His Wicked Ways

New Concepts Publishing www.newconceptspublishing.com Copyright ©2004 by Jaide Fox First published by New Concepts Publishing, September 2004 NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

HIS WICKED WAYS by Jaide Fox © copyright by Jaide Fox, September 2004 Cover Art by Eliza Black ISBN 1-58608-343-0 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One It would have been difficult for even their closest friends to say whether Darcy St. James and Nicholas Cain were the best of friends or the most devoted of rivals. The truth was they had been nearly inseparable from early childhood, and they were, and had always been, both. Although the contest between them was not nearly so obvious as it had been when they were green boys, those who knew them well were always aware of the war constantly waged between them beneath polite smiles and impeccable manners in almost every aspect of their lives as each strove to best the other at whatever they set their hand to. They might almost have been mistaken for twins. Aside from the fact that one rarely saw one that the other did not also appear, both men were tall and dark, both were Corinthians of some repute, and both were womanizers of even more renowned repute. Darcy, the broader of the two and the tallest by several inches, was known to be something of a charming rogue. His mother had often lamented that he had more the look of a pirate than the younger

son of a peer of the realm with his unruly, dark brown hair and the irrepressible gleam to be found in his hazel gold eyes more often than not, as if he were contemplating some devilment he found supremely amusing. She didn't believe it, of course, only that he appeared to be a rogue. She could not be persuaded to consider that any of her children were not perfect in every way and would have been greatly disturbed to know how close she was to the truth. He had little reason to take life seriously. As the third of four sons, he was too far removed from the succession to concern himself with the responsibilities inherent in his father's estate as a Duke of the realm, and he certainly had no need to marry and produce an heir of his own. He had enjoyed a brief stint in His Majesty's militia, but the death of a fond, and very wealthy, aunt had left him rather well set up. At thirty, he had left his wilder years behind, but despite many a hopeful glance cast his way by the unattached females of the ton, he showed no inclination to settle and raise a brood in his own image. Of the two, Nicholas was the more somber and, whereas Darcy was accounted a charming rogue, Nicholas, with his steely blue eyes and coal black hair, was considered a cold devil, nearly as deadly with his rapier sharp wit as with sword or pistol on the dueling field. He was slighter than Darcy, but it was not something generally noticed by those unfortunate enough to fall on his bad side. He was said to be the image of his father, the late Marquis of Kent, who'd died at the ripe old age of five and seventy, supporting the old adage that the good died young and the wicked lived long and prospered. It certainly seemed true of Nicholas, who had parlayed his modest inheritance as a fourth son into a sizable fortune, most of it, many said, at the gambling tables. Whether true or merely a reluctance to give the devil his due, rumor had it that he was by far the wealthiest of any of the old Marquis’ brood, including his eldest brother, the new Marquis. The rivalry between the two was never heated and had not once over the years formed even the smallest wedge between them, not surprising since they were so evenly matched that if one triumphed today, it would almost certainly be the other who came out the victor the following day. Their ongoing contest was limited, however, to a test of skill, wit, strength and stamina in games of chance, racing, pugilism, or fencing. So far as anyone could see, it had never extended to a rivalry for the favors of the fairer sex. They had been known to swap, and sometimes share, their mistresses and since Nicholas, at one and thirty, showed no more inclination to marry than Darcy, their friendship had never been tested on the more serious matter of finding a bride. It occurred to William Moreland as he tossed his hopeless hand onto the table in disgust to wonder if it was at all possible that he might see the day he bested the two of them, or even one of the two. “That's it for me,” he muttered, stretching his cramped limbs and glancing around the virtually deserted men's club in search of a passing servant he might send to fetch him another drink. “My luck's out tonight." Boyd, the hopeless optimist who'd made up their fourth, pulled his attention from his own hand long enough to send William a sympathetic glance. “I'm sure it'll turn soon, William. It has to,” he added simply. William grimaced. “If by that you mean ‘or I won't have a farthing to my name', you're not far off, but you've been saying that for a good fortnight now, and lady luck has yet to favor me." Darcy and Nicholas exchanged a speaking glance before Darcy sent him a speculative look. “It's not as serious as that, surely?"

William forced a halfhearted chuckle, shaking his head. “I'm not quite rolled up, but near enough I'm thinking of rusticating for a bit ... if my luck doesn't turn soon." Darcy grinned. “It must be bad if you're considering a visit to your dear old aunt." "Not that!” William muttered with an exaggerated shudder, suppressing the urge to grind his teeth and thereby set off speculation as to his true reasons for leaving town, which involved a female to be sure, but not of the lower classes. The sad truth was that he damned near was rolled up and his fond mama had been hounding him to present himself to a young, wealthy widow only just returned to England from an extended visit to relatives in the Americas. As reluctant as he was even to consider it, he was very much afraid he'd reached a point where his wishes were not nearly as important as his pockets, particularly since his ‘dear old aunt’ showed no signs of failing health. “I met a cozy armful the last time I was down that way." "A country maid?” Boyd asked with interest. "A clever milk maid,” William responded and chuckled at the look on Boyd's face. “You are far too green to be playing with the likes of these two if you think by that that I'm referring to bovines, which I can see that you do." Boyd's brows descended in a perplexed frown. “Goats, you mean?" Darcy burst out laughing and even Nicholas’ lips twitched on the verge of a smile. "No,” the three of them said almost in unison. Catching the eye of a servant at last, William ordered a round for the table and settled back to study Boyd with keen interest. “Here's a youngster who needs to be taken under someone's wing." Boyd flushed. “I can take care of myself,” he said stiffly. William lifted his hand and gestured at Darcy and Nicholas. “But, my lad, you see before you two of the most notable Corinthians in all of England, both of whom have also been touted as England's greatest lover. You can not go wrong to be advised by such paragons of manhood such as Darcy St. James and Nicholas Cain." Boyd's eyes widened slightly. “Is that who you are, then? I hadn't made the connection.” He frowned after a moment. “The greatest lover by whose authority?" "The ladies." "They talk of such things?” Boyd demanded, aghast and obviously chagrined at the notion. "Among themselves,” William said, grinning, “but one hears these things." Boyd thought that over before glancing first at Darcy and then Nicholas speculatively. “There can be only one ‘greatest',” he said simply. Nicholas and Darcy, who'd returned their attention to their cards, looked up at that, exchanging a challenging glance.

