by Julia Keaton
He flashed her a grin that wasn’t quite as devil-may-care as his usual jaunty smile. “Afraid so.”
She sent him what he had to suppose was intended to be a seductive smile. It failed, primarily because it displayed a grand total of three teeth, two on the top and one on the bottom. “You told me last night ye’d make it up ter me this morning.”
“Did I?” he asked, stalling for time as he gritted his teeth and finally managed to force one of his boots onto his feet. “That was infamous of me. Was I remiss last eve?”
She frowned, obviously confused. “Missed altogether, ye did. Ye told me ye was too drunk ter find yer cock.”
Relief flooded him. “So--we didn’t…?”
Her frown deepened to a scowl. “It’s still a shilling fer me time.”
“That is good news,” he said jovially, searching around for his purse. Finding that he’d shoved it into his jacket, he extricated it, tossing her two with a wink and a grin.
She scooped the coins up. “We could still ‘ave us a little fuck. I’ve nae ter be downstairs for a bit yet.”
He tried to look interested and disappointed at the same time. “Thanks, but I’ve got to be off, I’m afraid.”
Shrugging, she got up, dressed and departed.
Darcy examined the bed to make certain there was nothing moving around in it and plopped down on the edge when he found it looked relatively clean, dropping his throbbing head into his hands. In a general way, he wasn’t inclined to imbibe quite so freely, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he’d done so the night before. After some time, it occurred to him that he’d been soothing his wounded ego, which brought him around to wondering if Nick had risen yet.
A hair of the dog, he decided, was just what he needed to get rid of the pounding headache, and possibly a sizable portion of beef, and whatever else they might have on hand that was edible.
Since there was no longer any urgency about leaving, he decided to take the time to make himself a bit more presentable. Moving to the door, he bellowed for hot water with which to shave. It proved to be an unwise decision since it set his head to throbbing even harder and he decided to lie down and wait for the massive pain to ease off a bit.
When he woke once more, he discovered the water had been delivered, but now was only lukewarm. Shrugging, he shaved anyway, wondering where the hell his man had gotten off to since he’d had plenty of time to make the trip from London by now.
Feeling marginally better, he went downstairs, ordered food and, while he was waiting, decided to ask the innkeeper about Nick since he was nowhere in sight.
“The gen’lman has departed.”
Darcy instantly came to attention. “Departed!” he demanded indignantly. “When? To where?”
“As to where, I couldn’t say,” the innkeeper responded. “Not bein’ privy to his lordship’s business, but he left shortly after noon.”
Darcy ground his teeth, drumming his fingers on the bar while he considered why Nick might have left since he’d given every indication he intended to stay a while. It finally occurred to him that either Bronte had given him reason to believe his efforts would be totally wasted, or Bronte had departed, as well.
“Did he go anywhere before he left? Say, earlier this morning?”
“Well now, I don’t make an ‘abit of snoopin’ on me guests, an’ particularly if they ‘appen ter be a lord.”
“He ain’t a lord, damn it! No more than I am. Did he, or didn’t he?”
“I seem ter recall, now that yer mention it, that ‘e was gone a bit, came back breathin’ fire, packed ‘is bags and then left.”
Darcy frowned. “Did he say anything?”
“Well, now, in case yer ‘adn’t noticed the gen’lman weren’t a real talkative sort.”
“He ain’t the sort to breathe fire neither,” Darcy retorted. “I figure if he was that furious he might have said something.”
The innkeeper scratched his crotch thoughtfully. “Now ye mention it, I guess ‘e weren’t exactly breathin’ fire. More like … steamin’, cuttin’ everybody with that sharp tongue of ‘is and them cold eyes ‘cause they weren’t movin’ fast enough to suit ‘im.”
Darcy hit the bar with his balled fist. “That tears it! I’ve got half a mind to call him out, damn it to hell!” He stewed over it for several moments and finally dug in his pocket for some coins. “I’ll be leaving, too.”
“Ye’ll not be wantin’ that dinner ye ordered then?”
“Don’t be a nodcock, man! I sure as hell ain’t leaving without getting my dinner first!”
Chapter Six
Nick was in the process of putting the finishing touches on his cravat when the butler showed Darcy into his room. “Was I expecting you?” he inquired as Darcy dropped into a chair and glared at him.
“Weren’t you?” Darcy growled, perturbed at his longtime friend.
