by Julia Keaton
He was offering her a way out of the mess she’d become embroiled in and she wanted to take it, but either way, if they cared for her, they would be hurt. At the very least, she wanted to tell him the truth. “I don’t honestly think that I ever thought of either of you as my brothers. I absolutely adore both of you with all my heart. I always have. I suppose I always will, though I’d hoped when I came here that I would find that I was wrong. I wish that I had not been. I wanted to find that it had been nothing more than a girlish infatuation that I had outgrown. Please, try not to hate me. I can’t help it. I couldn’t accept you, not because I don’t love you, but because I couldn’t bear to hurt Darcy … any more than I can accept him.”
“He asked you to marry him?”
Bronte sighed, laying her head on his shoulder once more. “Tell me how I can undo the harm I’ve done. I never meant to come between the two of you. I can’t bear to think I’ve destroyed the bond between you and Darcy.”
His arms tightened around her. “Shhh. Don’t worry about that.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Nick sighed wearily. “You’re right. This is a hell of a mess.”
Bronte sniffed, dabbing at her eyes and nose with his handkerchief. “It is … and it’s all my fault. I should not have come.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I’ll think of something.”
Bronte sat up, feeling a touch of hopefulness. “You will?”
He smiled a little crookedly. “I’ll have to, won’t I?”
Chapter Seventeen
The sense of hopefulness that Bronte had felt when Nick had told her that he would think of some way to solve the dilemma didn’t last. She had spent much of her time since she’d been in London trying to think of something she could live with and the only thing that had come to mind was to simply refuse to choose either of them and return home. It was just about as miserable a solution as choosing one of them, but the only thing that had come to mind that had seemed acceptable.
It was almost a relief when Darcy did not call again and press his suit. It had been difficult enough to tell Nick. She had dreaded having to go through it with Darcy as well, and decided that, perhaps, Nick had told him that she had refused them both.
It was a cowardly way to get around a difficult situation and she knew it. She owed it to Darcy to speak to him herself, not through Nick, but she could not but be glad that they had spared her that much.
Her mother had demanded to know what had transpired the moment Nick departed, naturally enough, even though she’d suspected what had transpired. She had studied Bronte with an expression almost of fascination. Bronte could see that she was torn between curiosity to know what Bronte might have done that had prompted proposals from two of England’s most confirmed bachelors and an equal desire not to know if it was what she suspected.
Bronte didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted that her mother was so stunned about the proposals.
She was very supportive of Bronte’s decision not to accept either, however, mostly because she was certain that if Bronte could wring proposals out of Nick and Darcy, she could certainly do even better. They were wealthy, of course, but not titled.
Bronte didn’t even try to explain her position. She simply reminded her mother, again, that she could not accept a proposal from a titled gentleman, even if one was forthcoming. She might not be barren, but the chances were very good that she was and it would be completely unethical to accept a proposal from anyone knowing that.
A few days after Nick’s proposal, Lord Sheffield called to invite her to go to the theater with him. He was sweet, young, eager to please, and the only one of her admirers who hadn’t vanished after Nick and Darcy had set out to clear the field.
Bronte was actually more than a little surprised to discover that they hadn’t managed to frighten him off, and she wasn’t at all certain, under the circumstances, that they might not take a good deal of exception to her going off with Lord Sheffield. She rather thought that a night out with someone less unnerving might improve her spirits, however, and decided to accept.
Lady Millford begged off at the last minute. Bronte felt like strangling her for such an obvious attempt at matchmaking, but since Lord Sheffield didn’t seem the least suspicious and she didn’t want to relieve him of his illusions, she merely begged off herself, saying she could not feel right about leaving her poor, dear, sick mother at home alone.
Lady Millford was having none of that, however. She kept insisting that Bronte go on without her until it was becoming increasingly evident, even to Lord Sheffield, that something was going on.
Bronte went, but much of her enthusiasm had waned.
It got far worse. Halfway through the play, she looked down into the pit and discovered that Nick and Darcy had arrived. She spotted them at almost the same moment they spied her.
Their expressions were so nearly identical in anger and purposefulness that it might have been amusing if it had been directed at anyone else. Bronte couldn’t like the look at all and had to fight the desire to flee before they had the chance to catch up to her.
Poor Lord Sheffield was completely unaware of his imminent danger. When the brisk knock that Bronte had been more than half expecting came at the door to his box, he merely turned to her in surprise. “Who do you suppose that is?”
Bronte sent him a helpless smile.
When it came again, more forcefully, he rose and opened the door, whereupon Darcy seized him by the lapels of his jacket, lifted him off his feet, and tossed him out the door. He was on the point of leaping to his feet when he looked up and saw Nick standing over him. One look at Nick’s face was sufficient. He subsided.