William had no sooner observed it than his mind kicked into high gear and began to formulate and discard one plan after another. “From the mouths of babes ... I hadn't actually given it a thought,” he murmured slowly. “I suppose, if I were a betting man, I'd put my money on Nicholas." Darcy sent him a look. “Why is that?" William shrugged. In truth, he had no reason to suppose either man lacking in prowess since, to his knowledge, neither man had left behind a female with complaints in that direction. They were more inclined to go into a decline when Nicholas and Darcy moved on than to complain that they had lingered overlong. He'd suggested it for the simple reason that he thought Darcy more inclined to rise to the challenge than Nicholas. “Something my mistress said about deep waters ... or maybe it was still waters?" When he glanced at Nicholas, he saw that those steely blue eyes were narrowed upon his face speculatively. “What are you about, I wonder?” he murmured coolly. William felt a faint flush rise in his cheeks. “Nothing. Only that, as Boyd pointed out, ‘greatest’ suggests the single best of all others." "I sense a challenge ... and a wager,” Darcy murmured lazily. “I'm game." "I, on the other hand, am not,” Nicholas said coolly. William feigned a look of stunned surprise. “Refusing a challenge?" "Is that what it was?" Resisting the urge to tug at his cravat, which suddenly seemed uncomfortably tight, William glanced at the three faces before him and finally shrugged. “Isn't the proposal of a wager always a challenge of sorts?" "A proper wager involves chance, or skills, but in either case, it is a contest where a clear winner can be determined. In this particular case, it could not ... even if there were a true challenge, which there is not." "Why not?” Boyd asked, suddenly interested once more. Nicholas studied him speculatively for several moments. “Put simply, the ladies of the demimonde can be had for coin, the daughters of the ton for a wedding ring, and the bored wives of the ton for a smile and wink." Boyd was obviously aghast, and disbelieving besides. “You're saying there would be no point in wagering on it because you could have any female you chose, merely by casting your handkerchief in her direction?” he demanded. Nicholas and Darcy exchanged a glance. "Yes,” Darcy said emphatically. William thought long and hard about the wager. The truth was, he considered his chances with the ‘fair’ widow virtually nil, particularly since he had no burning desire to acquire a wife at all and certainly not one who'd been rusticating in the Americas for the past five years and was probably a complete

bumpkin. Besides, from what his mother had had to say, he rather thought her perfect for his purposes. In all of England, what female would be more resistant to the two of them than one who had reason to hate them both? “Just suppose a female might be found who would present a challenge? You are certainly right about the majority of England's fair ladies, and also about determining a winner in such a contest, but suppose the challenge was to see which of the two of you could succeed in seducing a female disinclined to favor either of you?" "Why do I have the feeling you have someone particular in mind?” Nicholas asked dryly. William reddened. “Actually, she only came to mind because my mother mentioned her to me when I dined with her earlier this evening." "You can not mean to bandy a lady's name about in a gentleman's club,” Boyd put in disapprovingly. Nicholas gave him a look that caused the color to leave his face for several moments before it rushed back with a vengeance. “As little as I like being chastised by a green boy, he's right,” Nicholas said coolly, turning his attention to William once more. William squirmed uncomfortably. “If you will but notice, we have cleared the room." Darcy glanced around in apparent surprise. “It must be later than I thought." "Nigh on sunrise,” William pointed out, after studying his watch for a moment through blurry eyes. “If you've no interest in the bet, I suppose I'll take my leave." "Just out of curiosity, the lady's name?" "Lady Dunmore." "Dunmore?” Boyd exclaimed, aghast. “She must be five and sixty if she's a day!" William gave him a quelling look. “I mean young Lady Dunmore, the widow of her son." "Bronte?” Nicholas asked, startled.

Chapter Two "Isaac's widow?” Nicholas demanded coldly at almost the same moment. “I must say, that's very bad form even for you, Moreland." "In any case,” Darcy drawled, “we've known her since she was a child. You must know her father's estate marches with my father's." "And my brother's,” Nicholas said. "Even if we didn't consider her off limits, being Isaac's widow, it wouldn't be a fair bet for the simple reason that she had a mad crush on me for years when she was a little girl,” Darcy added. “Don't get me wrong, for I was always rather fond of her in a brotherly way, but as I recall, she was a bit of an awkward filly—freckled as bedamned and boyish to boot, always trying to follow me and Nicholas and Isaac about and do whatever we did. Chances are that if the marriage hadn't been arranged between

Isaac's parents and hers, she would've ended up an old maid, despite her portion. "Women like that are far too desperate for the attention of a male to be any challenge at all." "Well, that settles that,” William said, rising from his chair and trying not to look as outdone as he felt. “I will beg your pardon for my poor taste in suggesting her. For my part, my money's still on Nick, however. If you two do decide to take up the challenge, you will let me know?" Nick watched him go. When they'd finished their hand, he rose, as well. “I'm for bed." Without a word, Darcy got up, stretched in a leisurely manner and followed him out. "I'd a bit too much to drink,” Darcy confessed while they waited for their horses to be brought around. Nick eyed him coolly. “Moreland's discreet enough. I only hope the same can be said for young Boyd." Darcy looked at Nick uncomfortably. “It's not as if it's something that could not be observed by anyone who spent five minutes in her company. It's a shame she inherited the look of her father rather than her mother, but an inescapable fact ... poor, homely mite." "But she is the widow of a dear friend, and a neighbor. I don't like to think word might get back her, particularly since your comments are as often attributed to me as to you,” Nick responded pensively. “I've a notion to rusticate for bit." Darcy's eyes widened. “In the middle of the season? You're not thinking of taking Moreland up on his bet?" Nick sent him a look. Darcy nodded. The silent communication between the two of them had the tendency to disconcert their peers, but, having been developed over a number of years, it was finely tuned by now and, as often as not, completely unnecessary for either of them to verbalize their thoughts. "I haven't seen Bronte since the services for Isaac,” Darcy said thoughtfully, then frowned. “Actually, now that I think of it, not even then. She was indisposed when I went to pay my respects." "Precisely." "I'm not certain I get your point." "Does it not strike you as odd that Moreland suggested Bronte?" "Absurd, indiscreet, and completely unsporting. I'm not sure about the ‘odd'." "As you so rudely pointed out, she was inclined to follow us about like a puppy desperate to please when she was child. Moreland would have no way of knowing that, but he could hardly fail to know that we knew her well. Why, I wonder, would he consider it a challenge for either of us to seduce her?" Darcy thought it over, frowning. “You think, maybe, she considers us somehow responsible for Isaac's