Nick spared a glance at him, then brushed a piece of lint of his lapel. “Poor delivery. Growling the words doesn’t have quite the ring to it that words spoken with soft menace would have.” He looked Darcy over skeptically and returned his attention to his cravat. “Did you have trouble along the road? I’d expected you to be back before me. You did say that you’d be leaving in the morning, didn’t you?”
Darcy ground his teeth. “I might have had a bit too much to drink last night,” he conceded.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. You seemed to be knocking them back pretty steadily when I retired. How was the barmaid? Not particularly to my taste, but I seem to recall you considered her a ‘cozy arm full’.”
Darcy reddened, opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
Nick lifted one dark brow but apparently decided not to comment upon Darcy’s reticence.
“Where are you off to?”
“Lord and Lady Sheffield are having a small gathering tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Much better.”
Darcy glared at him. “Any particular reason?”
“None.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Nick seemed to consider it for several moments. “I haven’t a clue,” he said finally. “I’m always so straightforward with you. That’ll be all, Billingsly. Unless you’d care to wash the muck of the road off of you, Darcy? I presume you came straight over?”
“No. I went by my place first. But my man’s gone. Don’t know what in the hell he’s doing, but he ain’t there. And the worst of it is he packed up most of my stuff when he left.”
“Absconded, you think?”
“Damned if I know, but I’ve a good mind to give him the boot if he does show up.”
“Which I’m certain he deserves,” Nick agreed. “A bath for Mr. St. James, Billingsly. Have you dined?”
“I suppose you’re dining out?”
“Hopefully. See what cook can round up, Billingsly.”
“Very good, sir,” Billingsly responded, bowing and departing.
Nick surveyed his reflection critically and finally decided that he was satisfied. “I’m off then. Do make yourself at home, Darcy,” he murmured, sauntering toward the door.
Darcy had sat forward and was massaging his throbbing temples. He waved Nick off without looking up.
Nick paused at the door. “Billingsly has a very good potion for a hangover.”
Darcy shuddered. “I’ve tried it. I think I’ll suffer the hangover, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
Darcy settled into the steaming bath nearly an hour later, uttering a groan of pure ecstasy as it washed over his tired, aching muscles. “Shall I send these down to the laundry for you, sir?” Billingsly asked.
Darcy cracked an eye open. “Not too much starch.”
Billingsly nodded. “I’m sure the laundress knows your preferences, but I’ll be certain to remind her. I’ve laid out one of Mr. Cain’s dressing gowns for you. Will that be all, sir?”
Darcy glanced at Billingsly speculatively. “Nick didn’t happen to m
ention why he was going to Lady Sheffield’s shindig, did he?”
“Something about seeing an old friend, I believe.”
“Damn it to hell!” Darcy ground out, sitting bolt upright. “Male or Female?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Bronte?”
“I believe so, sir. If that will be all?”
“No, it won’t, damn it! Find me something to wear.”
“You’ll be going out, sir?”
“Didn’t I just say so?” Darcy growled.
“Not precisely, sir. I’m not at all certain there’s anything in Mr. Cain’s wardrobe that will fit you quite as it should.”
Darcy waved that away. “Something suitable for Lady Sheffield’s party.”
Billingsly bowed and left.
Grimly, Darcy concentrated on his bath. He wasn’t entirely happy with the clothing Billingsly produced, but as he’d pointed out Nick was shorter. When he was reasonably satisfied with the results, he set out for Lord and Lady Sheffield’s.
The ‘little gathering’, not surprisingly, was a crush and Lady Sheffield’s man was reluctant to allow him entrance. Digging some coins from his pocket, he greased the man’s palm and pushed his way past the guests thronging the stairs to the main salon.
Some thirty minutes later, he discovered Nick propping up on a column at the edge of the dance floor. Nick surveyed him with obvious amusement. “I thought you were under the weather. That suits me far better than it does you, by the way.”
Darcy tugged at the cuffs, trying unsuccessfully to cover his wrists. His arms were longer than Nick’s by a good inch, however, and he finally gave up the effort. “Thought I might as well drop in for a bit,” Darcy responded.
Nick folded his arms over his chest. “I do believe they just announced the second dinner.”
Darcy grabbed a glass from a passing waiter. “I’ll wait for the third call. Where’s Bronte?”
“Behind the wall of men over there.”
Darcy followed the direction of his gaze. “Haven’t been able to get within a mile of her, eh?”
“Not thus far, but then I’m not particularly fond of running with a pack.”
“Has she glanced your way yet?”
“Twice,” Nick said on a note of satisfaction.
“Meaning?”
Nick glanced at him. “She’s not completely disinterested.”