Bronte, who’d leapt to her feet, watched the exchange in stunned disbelief. “Darcy! You can’t....”
“Of course I can. I just did.”
“But … Darcy! It’s his box!”
Darcy studied her a moment and finally went to the door and snatched it open. “We have a few things of a private nature to discuss. You don’t mind if we borrow your box for a bit, do you?”
Lord Sheffield gave him a resentful glare. “Not at all,” he responded tightly.
“Thank you. Now take yourself off.”
When he closed the door once more, Nick leaned against it, folding his arms over his chest.
“Nick?” Bronte said nervously.
He lifted his drawn brows questioningly.
Before Bronte could think of anything to say, someone tried the door knob then rapped smartly at the panel of the door. Nick stepped away from the door and pulled it open. Lord Sheffield stood in the opening. “Now see here….”
He got no further. Nick’s fist caught him in a neat upper cut that snapped his head back on his shoulders. His eyes rolled back and he went down like a felled tree.
Nick and Darcy stared down at Lord Sheffield, assessing the situation. “You can’t leave him there,” Darcy pointed out. “Somebody will trip over him.”
Nick uttered an irritated sigh. “Good point. If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
“Don’t start without me.”
“Start what?” Bronte asked uneasily, watching as Nick knelt at the young man’s head, grasped him beneath his arms and stood once more, dragging him down the hallway.
Darcy closed the door and leaned against the wall, hitching up one corner of his mouth in a disreputable half-smile. “We’ll talk when Nick gets back.”
Bronte gave him a look and finally returned to her seat, flopping down in the chair and folding her arms angrily. Minutes passed. Bronte was just beginning to get uneasy about the length of time Nick had been gone when he tapped at the door and entered. “Sorry. I had to find a cabby willing to take him home without asking questions.”
Bronte got up from her chair and moved to the back of the box. “What in the world are you two doing? Half the people in the theater are staring at this box instead of the stage!”
&
nbsp; Nick frowned and moved to the front, glancing around the theater. After a moment, Darcy joined him. “What do you think?”
Nick nodded. “She’s right. They seem a bit more interested than I like.”
Grinning, Darcy waved at several of the older ladies that were giving him disapproving glares. Lifting their noses, they turned away pointedly.
“That’s the ticket,” Darcy said with satisfaction, winking at the elderly lady in the box directly across from them.
Embarrassed and irritated, Bronte moved to the rear of the theater box, glaring at their backs as they stared down the curious patrons of the theater. After a few minutes, Nick and Darcy turned to look at her and then moved toward her purposefully.
Bronte eyed them uneasily as they approached and stood towering over her. “What are you doing here?”
Darcy glanced at Nick and shrugged. “Your mother is too light a sleeper and, anyway, Nick wasn’t keen on the idea of carrying a ladder to your window. I checked. They haven’t fixed the trellis yet.”
Bronte blinked at him, then turned to look at Nick.
“But … why would you want to climb into my window at all?”
Nick studied her pensively. “Because, my darling Bronte, you have developed a very bad habit of either barring the door to us when you are distressed, or taking flight.”
Bronte flushed. “But I didn’t … this time.”
He shrugged. “There was still the little impediment of your mother and far too many servants.”
Bronte frowned. “Why would they be an impediment? To what?”
Nick and Darcy exchanged a glance. “To helping you make up your mind,” Nick responded coolly.
“About what?” Bronte asked uneasily.
“Which of us you want, darlin’,” Darcy said, a slow grin curling his lips.
“Oh … Oh no. You don’t think … you don’t mean. What do you mean?” Bronte asked nervously.
“You’re confused,” Darcy told her, not without a good deal of sympathy.
“I am?” She frowned, thinking it over. “I am, completely. I don’t understand this at all. How is this supposed to help me make up my mind?”
Nick and Darcy exchanged another look and Nick moved to the door, placing his shoulders firmly against it and folding his arms over his chest.
Bronte stared at him in dismay. “What are you doing?”
“Guarding the door,” Nick said, sounding slightly disgusted.
“Why?”
He shrugged, sending a narrow eyed glare in Darcy’s direction. “He won the toss.”
“What toss?” Bronte asked, looking up at Darcy as he pulled her into his arms.
Threading his fingers through her hair, he curled his hand around the back of her head and leaned down to brush his lips lightly across hers. Bronte stiffened, placing her palms on his shoulders and pulling away to look at him.
“Pretend he isn’t there,” Darcy murmured, lowering his head and capturing her lips beneath his.
Resistance was futile, for he held her far too tightly to escape. And in any case, the moment his lips covered hers, the moment he plunged his tongue between her lips and possessed her mouth with his heat and taste, caressing her tongue with his own, Bronte’s entire being focused upon him. Her body surrendered to the power and heat of Darcy’s without a whimper of protest to the drugging euphoria of his touch.
