Their Wicked Ways (7 page)

“But Bronte wasn’t?”

“She gave me this wounded
look and told me she’d acquired it from growing up with heedless young men,
which I took to mean the three of us.  Which I thought was grossly unjust when
we let her tag along with us most of the time, when most guys wouldn’t have
considering she was a girl and nearly half our age to boot!  It was what she
said after that, though, that bothered me.”

“You weren’t the least
perturbed about being accused of tormenting her?

“I never did!” Darcy said
indignantly. “You know damned well that was Isaac. I used to tease her, but she
knew I was teasing.”  He thought it over. “I thought she knew it, anyway.”

“I suppose I thought so, too,
but apparently it looked differently from her perspective.  In any case, as
someone who has had a brotherly interest in her for more than half her life, I should
be asking you what you’re intentions are.”

Darcy gaped at him in
outrage. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me that was a brotherly kiss I
witnessed at the Sheffield’s ‘do’ the other night?”

Nick flushed faintly.  “Call
it … curiosity.”

“I call it a damned outrage!”
Darcy snarled.  “At least I had the good sense to take her onto the balcony!”

“You damned well know that
your judgment wasn’t the least whit better than my own,” Nick retorted sharply.

“Well, at least you admit
yours wasn’t!”

Nick studied him through
narrowed eyes for several moments.  “As it happens I’ve been giving some
thought to settling.”

“Well, if you’ve set your
sights on Bronte, you can just unset them!  In the first place, Bronte informed
me that once was enough.  In the second, I’ve more than half a mind to settle
myself, and I’m thinking I might have a try at changing her mind.”

“She said that?” Nick asked
sharply.

“That’s what I was trying to
tell you.  And what’s more, she said even if she decided to marry again, it
wouldn’t be an Englishman.  She’s determined to go back to America.”

Chapter Eight

The insidious thing about
lust, Bronte reflected, was that it had no conscience and no master.  She had
certainly not forgiven either Darcy or Nick, not for the wounds that had never
healed, and not for their assumption that she was easy pickings.

Unfortunately, she was.  She
didn’t delude herself that it had anything to do with a drought of sexual
relations in general.  Isaac had been gone many years, and she hadn’t suffered
unduly for the lack of a bed companion.  If she had, there were plenty willing
and able to fill her needs.

She would’ve liked to think
she hadn’t accepted because she was too good, too much a lady.  She didn’t
delude herself about that either.  She hadn’t because she hadn’t been greatly
tempted.

Now, she was.  The devil sat
upon her shoulder day and night--mostly at night, reminding her that there was
really no reason why she shouldn’t indulge her private fantasies.  She had no
intention of remaining in England, so even if a scandal broke, and there was no
saying that one would, it was immaterial to her.  She wasn’t looking for a
husband, had no intention of remarrying, so what difference did it make if her
reputation did go down the drain?

She was barren.  Regardless
of what her mother seemed to think, she was convinced of it.  Isaac might not
have relished his duty, but he’d performed it.  He’d had plenty of time to get
a child on her if it was possible.  She’d only gone to a doctor about it to
confirm her suspicions.

It seemed fairly certain,
even if there was still a remote chance of it, that she needn’t worry about
bearing a child out of wedlock.

With no real obstacles, it
was very difficult to figure out a good reason
not
to do as she pleased.

Her mother would die of shame
if her reputation was ruined.

But her mother certainly
wouldn’t die, and so long as she was discreet, that wasn’t a real obstacle
either.

She hated them.

She’d repeated that phrase
like a mantra every time her thoughts had strayed to either of them over the
years, and it was obvious to her now that it hadn’t done the least bit of
good.  She was angry with them.  She was hurt, but if she’d hated them as she
honestly thought she did, she would be revolted at the very thought of either
one of them touching her.  She certainly wouldn’t have responded as she had. 
And there was no point in telling herself it was only lust.  It simply wasn’t
possible, not for her at least, to lust after someone she hated.  She didn’t think
she could even lust after a man she just plain disliked.

