool in the gardens,” Bronte retorted, trying unsuccessfully to pull free.

  To her relief, dinner was announced before he'd managed to whisk her from the room. “I should eat,” she said quickly. “I'm sure that must be why I'm feeling a trifle lightheaded."

  He bowed his head slightly. “I will escort you to dinner then ... first."

  And then home, Bronte added mentally. Either that or she would hail a cab, for she'd decided she had had quite enough adventure for one night, particularly now that Darcy and Nick had arrived.

  Apparently dinner had been announced in the salon downstairs first among those who'd chosen to play cards instead of joining the revelers upstairs, for the room was already crowded when she arrived with Lord Fairfax. Fearing Nick or Darcy or both would arrive at any moment, Bronte was focused far more on the entrance to the salon than on the task of filling her plate from the buffet.

  "You were hungry,” Lord Fairfax murmured.

  Bronte glanced at him in surprise, discovering to her embarrassment that she'd filled her plate with enough food to feed two people when, in truth, she was far too nervous to be hungry at all. She smiled with an effort. “I am."

  His eyes narrowed, becoming almost predatory. “I find I'm famished myself."

  Bronte would've liked to think he was referring to food, but there was much in his expression to indicate otherwise, and she felt herself blushing again. His eyes gleamed.

  "I find you quite irresistible. You do know that?"

  Surprise flickered through her at his candor. Before she could decide how to respond, he spoke again. “You must tell me sometime why it is that you are always so surprised when you discover someone finds you attractive.” He guided her toward a table with two vacant seats. “It's refreshing, to say the least, to find a beautiful woman who does not seem to have any awareness of that fact."