by Julia Keaton
Satisfied that he didn’t look like some rampaging rapist, he ran a hand over his hair and realized it was in disorder and knew he must look like a wild man. Smoothing it the best he could, he set off down the street at a good clip. He was halfway up the stairs to Nick’s townhouse when it suddenly occurred to him that Nick was the last person he wanted to run into at the moment. Turning abruptly, he headed down the stairs once more, gazed absently up and down the street and finally headed back to his apartment.
He’d never had any encounter affect him in this manner. Maybe he was growing too old for dalliances, if kissing Bronte could do this to him. Disturbing, to say the least, and he wondered the wisdom of pursuing the course if he couldn’t get a handle on his lustful emotions.
His carriage was in front of his apartment when he arrived. Glaring at it for several moments, he stalked into the house in search of his manservant.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
Kingsley paled. “You told me to pack your things and follow you down to the country estate.”
The explanation took the wind out of Darcy’s sails for about two seconds. “That was more than a week ago, and, I might add, I sure as hell didn’t tell you to pack all of my belongings! I’ve been wearing the same three outfits for more than a week and people are starting to talk! What’s more, I can’t fathom why it would take you more than a damned week to go there and back when I made it in a day!”
Kingsley flushed. “The carriage broke down twice. When I arrived at the country estate no one had seen you and it was thought that you might have been waylaid along the route by thugs. By the time we sent out inquiries, you’d already left the inn and returned to town, sir. Once I knew you’d returned to town, I loaded everything up and came back. We only broke down once on the return trip.”
Darcy stared at him in horrified fascination for several moments. “You mean to tell me you had people searching for me all over the countryside?”
“Your mother,” Kingsley supplied.
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Well, of all the cock brained things to do! You know how she is! Where are my clothes anyway?”
“I’ve unpacked them, sir. The … uh … others were in the laundry.”
“As if I’d think to look for them there!” Darcy said accusingly, stalking past his manservant and up the stairs to his room.
Chapter Nine
Bronte wasn’t certain how long she sat in the salon after Darcy had left, her emotions so tumultuous she merely stared blindly at her hands in her lap, listening to her pounding heart slow until it had resumed its natural rhythm. When her body had ceased to clamor for the release it had been denied, however, her mind began to kick into gear once more.
Darcy wasn’t the only one who’d completely forgotten himself.
They were fortunate her mother was confined to her bed and none of the servants had happened by.
She was more fortunate that Darcy had retained enough common sense not to yield to her demands.
She’d tried to seduce him. There was no point in lying to herself that she’d only meant to soothe his hurt, or make amends for the terrible things she’d thought about him.
She’d wanted to see if he desired her.
She had her answer, and yet it left her feeling dissatisfied, and not just because they hadn’t finished what they’d started. She knew she could provoke him to lust. What she didn’t know was whether his heated reaction was particular to her, or if he would have been equally excited by any female who’d crawled in his lap and fondled him.
It was perverse of her, she knew, when she’d reacted just as heatedly to Nick’s kisses, but then she’d always adored them both. Even as a young girl, she had felt just as thrilled by Nick’s attention as she was by Darcy’s.
She’d always wanted them both.
Maybe that was the real problem? It was her, not them.
Sighing, she rose finally and left the parlor. She’d just set foot on the first tread when she heard the bell ring. Her heart skipped a beat as it popped into her mind to wonder if Darcy had come back. She hesitated, listening as the butler moved to the door and opened it.
The voice wasn’t Darcy’s. The moment Nick stepped through the door, their gazes collided. She stared at him guiltily. His face hardened purposefully. Without even stopping to consider what she was doing, Bronte hiked her skirts to her knees and fled up the stairs.
She heard Nick’s brisk stride as he crossed the hallway and came after her. He caught up to her in the upper hallway, grabbing her around the waist and jerking her to a halt.
“Lady Dunmore! Shall I summon the footmen?” her butler called from below.
Bronte looked at Nick uneasily, envisioning the struggle that was bound to ensue if her footmen tried to oust him. “No,” she said finally.
“Good choice. You and I have unfinished business,” Nick ground out. Glancing around, he pulled her into the upstairs morning room and closed the door firmly behind them.
“The servants will talk,” Bronte said uneasily.
“But you don’t particularly care, do you?” Nick asked tightly, releasing her finally although he did not move away.
Bronte blinked, trying to think what he was talking about. As she stared at him, however, she noticed the bruising beneath his eyes. “You fought with Darcy!” she said accusingly.
Something flickered in his eyes. “It was a boxing match at the gym,” he said smoothly. “Don’t change subject.”