Desire blossomed, pumping through her blood stream like molten fire and bringing every point where their bodies brushed to pulsing, aching life until she was disoriented from the barrage of sensations pelting her beleaguered mind from every direction.
Weak, dizzy with the flood of desire, she curled her fingers into his jacket, pressing more tightly against him as if she could become one with him.
The dull scrape of a chair along the floor intruded. Reluctantly, Darcy withdrew his mouth from hers, lifting his head, gasping hoarsely.
Weakly, Bronte leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Darcy’s arms loosened around her. Gently, he disentangled her fingers from his jacket and set her away from him. She swayed, looking around in confusion as he moved away.
Nick caught her against him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as he tipped her head back against the crook of his arm to study her face. “I knew I was going to hate being second,” he muttered, caressing her cheek with one long finger.
“I don’t know why you’re complaining when I warmed her up for you,” Darcy muttered in irritation.
Nick sent him a narrow eyed glare. “Precisely because of that. How am I to tell how much is for me?”
The comment roused Bronte from her stupor sufficiently that she frowned, trying to decide what they were arguing about.
Nick smiled at her faintly. “Do I have your attention now?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, lowering his head to brush his lips lightly across hers.
Bronte sucked in a gasping breath, pulling his heated breath, his taste, his scent inside of her where it curled around her vitals, making her heart hammer erratically and forcing her lungs to labor with the effort to drag in enough air. Heat suffused her in a heady, fiery rush. “Nick,” she murmured.
He covered her mouth with his then, thrusting his tongue past her parted lips and exploring the sensitive inner surfaces of her mouth before he stroked his tongue along hers in a possessive caress. A shock wave of fire hit her, melting the strength from bone and tissue until she felt as limp as a rag doll. She lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck to hold herself upright, pressing her achingly sensitive breasts tightly against his hard chest. His arms tightened. His kiss became more demanding, devastating her senses.
When he broke the kiss at last, she leaned weakly against him, struggling to lock her knees to hold herself upright. He steadied her and finally released her, stepping back.
Bronte swayed, looked around vaguely and finally leaned back against the back wall of the box, fanning herself. “I feel a little warm. Is it warm in here?” she asked vaguely of no one in particular.
After a few moments, she noticed that Darcy and Nick were studying her with frowns on their faces.
She returned their frowns, patting her cheeks with her gloved hands in an attempt to cool down from their exchanges. “What?”
The two men exchanged a look.
“Hard to tell,” Darcy muttered, shaking his head. “Let me try again.”
Nick sent him a cool look. “Second round, I’m first.”
Bronte glanced from one man to the other, but before she’d entirely digested the gist of their conversation, Nick caught her shoulders, pinning her body between the wall and his own as he lowered his mouth to capture hers once more. She uttered a sound that was half protest, half pure delight as his essence consumed her senses in fiery delight once more. She slipped her arms around his waist, stroking his back.
He arched his hips against hers, digging his erection into her soft belly. Bronte moaned with equal parts pleasure and frustration as the pressure teased but missed the one point that needed it most, feeling heated desire flood her woman’s passage with the dampness of need.
When he drew away from her at last, they were both gasping hoarsely. Bronte opened her eyes with a strenuous effort and looked up at him reproachfully. For a moment, she thought that he would take her into his arms once more. He stiffened, but even as he reached for her Darcy grasped her around the waist, dragging her toward him and crushing her against his length.
Her entire body seemed to clench as she felt his hard body press tightly against her, felt the heated length of his cock digging into her mound. She shifted restlessly, trying to assuage the ache by rocking her hips against his. Groaning, he slipped a hand down to her buttocks, lifting her against him.
The grip of his hand on her backside served only to increase her desire. He ground against her, eliciting shivers of pleasure to course through her veins.
Just as she felt her body beginning to struggle toward her peak, h
e withdrew abruptly. Bronte staggered back a step when he let go of her, bumped against the wall. Her knees wobbled, gave out and she slid ungracefully to the floor in a heap.
Nick and Darcy knelt in front of her, studying her face as she looked up at them in utter confusion.
Nick shook his head. “I still can’t tell,” he said hoarsely.
“Can’t tell what?” Bronte gasped weakly.
Darcy dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. “Me either,” Darcy managed to gasp out finally. “Here, darlin’. Let me help you up.”
Grasping her beneath her arms, Darcy hauled her to her feet once more. Bronte swayed against him dizzily as he slipped one arm around her. Slipping his other hand inside her bodice, he bent her back over the arm he was using to support her, popped one breast from the confines of the gown, and covered it with his mouth. The moment his mouth closed over her achingly sensitive nipple, a groan was torn from her.