death?” he demanded, outraged at the injustice of it. Nick shrugged, taking the reins of his horse as the groom brought it up to him and hoisting himself into the saddle. “On the surface, it would not seem likely. On the other hand, she was not there at the time, and I can think of no other reason why Bronte might avoid us—she was indisposed when I went to pay my respects, as well—and yet Moreland must have some reason to suppose she would not welcome us, don't you think?” he said when Darcy had mounted his own horse. The two fell silent as they negotiated their way through London's streets. Once they'd arrived at Nick's lodgings, however, Darcy dismounted and followed him inside. “You are not seriously contemplating taking that bet?" Nick gave him a look. “Sleeping over?" Darcy looked around in momentary confusion. “I might as well borrow your couch for a few hours." "Take the guest room, by all means. The bed will accommodate that frame of yours far better, and it will spare the springs of my couch. I'll send my man round to you in a bit." "I couldn't help but notice you didn't answer my question,” Darcy said wryly, following him down the hallway. Nick paused at his door and glanced back at his long time friend. “As you pointed out, it would hardly be sporting of me, would it?" Darcy frowned, remembering the dirty faced child of their youth, and the skinny, freckled bride she'd become. “No,” he said slowly. Nick turned the door knob and opened his door. “In any case, what would be the point?" Darcy shrugged. "We both know I'm the greatest,” Nick said, throwing his friend a laughing look as he entered his room and closed the door soundly behind him. Darcy chuckled. “Says you?” he growled to the vibrating panel. He waited a moment, but he hadn't really expected Nick to rise to the bait. After a moment, he strode down the hall to the ‘guest’ room he generally used when he was too tired, or too drunk, to find his way back to his own apartments. He was not nearly as amused when he rose late that afternoon to discover that Nick had risen several hours earlier and, according to his notably astonished butler, departed for his brother's estate. Chagrined to realize Nick had at least an hour's head start on him, he departed for his own quarters only long enough to clean up and order his manservant to pack his bags for an indeterminate stay in the country and follow him as quickly as possible in the traveling coach. Nick was traveling by coach, and although it was not the sort of clumsy convenience that could be counted on to bog down somewhere along the road, and Nick's horses were of the finest blood, he figured riding horseback would give him an advantage and that he could catch up to Nick long before he reached his destination. In any case, Nick was bound to stop at the inn in Haversham for the night.

He was almost put out when he discovered Nick waiting for him in the common room. "Trouble on the road?” Nick inquired with interest. "Nothing more than slogging through the damnable mire of the road,” Darcy retorted irritably. Amusement flared briefly in Nick's eyes. “I thought as much. You seem to be wearing a great deal of it." Nick, of course, was immaculate as usual and not one hair out of place. Darcy surveyed him with some dudgeon, envisioning his own untamed locks. Wavy at the best of times, it took no more than a little damp to twist it into unmanageable ringlets. “I was not traveling by coach." "I would not have guessed,” Nick retorted wryly. Darcy sprawled on the bench opposite him, looking around for a barmaid. "I had expected you an hour since,” Nick said pensively. “I have had dinner set back. I expect it will be inedible." Somewhat appeased by that glad intelligence, Darcy caught the eye of one of the barmaids and favored her with a wink and a taste of the smile that made female hearts everywhere flutter. “I'm in no mood to be particular tonight. My horse was beginning to look good to me." Nick's dark, arched brows, rose a notch. “You refer, I presume, to your stomach?" Darcy reddened. “I'm not in the mood for your peculiar brand of humor, Nick. I've not had a bite to eat since I first woke, and that hardly sustained me through the first league. I wish you would explain to me why we must go haring off to the countryside if you've no intention of taking Moreland's challenge seriously." Nick settled back in his seat causally as the barmaid set two brimming mugs in front of them, dividing a smile and a view of her ample bosom between them. Looking more than a little disappointed when neither man gave her more than an absent glance, she left the table and hurried off to the kitchen to bring the meals Nick had ordered. “I'll admit my memory is lamentable, but I don't recall suggesting that ‘we’ do anything,” Nick responded coolly when the barmaid had departed. Darcy's eyes narrowed. “Now that you mention it, you didn't. And I'm damned curious to know why you didn't if you were planning on making the trip down." "It occurred to me that Moreland might have designs upon Bronte's fortune." "And?" Nick shrugged. “I felt an obligation to see to it that Isaac's widow did not fall into the hands of a man who could be counted upon to run through it in the least amount of time possible. You will admit the Bronte we knew would be fair game for any man with the least touch of sophistication. It seems more than likely her stint in the colonies would not have improved upon her gauche, trusting nature." Darcy studied his friend thoughtfully for several moments, but as the maid arrived with their food at that moment, he was effectively distracted. It wasn't until he'd polished off a goodly portion of his mutton that he looked up once more.

Nick was eyeing him, he saw, with more than a touch of disapproval. "One would think that watching someone consume their food with such relish would increase one's own appetite, when, if fact, the opposite is true." Darcy grinned, not put out in the least. “You don't carry around the bulk that I do. And, I might add, you've been lazing in a coach the past several hours, not slogging through the weather on the back of a horse. If you've no interest in your dinner, I'll take it." Nick lifted a hand. “I'll send the barmaid for another plate for you." Darcy grinned. After a moment, he frowned thoughtfully, however. “Why do you suppose she decided to come back ... after all this time, I mean?" "The barmaid?" "Bronte." "If I were to hazard a guess, I would suppose her mother finally convinced her she was on her deathbed." Darcy thought that over. “I suppose, but since she's been on her deathbed for the past ten years that I know of, I'm thinking Bronte probably wouldn't fall for it." "She is naïve,” Nick pointed out coolly. “As I recall, her mother had her in a terror at least half the time, convinced each time she took to her bed that this time the threat was real." Darcy studied him a moment. “I'll admit it's hard to think of her as anything but the skinny, freckle faced child we knew, but she must be.... “He stopped, trying to figure it up. “What? Five and twenty by now?" Nick shrugged dismissively. “A leopard never changes its spots." "Maybe she's shopping for a husband? I can hardly credit it, but it's been every bit of five years since Isaac was killed." "Possibly. If she is, she will certainly be in need of guidance."

Chapter Three Bronte strove for patience as her mother began her harangue yet again. “You are far too young to content yourself with being a widow. I could understand it if you had been truly devoted to poor Isaac, but you and I both know that that was not the case." Bronte stabbed her finger with her needle and bit back the urge to say something unladylike. She had never been much for needlework, but she was bored stiff and the weather was too inclement for a ride at the moment. “I loved Isaac." "Of course you did, my dear. It's a wife's duty."