“I’m not sure what the subject is,” she said evasively, having finally remembered the words she’d flung at him the last time she saw him.
“I think you do,” Nick said grimly.
Bronte studied him with an assessing glance. “Which part are you objecting to?”
His lips tightened and that coldly devilish gleam entered his eyes. “Both, but most definitely the last.”
She forced a disbelieving laugh. “You, of all people, are chastising me?”
“It was hardly ladylike,” he retorted grimly.
Bronte’s eyes narrowed. “But then I never was much of a lady, was I?” she shot back at him.
“If you mean to blame that on me, too, Bronte, I’m going to be severely tempted to turn you over my knee and paddle your backside.”
Finding she simply could not resist the temptation to provoke him, she leaned closer. “Naughty Nick. You want to play with my backside, don’t you?” she whispered.
When she straightened, she saw his face was taut, stony. He swallowed thickly. “Take care, Bronte, or you’ll find yourself on your back with your skirts over your head. I’ve only so much self-control and it’s wearing thin,” he ground out.
The threat alone was enough to make the muscles in her belly clench. Lifting a hand, she placed it lightly on his chest.
He caught her wrist when she began to slide her palm downward.
She stared at him a moment and swayed toward him, lifting her lips in offering even as she slipped her other hand between them and cupped his cock.
A shudder went through him and then, like a dam breaking, he lost control, surging toward her, carrying her backwards until she collided with the wall behind her, his mouth covering hers with savage hunger. Her unappeased desire from before erupted inside of her like a lava flow, fire pouring through her the instant he thrust his tongue into her mouth possessively.
He moved against her, pressing his swollen member into her belly rhythmically. Bronte groaned into his mouth, trying to shift so that she could feel him against her clit. As if sensing her need, he withdrew slightly, cupping his hand over her mound, pressing his fingers against her in a kneading motion that was almost more torment than relief.
He tore his mouth from hers after a moment, pressing his lips along her jaw to her neck, breathing harshly against the crook between her neck and shoulder as he fought for control. Abruptly, almost as if he’d come to a decision, he scooped one breast from the low cut gown she wore and covered it with his mouth.
He lifted his head, gazing into her eyes. “Spread your legs for me, honey,” he murmured hoarsely.
She complied, her eyes sliding closed as he found the slit in her pants and slipped his fingers through, caressing her bare flesh at last, delving into her cleft until he touched her clit. She inhaled sharply as he began stroking her, teasing the tiny bud and evoking jolt after jolt of exquisite sensation.
Moisture tickled the lips of her sex, and he used her body’s response against her, rubbing the cream over the swollen nub with expertly practiced movements.
Her cleft spasmed, jerking with need. She found herself gasping and rubbing against him, tangling her hands in his hair and gripping his jacket. It was all she had to keep her on her feet, for her thighs and knees felt incapable of supporting her own weight.
Nick shoved a leg between her thighs, letting her ride the hard ridge of his leg as he toyed with her clit.
He covered her breast with his mouth once more, suckling as he stroked her, building the tension inside of her until she felt her body surging toward the completion she so desperately needed.
Delicious spasms of pleasure raked through her limbs, radiating out from her center. When her body began to quake with imminent release, he lifted his head from her breasts, covering her mouth, absorbing her cries until she ceased to shudder against his hand.
He rested his forehead on the wall behind her for many moments afterward, holding her, struggling with his own needs.
Finally, he lifted his head, sought her lips and kissed her with such infinite tenderness, Bronte felt a terrible sense of loss, of confusion.
“Don’t let your hate drive you into doing something we’ll both regret, Bronte,” he said quietly as he pulled away from her at last.
With a tremendous effort, Bronte opened her eyes and looked at him. She found she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of a thing to say. Turning away from her after a moment, he moved to the door and opened it.
“I don’t hate you, Nick,” she murmured as the door closed behind him. “That’s the problem. I love you … and I love Darcy, too, and now I don’t know what to do.”
Weakly, Bronte moved to the sofa and sat down, drawing her knees up and hugging them to herself.
He’d took what she said to heart, she realized, that she had needs, and he’d assuaged them to keep her from looking elsewhere. She covered her face with her hands.
He and Darcy had fought. She didn’t think she was flattering herself to think it had been over her. They’d been friends as far back as she could remember, and further than she could remember. Naturally, there wasn’t always harmony between them, but she’d never known them to batter each other in such a way.
She was going to destroy that bond and nothing would ever be the same.