She managed to avoid both
Darcy and Nick for nearly a week, mostly because they seemed to be avoiding
her.  She discovered why when Darcy came to call.

Her mother had taken to her
bed and she was alone in the parlor when the butler announced him. 
Treacherously, her heart began to flutter with anticipation even before he came
in.  One look at his face, however, was enough to make her gasp.

He reddened, grinning
sheepishly.  “That bad?”

Bronte put her hand over her
wildly beating heart.  “Uh … no,” she lied.

Darcy chuckled. “You never
were a very good liar, Bronte.  Don’t, whatever you do, take into your head to
take up poker.  Take my word for it, you’d lose your … purse.”

Her lips twitched. “I’d been
considering taking it up.  I think I’d be good at.”

He settled in the chair
across from her.  “You thought you’d be good at riding, too, but I’ve never
seen anybody with a worse seat.”

“I ride very well now, thank
you,” she said primly.  “I hardly ever fall off.”  She studied his face.  “It
looks painful.  What happened?”

“Well, darlin’,” he drawled. 
“There were five of them as I recall....”

Bronte chuckled.  “Don’t spin
me one of your yarns.”

His eyes gleamed with
repressed laughter.  “But it’s so much more interesting than what actually
happened.”

Bronte felt her throat close
as she studied his face, remembering that look so well from her childhood.  The
laughter was directed mostly at himself, to hide a touch of guilt, a bit of embarrassment. 
He’d looked at her in just that way the time she’d caught him coming out of the
barn on Isaac’s lands.

She’d heard giggles inside
and known Isaac, and probably Nick, were both in the barn with some other
girl.  She’d been so hurt and angry that they hadn’t invited her to play with
them when they had invited some other girl.  She’d stalked off, but she hadn’t
gone home.  She’d hidden and waited until the others came out and then she’d
caught up with Isaac and told him she would tell his mother about him being in
the barn when none of them were supposed to play in the barn.

Isaac had been so furious
with her he’d boxed her ears and told her he’d do something really nasty if she
told.

She hadn’t.  She hadn’t
really intended to anyway.  She’d only wanted to get even with them for
excluding her by scaring them and making them think she would get them in
trouble.

Afterwards, she’d been too
upset to think about anything except what Isaac had done.

Realizing now why they
wouldn’t let her ‘play’ she wondered how many other times she’d stumbled upon
something similar, something she had been far too young to know about, or
understand.  She’d had no business following the boys around anyway.  They were
boys, and much older, even Isaac, who’d been younger than Nick and Darcy, but
there’d been no girls near her age, and she’d been so lonesome for company, and
much of the time Nick and Darcy had been good-natured enough to allow it.

Rising abruptly, she moved to
Darcy and leaned toward him, catching his face between her palms.  “Whatever
happened,” she said smiling faintly, “I have an idea it’s something that
shouldn’t have happened, but I’ll make it all better anyway.”

He stiffened when she touched
her lips lightly to the bruise beneath his right eye.

She leaned back a little. 
“Better?”

She heard him swallow and saw
a muscle twitch in his hard jaw.  He made a half-hearted attempt at one of his
cocky grins.  “I hurt my lip, too.”

She studied him a moment,
feeling her heart speed up, and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth.

He caught her around the
waist, pulling her onto his lap.

She lifted her brows, but she
made no attempt to escape.  “More?”

“God yes,” Darcy murmured
hoarsely, slipping one hand behind her head as he closed the distance that separated
them, molding his lips to hers briefly, then brushing them lightly along hers.

Her lips tingled at the
contact.  Desire surged through her with a vengeance, sucking the air from her
lungs.  Her lips parted as she dragged in a breath laced with the warmth and
scent of his.  Exhaling harshly, he opened his mouth over hers, pulling her
more tightly against him as he raked his tongue along her lower lip and then
plunged inside.

The moment his tongue caressed
hers, it felt as if every cell in her body jerked, tensed, then melted as
warmth spread through her.  She felt a tremor run through his body.  Her body
answered with a quiver of its own, tightening with expectancy.