Bronte studied her mother for several moments. “Is that how you felt about my father?" Elizabeth Millford glanced at her daughter uncomfortably. “I had a great deal of respect for your father, and grew to feel affection for him, as well, God rest his soul." Bronte studied the mess in her lap. “The Americans often marry for love." Elizabeth Millford snorted. “I would not be surprised in the least ... upstarts. I hope they have not put such silly notions in your head." Bronte sighed. “No,” she said somewhat doubtfully, working at untangling the silken threads she'd mangled. “But it is a great trial only to be a ‘duty'." Her mother seemed to mull over the comments for a few moments. “I knew it was a very bad notion for you to go and live with my sister. She has put this silly notion in your head about not remarrying, hasn't she?" Bronte rose abruptly, tossing her abandoned needlework into the seat she'd vacated. “It is not silly, mother. It's ... practical. I've no need to wed again, after all. Besides...." When she didn't continue, her mother favored her with a piercing look. “Besides?” she prompted. Bronte wrung her hands. “The doctor tells me there's a very good chance that I'm barren. I did not provide poor Isaac with an heir. It would not be right to marry when I can not give my husband children." Elizabeth snorted. “In the first place, doctors rarely know what they're talking about. In the second ... why you needn't wed a man in need of an heir. We shall just put our heads together and make up a list of men who already have their heirs and are looking for someone to mother their children." Oh joy, Bronte thought, trying not to look as revolted by the notion as she felt. “I would far prefer to remain a widow than to become someone's duty or a nursemaid to tend their obnoxious brood while they trot off flandering." "A gentleman will respect his wife and practice discretion,” Elizabeth pointed out. Bronte lost her temper. “If they will not honor their vows, I see no reason to take them myself,” she snapped irritably. Elizabeth's brows rose. Despite her reproving look, however, Bronte saw that her mother was truly shocked to hear such a concept sprout from her daughter's lips. She looked very much as if she was suddenly uncertain that Bronte actually was whom she claimed to be, as if an impostor had dropped upon her doorstep. “Yes, well I am sure a woman's place is a sad trial to us all, but ... My dear! If it were left up to men we would all still be living in caves! "It is a woman's place to provide the comforts of home and family, and if you are clever, you can keep your man from straying ... overmuch,” she added after a significant pause. “In any case, if they did not, every female of childbearing years would be with child nine months of every year. It's a blessing, really. For you must know that men can not control their baser instincts." Bronte gave her mother a look, tempted to demand to know why that was an excuse for men when women were not similarly excused from such behavior. She saw no reason to shock her mother further,

though. She knew very well her mother was not likely to come around to her way of thinking. They were both distracted by a scratching upon the door to the parlor. Elizabeth looked at her butler questioningly. “What is it, Fillmore?" "A couple of gentleman have come to call, my lady,” he announced, walking sedately across the parlor and presenting Lady Millford with a tray, upon which resided two handsome calling cards. Elizabeth's brows rose even higher as she peered blindly at the cards, pretending to peruse them, too vain to admit her sight was so poor the tray itself was little more than a blur, let alone the cards. “Come to call?” she repeated blankly and then smiled thinly. “I collect you mean that they have broken down or something of the sort?" "No, my lady. I have shown them into the salon." "Who in the world...?" "Who?” Bronte asked point blank. The butler opened his mouth. Before he could utter a word, however, Lady Millford waved him away. “Neighbors, I'm sure. No doubt they've heard you're home at last and have come to pay their respects. Fetch them, Fillmore, if you please, and show them in here. The salon is far too drafty for my constitution." "Yes, my lady,” Fillmore responded. Bowing, he retreated once more, closing the parlor door behind him. "I wish you had not, mother." "Oh posh! You can not eschew society all together. I do hope it isn't Vicar Collins and his son. Such a prosy ... but a very good man, of course. You must watch young Mr. Collins, however. He fancies himself a ladies man. He will be trying to peer down your décolletage, my dear, and to be sure as disgracefully low as yours is it will be no great feat." Bronte's lips tightened at the rebuke. She'd stopped in London on her way home and ordered up the gown. The emerald hued gown with its scooped neckline was certainly no more risqué than any other female of polite society might wear. She considered it as she paced restlessly to the window to peer out at the gloomy day. Honesty compelled her to amend that thought, for although it had been recommended as the first stare of elegance, the proprietress had also pointed out that it was the extreme of fashion and only something a very daring young woman would feel comfortable wearing. She was perfectly comfortable wearing it, however. She felt the need to behave outrageously, if the truth were known, and had absolutely no compunction about doing so. Her birth had ensured her a position in society, but the ton had never considered that required them to be kind as well, only to allow her entree. She could not truly be said to have had a season, for she'd been promised to Isaac long before that—not that that was a great source of joy for poor Isaac.

Everyone had deemed it for the best that she be properly paraded before the ton before she were properly wed and thereafter properly relegated to the obscurity of a country estate where she would, in time, properly produce the required heir. No one had made a push to be anything more than polite, however, and then only to her face. Behind her back, they had whispered, shredding her confidence with their observations about her awkwardness, her shyness, and her general appearance, comments that were perfectly audible, as they were well aware. Well, she had no need for their approval! She was a widow now, not a young girl in need of the acceptance of her peers, and quite comfortably well off. She had yielded at last to her mother's demand that she return to her ‘homeland', but she had every intention of thumbing her nose at England's ‘polite’ society, and then taking herself, and her fortune, off to America once more. The opening door broke into her unpleasant thoughts and Bronte turned to see who their visitors were. She would've liked to have discovered that neither man was recognizable to her. Unfortunately, not only were they not strangers, they had changed very little over the years, except, possibly, grown more handsome than she remembered. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, pumping hurt through her, and anger. There had been a time when she was a little girl that she had worshipped them as young gods, when she had been desperate for their approval, even so much as a crumb of it. Isaac, their junior by three years, had been almost as desperate for it as she was. That adoration, that desperation to show them he was good enough, had led him to his death. She would never forgive them for that, no more than she could forgive them for the hurtful things that Isaac had said and done to her, influenced, she knew, by their amused contempt for her. If they had not made it so obvious they pitied Isaac for having to take her as his wife, he might have been willing to accept her, at least, if he could not bring himself to love her. Instead, she knew every time he actually looked at her, every time he came to perform his ‘duty’ that he was embarrassed to be tied to her because he went to great lengths to keep her tucked away in the very background of his life. She'd had a great deal of practice in concealing her hurt, however, and after a moment she blinked the blurriness from her eyes, summoned the coldly polite, insincere smile of a society hostess and moved away from the window. She knew the moment she did so that neither Nick nor Darcy had noticed her before. She also knew that neither one of them recognized her. Nick, always the cool one, contained his shock far better, though she could tell from the slight pallor and the flicker of doubt and surprise in his eyes the moment recognition hit him. Darcy merely gaped at her as if he'd been pole-axed. "Bronte?” Darcy said doubtfully.