She couldn’t do that to them. She loved them too much. Even if she hadn’t been so torn that she couldn’t choose between them, choosing one over the other would pit them against each other.
She wished suddenly that she’d never returned to England.
She wished she could simply pack her bags and flee back to her adoptive country, leaving the mess she’d made behind her.
This was why she couldn’t indulge her fantasies about Nick and Darcy. When she’d thought about it, she’d never considered that either of them might care enough about her to be hurt by it.
She frowned at that thought, wondering suddenly if she’d misunderstood. Maybe she wrong? Maybe it wasn’t an emotional attachment at all. Perhaps the fight had only been because of that fierce competition between them?
Perhaps.
She couldn’t chance it though. It made her feel a little better to think that she could be wrong about hurting either of them. She could live with them being angry with her for trying to seduce them and then backing off without satisfying either one of them. In truth, it was probably for the best.
She would have to choose a lover, she decided. Revolted as she was at the idea, she knew it was the only way out of the mess she’d created. Once Darcy and Nick saw that she’d shunned them in favor of another man, they’d probably be disgusted with her, probably think she was completely without morals, but at least they wouldn’t be fighting with each other over her.
Chapter Ten
Despite his discomfort, Nick wasn’t displeased as he left Bronte’s. He had not imagined that Bronte would be so passionate. She’d been on fire for him almost from the moment he’d touched her, responding to him as readily as she had before, perhaps even more heatedly. His body, which had barely begun to cool, was instantly rock hard once more with only the thought of her to sustain him.
With an effort, he turned his thoughts elsewhere, willing his body to cool down. His encounter with Bronte plagued his thoughts throughout the remainder of the day.
Finally, beleaguered almost beyond bearing, he decided to go out to his club for the evening to find something to occupy his mind. Without a great deal of surprise, he found Darcy already ensconced at the table they generally occupied. As he arrived, Darcy flung his hand on the table and got up.
“My luck’s out tonight. Think I’ll take a turn outside and try again,” he muttered, departing without once glancing in Nick’s direction or acknowledging his presence.
One of the men at the table laughed. “You know what they say about luck.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed as he watched Darcy stride from the room.
The game broke up shortly after Darcy’s departure and the players got up and drifted off. Nick took a seat, summoned the waiter to bring him a drink and a new deck of cards and settled back in his chair, thinking.
As they had all day, his thoughts drifted to Bronte once more. His body reacted instantly and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if he should simply give in his body’s demands and make a trip to his favorite brothel.
His body promptly cooled, and he frowned, vaguely irritated. He felt an odd sense of disquiet also, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on just what it was that was bothering him.
When the waiter had brought his drink, he sipped it, musing, idly shuffling the cards. Finally, he decided the disquiet was centered around Bronte. He just wasn’t entirely sure why he felt the uneasiness. She’d seemed quiet when he’d left her, but he’d felt her come. There was certainly nothing unusual about being lethargic afterward.
A couple of his acquaintances drifted over to the table and suggested a game.
He nodded absently, settling back in his chair to finish his drink while one of the men went in search of a fourth. He returned some time later with Darcy.
Nick glanced up at Darcy as he took a seat across from him.
Darcy’s gaze skated away. He lifted his hand, summoning a waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.
Nick frowned, passing the deck of cards to the man beside him, who dealt them. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of days,” he murmured, his gaze on Darcy.
The two men on either side of him glanced at him and then at Darcy. Darcy looked up, a frown on his face. “What?”
Nick arched one dark brow. “Preoccupied?”
Darcy stared at him blankly for several moments, a red tide slowly climbing his throat to his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “No. I just didn’t hear you,” he growled irritably, focusing on his hand. He discarded a couple of his cards. “Two.”
“It’s not your turn.”
“Oh. What were you saying, Nick?”
Nick studied him for several moments feeling an unaccustomed sense of violence invade him. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Bront--Lady Dunmore recently?”
“Saw her this morning. Why?�
�� Darcy asked challengingly.
Nick narrowed his gaze on Darcy. “What time?” Nick asked coldly.
Darcy shrugged. “Noonish, I guess.”
The two men glanced up quickly at the scrape of Nick’s chair as he rose abruptly. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?” Nick murmured, coolly polite. “Might I have a word with you, Darcy?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Something private?”
“Precisely. Outside.”
Darcy led the way. The moment he’d cleared the door, he turned on Nick. “What?”
Nick’s fist slammed into his face so hard he staggered back several steps. Regaining his balance, he let out a roar of rage and charged Nick, catching him around the waist and slamming him into the back of the building. Briefly, they tussled before they separated.