She settled closer.  Finding
her palms flattened against his upper chest, she began a slow exploration of
the body beneath the layers of clothing, skating her palms up and across his
broad shoulders, down along his arms and then back to his chest, following the
contours of his chest from his shoulders to his hard belly.  She hadn’t
realized how truly immense he was until she found herself on his lap, dwarfed
by his size, and it both surprised and delighted her.

Her desire burgeoned, urging
her to search for more pleasurable contact.  She ceased to be an accepting
vessel and struck off on an exploration of her own, stroking her tongue along
his, closing her mouth around his thrusting tongue and suckling.  And as she
did, she slid her hand lower, along his thigh, searching.

A jolt went through him as
she discovered the turgid flesh she’d been seeking, cupped her hand over it,
pressing down as she explored its length and breadth.  Feeling the size of it
made moisture seep into her slit with desire.  Her muscles quivered with acute
longing to have that broad length plunged deep inside her.

He tore his mouth from hers,
gasping hoarsely, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.  “God!  Don’t!” He growled,
grasping her wrist.  “I’ll explode.”  The words were no sooner out of his mouth
than his eyes popped open.  Color flooded his face.  “My God, Bronte!  I’m
sorry, darlin’.  I forgot myself.”

Bronte slipped one hand
behind his head, squirming on his hard lap, teasing him and feeling her desire
increase at his reaction.  “Shut up, Darcy,” she murmured, pressing her lips to
his once more, urging him to taste of her, longing to taste him again.

The invitation was too much
for him.  The floodgates he’d barely restrained broke.  He ravaged her mouth
with savage possession, running shaking hands over her body, pulling her
tightly against him and then pushing her away to explore her with his hands
again.

His hand skated over her hip
and around her thigh, fingers curving into her mound just as she slid her
tongue into his mouth.  Bronte thrilled at his groan, the suction of his mouth,
and the pressure of his fingers so close to where she needed them.  She knew it
would be exciting to kiss him, to hold him like this and be caressed in return,
but fantasy hadn’t prepared her for actuality. 

Touching him surged through
her system with drugging effect, leaving her achy and feverish and longing for
more.  Her channel wept with need, preparing to accept his invasion if he would
only cease to tease her with his fingers.  The thin cloth of her day dress and
chemise were far too thick in her mind.  What she needed was to be free of the
encumbrance so she could enjoy Darcy the way he was meant to be enjoyed.

She crowded her chest against
his, crushing her breasts against his chest as she squirmed in his lap.  The
thought of standing so that she could shift around and straddle him occurred to
her, tempting her beyond reason.

Abruptly, he tore his mouth
from hers and surged to his feet, allowing her to slide down his length,
steadying her briefly and then releasing her so abruptly she swayed
unsteadily.  He looked wildly around the room, raking a shaking hand through
his hair and bringing it to total disorder.  “My God!  The front parlor no less! 
Hell and damnation.  I have to go.  NOW!”

Bronte placed a palm over his
thundering heart, looking at him imploringly and feeling her kiss-swollen lips
throb in time to her heart.  “Wait.”

He grasped her shoulders
almost painfully and set her away from him.  “Before God, Bronte,” he said
through gritted teeth.  “If you touch me one more time I’m going to throw you
down on the floor and fuck you senseless without a care who comes in and sees
us.”

Bronte collapsed weakly in
the chair he’d just vacated as he strode from the room like a man with the
hounds of hell behind him.

Darcy stood in the street
outside for ten minutes before he remembered he’d decided to walk to Bronte’s
house.  “God!” he growled abruptly, grimacing.  “I said fuck.”  He rubbed a shaking
hand over his face, trying to decide whether he’d seen shock or anger on her
face, but he couldn’t seem to remember anything except that she’d looked
thoroughly kissed, her eyes still slumberous with desire.

He could smell her perfume
all over his skin.  Just smelling her made his blood boil all over again.  He
adjusted his decreasing erection, hoping it wasn’t too noticeable to anyone he
passed by on the street.

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.