Chapter Four

Lady Millford tittered nervously. “I hardly recognized her myself when she first arrived." Lifting her abandoned needlework from the chair she'd been occupying, Bronte settled, eyeing both men coolly. “America agrees with me. I must suppose it's the country bumpkin in me." Darcy blinked several times and glanced at Nick. Nick, however, had not taken his eyes off of Bronte. After several moments he seemed to collect himself and moved to the settee across from Bronte. Darcy frowned, looked around the room and finally sat next to Nick. "We'd heard you had come home,” Darcy said after a moment. Bronte smiled thinly. “And the rumor was correct ... for once.” She almost smiled when the two exchanged a speaking glance, remembering the habit from her childhood. Then, she'd found it nothing short of amazing that they seemed so in accord with one another that they had only to share a look and their minds appeared to work as one, so that each knew the other's thoughts precisely. Lady Millford jangled the bell on the table beside her nervously, summoning the butler, who'd only just departed. “Refreshments for our guests, Fillmore." Fillmore nodded and departed once more. Bronte slanted an amused glance at her mother. Contrary to what Lady Millford apparently feared, however, she had every intention of behaving politely, regardless of how she felt about Nick and Darcy. Darcy cleared his throat. “You're looking well,” he commented. “You've changed." Nick sent him a look. “Don't be shy, Darcy. We are old friends here. Just say precisely what you think." The comments sent both hurt and anger through Bronte, but Nick's tart response evoked a touch of amusement, as well. “I am staring at five and twenty now. Did you think I would not?” she said to Darcy, who was glaring at Nick. Darcy flushed. “I beg your pardon. I meant that as a compliment." "I'm sure you did,” Bronte said coolly, then smiled. “Thank you ... I think." He looked uncomfortable. “I'm not usually so cow handed. It's just such a surprise to see you." Bronte's brows rose. “I thought you said that you'd heard that I was home for a visit?" "I'm sure someone mentioned it,” Darcy said evasively. “It's just that ... you're beautiful." "I'm sure Bronte doesn't need us to tell her that,” Nick said coolly. Bronte met his gaze. “Certainly not, but a compliment now and then is always nice. Even between old friends who were never prone to stand on ceremony or utter polite lies only to make one feel better,” she said, smiling. "There you are!” Lady Millford said in obvious relief when her butler entered the room bearing a tray. “I'd begun to think you got lost between here and the kitchen."

"I apologize, my lady. The scones were not quite done." Lady Millford waved him away. “Will you pour, my dear?" "Certainly,” Bronte said promptly. “How do you take your tea?” she asked her visitors. “Cream and sugar?” In your lap? she thought. Nick's gaze was wary. “Black, thank you." "Both,” Darcy responded, sounding almost as relieved as her mother that Fillmore had provided a distraction. As if he'd read her thoughts, Nick leaned forward to take the cup from her. She sent him an amused glance and returned her attention to the tray. "What brings you to the countryside at this time of year?” she asked politely when she'd served tea all around. Darcy inhaled, as if to speak. Nick cut him off. “Business. But as we'd heard Bronte was here, we thought we would drop by to pay our respects." "That is most kind!” Lady Millford spoke before Bronte could respond. “You won't be in the area long then? Such a pity. I'd planned a little gathering for Bronte tomorrow evening and most everyone is in town now." "I'm sure I could come,” Darcy said promptly. “It is Nick who is here on business. I merely tagged along." "Oh! How delightful! You're certain we can't prevail upon you to come, as well, Mr. Cain?" Nick smiled with an effort. “I never like to disappoint a lady. Most certainly, I will come." They took their leave shortly afterward, staying only the precise fifteen minutes. It was a severe trial to Bronte nevertheless. “I can not believe you invited them!” she said once the butler had shown them out. Lady Millford studied her tea guiltily. “It was the polite thing to do. Although I must say it will make us uneven for dinner. It's very difficult when everyone is gone to London for the season,” she said peevishly. "It would not be uneven if you had not invited Nick and Darcy,” Bronte pointed out. Lady Millford feigned a look of surprise. “But ... you were always such friends when you were children. I was certain it would be a special treat for you." **** "I'm not entirely certain of what just happened, but I do believe that was the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of my entire life,” Darcy muttered once he'd joined Nick in the coach. “Who would've thought our skinny, freckled Bronte would grow up into such a beautiful woman?" Nick grunted, which might have been construed as an agreement, but forbore comment.

"Stunning. Absolutely stunning." "Obviously, she stunned you,” Nick said sardonically. Darcy frowned, trying to recall anything about his behavior that might have elicited that comment, but realized he recalled very little about the visit beyond his reaction to Bronte. “You are not going to sit there and tell me you were not surprised." "I'm not." Darcy sent him a look. “And?" "As you say, she is quite stunningly beautiful." Darcy pondered over it a bit. “Try as I might, all I can recall about her as a child was that shock of red hair, huge eyes, big nose, big mouth. Even her bones looked too big for her." "She was thin." "She certainly is not thin now. I'll wager she's a cozy armful.” That and more. The emerald gown she'd worn had emphasized breasts that would fit comfortably, heavily, in a man's palms. Her waist, as she'd turned and the gown caught at it, was trim and curved to hips he could only fantasize about. More than that though, her face was softer now with maturity, the harsh, angular bones of youth gone, and the freckled skin had mellowed into a uniform color not unlike milk and honey. She looked delectable, and in fact, with the deep auburn of her hair, he was hard pressed not to think she'd taste of berries and cream. His mouth practically watered at the thought of tasting her skin. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. From the look on Nick's face, Darcy gathered his thoughts were running along the same lines as his own. "I shouldn't imagine you will discover whether she is or not,” Nick said in his customary terse manner. Darcy frowned, pausing a moment in his stride of thought to look at his friend. “And I suppose you think you will?" "Probably not." Nonplussed, Darcy merely stared at him for several moments. "I couldn't help but notice she didn't seem at all pleased to see us,” Nick said pensively. "She didn't?” Darcy said doubtfully, recalling the truth of that. She had seemed cold, but he'd put that down to their unexpected visit. Now that he thought on it, however, it was remarkably strange of her, given how attached she'd been to them as a girl. Nick eyed him speculatively for several moments. “You are not generally quite so dense, Darcy. No. She was not pleased." Darcy frowned. “You think you were right? She blames us for Isaac's death?"

"Possibly. Whatever the reason, I'm fairly certain that she does not remember us fondly." Darcy was annoyed. “Well, if that isn't the outside of enough! When you and I both nearly got our asses shot off trying to rescue the numbskull! My shoulder has never been quite the same since that ball I took.” He rubbed it absently, as if merely the memory caused an ache. "We did not succeed, however,” Nick pointed out. "And that's our fault?” Darcy demanded, outraged. “The young fool should have known better than to charge that hill. I tried to reason with him. You tried, but nothing would do for him but to be a hero." Nick was silent for several moments. Finally, he sighed tiredly. “We were not entirely blameless, Darcy." "I don't see how you figure that." "He should not have gone off at all. He was his father's heir, but he was determined to join up the moment we did." Darcy frowned. “You think?" "I do. I also think he was determined to take that hill to show us he was a better man ... perhaps he did." "It was a cock brained thing to do! And against orders, I might add. The retreat had already been sounded." Nick turned to stare at the passing scenery. “I know you're right in a sense. Isaac was a man full grown, and made his own decisions. I also know we tried to save him from his folly, but the fact remains that he'd spent most of his youth trying to best the two of us, and it was that that led him to his death." "We should explain it to Bronte." Nick smiled faintly. “Do you think you could?” he asked with interest. "You could explain it better." "I think not,” Nick said coolly. Darcy frowned. “Why not?" "Because she is not only beautiful, she is intelligent. I see no point in trying to explain something that she must know already. She still blames us. She would regardless of what I, or you, might say." Darcy digested that for a while. “You don't mean to make a push for her then?" Nick's eyes narrowed on Darcy. “I did not say that. Only that it presents a challenge I hadn't expected." Darcy grinned.

