by Julia Keaton
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 ag
ain.”
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.”