“I see Moreland. That makes it an even half dozen hanging out for a rich wife. Four looking for their second. Rossman, the old satyr, certainly isn’t likely to be much competition. What in the hell does he think he’s doing, anyway? He must be sixty.”
“Basking, I should think. She hasn’t given him the cold shoulder yet,” Nick responded coolly. “You might want to note the fact that Lord Connally and Lord Smythe are drooling down her neckline as we speak. Young Lord Sheffield scampered off a bit ago… to find refreshment, I should think.”
Darcy straightened and glared. “Damn it to hell!”
“Precisely.”
Darcy scanned the throng of guests across from them. After a few moments, he saw what he’d been looking for. “I believe I’ll try a better vantage point,” he said lazily.
Nick sent him a speculative glance. “I believe I’ll take a turn on the balcony and burn a cheroot.”
* * * *
Inside, Bronte was seething though she thought she’d concealed it rather well. Her irritation was focused primarily on herself. She’d been surrounded by flatteringly attentive and reasonably attractive men almost from the moment she’d arrived at the party, and yet the very moment Nick Cain strolled into the room and she caught sight of him, her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest.
She’d done her level best to ignore him thereafter, but with the best will in the world, she hadn’t been able to refrain from glancing across the room to see if he’d noticed her.
He had. He was staring straight at her and, despite the distance, warmth suffused her as their gazes locked for a measure of heartbeats.
Resolutely, she refused to look in his direction again after he’d caught her the second time. That resolve lasted every bit of thirty minutes. When her gaze flickered in that direction for the third time, she saw without a great deal of surprise, that Darcy was leaning against the column next to him. Her heart rate trebled. She was afraid for several moments that she would have to excuse herself, for she felt uncomfortably warm and just the tiniest bit lightheaded.
She didn’t try to ignore them after that. She shifted in her seat so that she could observe the two of them without appearing to do so.
She’d give a lot to know what they were up to. Not for one moment did she believe that they were seriously pursuing her. She wished that her conceit was such that she could think so, but while she was aware that her looks had greatly improved, she knew very well that she was no beauty.
Nick and Darcy were not only two of the most eligible bachelors in England, they also happened to be the most handsome … and not just by her account. As far back as she could remember they’d had women throwing themselves at them at every opportunity, hoping to snag themselves a rich, good-looking husband.
She doubted that had changed much in the years since she’d been away.
To her consternation, she saw Nick push away from the column and stroll off toward the doors that led to the balcony.
As disturbing as it was to find that Nick had no interest in joining the court she’d managed to gather around herself, it was far more unsettling to see Darcy striding purposefully toward her.
That wasn’t nearly as disconcerting, however, as the chagrin that suffused her when Darcy strode directly past her without once glancing her way and bowed over the hand of Miss Weatherington, who was holding court to her right.
She was just wondering if she dared shift enough to see what was going on when Lord Sheffield returned with her refreshment. As he approached her from that direction, it was perfectly reasonable that she turn in that direction.
The moment she lifted her gaze, smiling her thanks at Lord Sheffield, Darcy St. James’ lazy grin filled her view. Her smile froze and it was only with a tremendous effort that she managed to complete the action she’d begun. She was too nonplussed to maintain her charade of being completely unaware of Darcy’s presence, however. Even as she took the offered drink, her eyes strayed to the unfolding drama beside her and she watched as Darcy swooped in and deftly removed Miss Lucinda Weatherington from her court of admirers, escorting her to the dance floor.
“I believe this is our dance, Lady Dunmore.”
Bronte looked up at Lord Connolly, smiling reflexively, determinedly focusing on the man smiling down at her, though she was far more attuned to the one strolling past with Lucinda Weatherington on his arm.
She looked down at the glass Lord Sheffield had only just handed her, from which she hadn’t taken the first sip. Mr. Moreland immediately offered to hold it for her. Thanking him, she handed him the glass and allowed Lord Connolly to lead her onto the floor, wondering why it was that he didn’t seem nearly as attractive to her now as he had when they had first been introduced. He was a handsome man, tall, well proportioned, but somehow his fairness, which she had admired earlier, seemed washed out.
She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that the dance was a waltz. On the one hand, she didn’t have to concern herself with the fact that she must meet up with Darcy in the movements of the dance if it had been a country dance. On the other, she was just as keenly aware that Darcy was nearby, dancing far too familiarly with Lucinda Weatherington and flirting outrageously with her--and she allowing it, the shameless hussy.
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 chi
ldhood 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.