Chapter Five

The dinner party was more tedious, and frustrating, than either Darcy or Nick had anticipated. Other than themselves, the Vicar, his son, and his daughter were the only guests. Bronte was both vivacious and flirtatious ... with the vicar's son. She was exquisitely polite to both of them seemingly either oblivious to, or impervious to, Darcy's roguish charm. Nick merely observed. He wasn't particularly displeased with what he observed, however. Darcy was in a black mood when he climbed into the carriage with Nick and headed back to the inn where they had been staying. Contrary to what Nick had said, he had no intention of going near his stuffy older brother, the Marquis, or his sister-in-law, who'd already made it abundantly clear that she was entirely too willing to share her charms, so long as they kept it in the family. Having no desire to offend his brother, whom he held in affection even though he found him utterly boring, or defend his honor from his sister-in-law, he'd decided it would be best to steer well clear of his ancestral home. Besides, his other brothers, if they were in residence, were always in need of money and he had no intention of funding their gambling habits any further. If they were so lacking in skill and/or luck, they needed to find another pastime. "Royalty trounced,” Darcy muttered in disgust, “and by a whelp hardly out of leading strings." Nick smiled thinly. “She has no interest in the boy. That was for our benefit." Darcy frowned. “I'm not such a nodcock I hadn't figured that out, but I'm not so sure it's the way you seem to think. In fact, I know it wasn't. I've seen coy. Coy means ‘I can be had, but you're going to have to work for it'. That wasn't coy. The way she looked at me was enough to emasculate a fellow. In fact, that cold look unnerved me so badly at one point I had to take a little trip out side just to make sure my cock hadn't withered ." Nick sent him an amused glance. “And had it?" "Don't get your hopes up. It's still bigger than yours,” he said with a grin. "Only in your eyes, Darcy, but I've been meaning to mention the possibility that you might be in need of spectacles. You really should have your eyes checked." "Ha, ha,” Darcy responded, not amused in the least. "What I meant was, she has no interest in the boy. She was merely making a point of allowing us to know she had no interest in us." Darcy frowned. “Well, that's that, then. I guess we'll be off to town again tomorrow?" "Mmm,” Nick responded noncommittally. Darcy studied him through narrowed eyes. “I see what it is. You think I'll decamp and leave the field to you,” he said suspiciously. Nick shrugged, but Darcy could see the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “As you so eloquently put it, there is no playing field." "Then why are you staying?"

Nick's brows rose. “Did I say that I was?" "No. You just made that noise that was supposed to convince me you were agreeing with me." "I am always agreeable." "Yes, even when you have a dueling pistol leveled at a fellow,” Darcy said tartly. "Precisely." "Which is exactly why I know you've no more intention of leaving tomorrow than you have of giving up this whole scheme of yours." "Scheme?” Nick said pensively. “I've never particularly cared for that word, particularly when associated with myself. In any case, there was never any ‘scheme'. I was merely curious." "And now that you've had your curiosity appeased?" "I'm not at all certain it has been appeased,” Nick said, arching a brow. “In fact, I'm certain it has not. It has only been whetted." "So—you're not heading back for town tomorrow?” he asked, not really expecting a satisfactory answer. Nick could be a trial sometimes. "Mmm,” Nick responded noncommittally. "Damn it to hell and back again!” Darcy growled. “Do what you please then. I'm for town." Nick shrugged. “I always do. Have a pleasant trip." As it transpired, neither of them departed for town the following morning. Darcy lifted a few too many tankards and slept well past noon, waking to the unwelcome discovery of the barmaid in his bed. He stared at her in bemusement for several moments, and then looked around the room, wondering if he'd been too drunk to find his way to his own room. Once he'd assured himself that he was indeed in the correct room, there was still the little matter of the barmaid, dead to the world, in his bed, and he had a very bad feeling that she might be related to the owner of the inn for, in the light of day, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the man. He wondered how he could have failed to have noticed that particular fact before, but then there were a number of inconsistencies to his memory beyond that. For one, she seemed a bit older than he recalled, a little more voluptuous than he found attractive, a little less clean than suited his tastes, and she seemed to be missing a number of teeth if the dark cavern from which enormous snores were emerging was anything to go by, which he rightly assumed it was since it appeared far too large to be any other cavern. For another, he couldn't recall to save his life how he'd gotten to bed, how he'd undressed, or what he'd done afterward, but she was as naked as he was and he was more than a little perturbed about that. After a moment, it occurred to him that he might need to consider a rapid exit if it transpired that the female in his bed actually was related to the owner of the inn. With great care, he extricated himself from the bed and tiptoed to the window to have a look down.

There was a roof only a few feet below the window, he saw with some relief, and since his room faced the stables, he decided he could be out and gone within a matter of minutes, minus his belongings, of course, and the saddle and tack for his horse, but he was perfectly willing to make the sacrifice if the alternative was to have his ass shot off by an irate father. The window might present a problem. He wasn't as convinced as he would've liked that he could squeeze his bulk through it at all, much less with any speed. Finally, he decided it was worth a try and tiptoed back across the room to gather his clothes. If there was any help for it, he'd just as soon take those with him. It was freezing cold outside. He doubted there would be many about to witness a bare rider, but he'd as soon not freeze his balls off, or be forced to the necessity of visiting his ancestral home for something to prevent a nasty chill. His mother was in residence and he rather thought she might ask unpleasant questions. He'd managed to dress, more or less, and had grasped one boot when the voice he was hoping not to hear emerged from the bed. “You're off then?" 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 no where 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 breath 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. Nick spared a glance at him. “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 mention 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 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 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 Nicks 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. “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. She doubted that had changed 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 childhood 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. 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 again." 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,” he 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 then 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. "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 wasn't,” 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." Nick lifted one dark brow. “Did you?" Darcy's frown deepened. “I believe I did." Nick studied the amber liquid in his glass for several moments. “It didn't occur to you, I suppose, that I might tell you it was none of your damned business?" They assessed one another for several moments. “It did, but I think I'm making it my business,” Darcy finally responded. "Or that I might ask you the same question?” Nick queried pensively. Darcy dragged his fingers through his hair. “You know I always had a soft spot for Bronte, poor little mite." "Homely little mite, I believe you phrased it,” Nick said tightly. He took a sip from his glass. Darcy flushed. “She was, but I was fond of her anyway." Nick's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he leaned forward and refilled his own glass. “She wasn't, but that's a matter of opinion." Darcy stared at him in surprise. “You didn't think so?" "No." Darcy frowned, obviously casting his mind back. Finally, he smiled. “She was cute, wasn't she? Pesky as hell, but cute.” He was silent for a while, chasing some errant memory. “Isaac was the one that used to call her names." Nick's lips tightened in response. “He did. I found her crying her eyes out over it more than once." "That's why you beat the living hell out of him that time?" Nick grimaced. “For all the good it did.” He studied the liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “I always had an uneasy feeling that Isaac had a cruel streak in him."

Darcy's eyes widened. “Hell!” he exclaimed, surging to his feet and beginning to pace back and forth agitatedly. “I'd forgotten that! That's what she meant. I thought she was saying she'd never gotten over Isaac, but that wasn't what she meant at all! "That little weasel! If I'd known that at the time, I'm not so sure I'd have taken a bullet trying to save his hide." "I took two, but I don't bemoan the fact constantly,” Nick reminded him wryly. “I damn well wouldn't have if not for Bronte. I never did understand what she saw in him, if you want the truth of it." Darcy shrugged. “He was a pain in the ass, but I figured it was just because he was younger than us. I might have known it was his damned fault!" Nick sighed. “I wish you would sit down and stop trying to wear a hole in my rug." He studied Darcy irritably for several moments after he'd finally sprawled in his chair once more, his eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to tell me that you and Bronte were talking?" Darcy didn't pretend to misunderstand. “Of course we were. If you didn't have a nasty, suspicious mind you would've known that." "If I didn't know you as well as I do I might have guessed that,” Nick retorted tartly. Darcy flushed. “All right, so I did have it in mind to test the waters when I took her out onto the balcony. I'd said something stupid and thoughtless, though, and she had this look in her eyes. And I started wondering just what was going through her mind." "What, precisely, did you say to her?" "I don't recall,” Darcy said evasively. He met Nick's penetrating gaze and finally shrugged irritably. “I called her a heartless baggage, but I was only teasing. I've said the same thing to plenty of others and they didn't take it to heart. In fact, I got the impression they were rather pleased about it." "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. 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. 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. “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. 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 touching him surged through her system with drugging effect, leaving her achy and feverish and longing for more. 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. “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." 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. Running his hand over his hair, he 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. 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 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 assessingly. “Which part are you objecting to?" His lips tightened. “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 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. Bronte gasped at the intensity of the pleasure that shot through her as she felt the moist heat of his mouth on the turgid, throbbing peak of her breast. She was so enthralled with the adhesion of his mouth and the flick of his tongue, she didn't realize he'd gathered her skirts into his fist until she felt his hand cup her mound more surely, barred from her only by her pantaloons. He lifted his head, gazing into her eyes. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” 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. 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 needed. When her body began to quake with imminent release, he lifted his head, covering her mouth, absorbing her cries until she ceased to shudder.

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.

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 an effort, he turned his thoughts elsewhere, but 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. "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. Darcy managed to catch Nick across the jaw. The blow jerked his head to one side, throwing him off balance and out of the path of Darcy's second flying fist, which struck the wall instead. Letting out a growl of rage and pain, Darcy stepped back, trying to sling feeling into his hand. Nick recovered first, slamming his fist into Darcy's belly hard enough to double him over. They'd been slugging it out for a good fifteen minutes when a whistle sounded close by, entirely too close for comfort. They froze, one fist raised, the other grasping a throat. “The watch,” Darcy gasped. Nick swore. Releasing Darcy's throat abruptly, he brushed at his clothing, straightening his jacket as he strode purposefully toward the gate on the opposite side of the club's garden. Combing his fingers through his hair, Darcy followed him. They turned to glare at one another once they were on the street. "Exactly what the hell was that all about?"

"Later. I'd as soon not meet up with the watch, thank you." **** "If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, that is tomorrow's dinner,” Kingsley said as he reached the door and opened it, thus assured he had a rapid escape if Darcy didn't take the hint well. Darcy raised up far enough to glare at his manservant through his good eye. “Then send someone round to the butcher in the morning for another roast,” he growled irritably. “Can no one around here do any damned thing without having to be told?" Relieved that Darcy had taken it so well, Kingsley allowed a smile and bowed himself out, deciding not to point out that, as the master of the household, it was his place to tell everyone what he wanted done, or at least those servants whose job it was to belay the message to the lower staff. Darcy lay back again, but he realized fairly quickly that he wasn't going to be able to get comfortable on the couch. It was just too damned short. He sat up again, deciding to go bed. His head was pounding. He doubted very much that he'd be able to sleep, but there didn't seem to be much point in staying up. Pulling the slab of raw meat from his eye, he blinked it a few times to try to get rid of the blurriness and finally gave up and left the salon, climbing the stairs to his rooms. His manservant, he discovered, was in the process of tidying up his room. Pleased to see the man where he was needed for once, Darcy sprawled in a chair and summoned him to remove his boots. "You will be retiring, sir?" "I can't go out looking like this,” Darcy muttered. "No, sir,” Kingsley agreed. “I'm sure it would distress the ladies. If I might offer a word of advice?" "What?” Darcy asked, wondering if Kingsley knew of something that might relieve the swelling. "Next time, duck." Darcy's one good eye narrowed. “Are you trying to be humorous, Kingsley?" "No, sir. I have no sense of humor,” Kingsley said promptly. "Well, spare me your advise." Kingsley nodded and fell silent. When he'd helped Darcy into a robe, he hesitated. “You haven't taken to boxing the watch?" "I'm a little old for that particular form of entertainment." Kingsley nodded. “Perhaps you should give up boxing? I must say, it doesn't seem to be your forte, and if you're to be confined to your quarters to nurse a black eye on a weekly basis you will have some difficulty pursuing that young lady who's caught your eye, won't you, sir?"

Darcy studied him for several moments. “How do you know I'm pursuing a young lady?” he finally asked, curious. Kingsley smiled thinly. “Oh, if you'll forgive my saying so, sir, I can always tell when you're on the hunt." "Well, I'm not!" Kingsley's brows rose. He nodded, forbearing comment. "At least ... this is different." "If you say so, sir." "I do say so, damn it!" "Very good, sir. Will that be all, then?" "Yes. Go away. Wait! Have you got anything for a blinding headache?" "I believe we have some laudanum, sir." Darcy shuddered. “Never mind. Wait! Why do we have laudanum? I never touch the stuff." "Your mother suggested it, sir." "In my household?” Darcy demanded indignantly. "It was outrageous, sir, but what else was I to do?" Darcy made a shooing gesture at him, looked around and finally made his way to his bed. “Did someone rearrange the furniture in here? I thought the bed was on the other side of the room." "I expect that's at Mr. Cain's lodgings, sir." "Oh." He discovered when he'd climbed beneath the covers that the bed wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one he was used to. Sighing irritably, he lay back against the pillows, wondering what the hell had gotten into Nick lately. His head was pounding so ferociously, however, that he found he was having difficulty concentrating. He wasn't wrong about being able to sleep. Except for the very few times in his life that he'd been sick, or wounded, he hadn't been to bed before two or three AM since he'd attained adulthood and gotten his own rooms. Several hours passed while he lay with his eyes closed, holding the meat to his throbbing cheek. Slowly, the throbbing in his eye and cheek subsided and the thundering in his skull became a distant storm. Climbing out of bed again, he poured him a nightcap and sprawled in his chair. Kingsley was right, damn him. His face was bound to look worse tomorrow than it did now, which meant he wasn't going to be able to stick his nose out for at least a couple of days unless he wanted to

answer some damned uncomfortable questions. If he hadn't known better, he would've suspected Nick had done it for just that reason. He considered that for several moments and finally decided he could absolve Nick of such an underhanded trick. After all, Nick was bound to know he would almost certainly be in the same boat. Which meant that Nick hadn't spent a lot of time considering the situation. It was so unlike Nick to act impulsively that Darcy examined that conclusion for several moments before he finally decided that he was right. The fact that Nick had engaged him in a bout of fisticuffs right outside the club bore that conclusion up. They hadn't done anything like that in years. But what had put Nick into such a rage that he hadn't taken the time to consider his next move? He'd been distracted. He hadn't really been paying that much attention because he hadn't been able to get his mind far from his aching balls or his throbbing cock since he'd visited Bronte earlier in the day. Nick had asked about Bronte, though, just before he'd gotten that look on his face and asked to speak to him outside. Once he remembered that, it didn't take him more than a second to figure out the rest. He glared at the liquid in his glass, more than half tempted to dress and go over to Nick's and resume the conversation. After a little thought, however, he decided he was too damned sore. Besides, he was going to be tied to his rooms for a couple of days as it was. God only knew what sort of mischief that pack of horny bastards that were after Bronte would be up to in the mean time. Downing the last of his drink, a smile of satisfaction curled his lips as a thought occurred to him. He could be reasonably certain Nick wouldn't be running with that pack. He'd managed at least two well placed facers.

Chapter Eleven Sunday's roast did a better job on his swollen, bruised face than Darcy had expected. He wasn't particularly pleased with the effect the powder Kingsley produced had, however. To his mind, it looked a bit too ghoulish to his taste. With resignation, he settled in for another day and night of utter boredom. By the following day, however, he decided most of the swelling had gone down. The bruising still looked like hell, but he could see out of both eyes. The powder still looked ghoulish, but he dabbed a little on anyway, deciding it would at least make him look better from a distance. As long as he didn't get close enough for anyone to get a really good look at him he didn't think he would raise any eyebrows. He was chagrined to discover Nick leaving as he arrived at Bronte's house. Deciding to ignore the provocation, he nodded politely, strode past him without a word and climbed the stairs to the stoop. The butler answered the door after a few moments. Three fairly sizable footmen stood just behind him. “I'm here to see Lady Dunmore." "I'm afraid Lady Dunmore isn't at home to visitors at the moment."

Darcy frowned. “Just tell her it's Mr. St. James." "I'll tell her ladyship that you called. Good day, sir." Darcy glared blankly at the door as it was closed in his face. After a few minutes, when the butler didn't return, he knocked again. The butler looked even stiffer this time. “Did you give her my message?" "Her ladyship is indisposed, sir." The door was shut again. Darcy was on the point of pounding on the door for the third time when it occurred to him that maybe Bronte was indisposed. Shrugging, he turned and went down the steps once more, deciding he would see if he could find some little trinket to send her to cheer her up. Nick was waiting for him when he reached the sidewalk once more. They eyed one another speculatively. "I see you had no more luck than I,” Nick said finally. Darcy glanced toward the house. “The butler said she was indisposed." "She looked fine the last time I saw her." Darcy glared at him. “And when would that be?" "None of your damned business." While they were eyeing each of measuringly, a coach pulled to a stop nearby and Lord Smythe stepped out. Straightening his jacket, he nodded to them pleasantly and strode past them and up the walk. Darcy and Nick turned to watch. The door opened. Lord Smythe was ushered inside. Darcy and Nick exchanged a look. "I saw three footmen besides the butler. I think I can take two of them,” Darcy said musingly. Nick seemed to think it over. Pulling his pocket watch out, he checked the time and replaced it. “I'm more inclined to have a discussion with Smythe when he comes out." Darcy frowned. “On her front lawn?" "Not that kind of discussion,” Nick said dryly. "Well, excuse me all to hell, but it's just about the only kind of conversations you and I have been having lately. I thought maybe you'd decided to eschew verbal conversation all together." Nick studied him in silence for several moments. “I seem to recall that it was you who instigated our first ‘discussion'."

Precisely fifteen minutes later, Lord Smythe exited the house and started down the walk. Nick stepped into his path. “I do believe he cut me,” he said coolly. “What do you think, Darcy?" "Oh, it was definitely a cut. Walked right past you without so much as a howdydo. I'd be insulted." "I believe I am,” Nick drawled. Lord Smythe stopped dead in his tracks, glancing from Nick to Darcy and back again. “I beg your pardon?" "And well you might. I've got a good mind to call him out myself, Nick. I'm pretty sure he cut me, too. In fact, I know he did." Nick slid a glance at Darcy. “You'll have to demand satisfaction later. I called it first. Sword? Or pistols, Smythe?" Smythe paled. “Uh ... I beg your pardon, Mr. Cain, Mr. St. James. No cut was intended, I assure you. I had my mind on.... “He studied their stony faces for several moments, swallowing convulsively. “A trip,” he said on sudden inspiration. “I'm about to leave town and I had my mind on all those last minute details. I'm sure you know what I mean. I only came by to pay my respects to Lady Dunmore and her mother. I hadn't realized I'd given you the cut direct. I assure you that wasn't my intention at all." Nick considered the explanation. “I presume, since you were so preoccupied, that this is to be a fairly extended trip?" Smythe was sweating by now. “Oh ... a couple of weeks?" Nick and Darcy conferred silently. "You did say you were leaving tomorrow?” Nick asked pensively. Smythe gaped at him. “I believe I did. Yes. Tomorrow." Nick smiled thinly. “In that case, I'm pleased to accept your apology." "For myself, I'm thinking three weeks would be healthier." "It could take that long,” Smythe said nervously. Darcy grinned. “Good, because I'm thinking it's going to take me at least three weeks to get over being snubbed on a public street." "I didn't think he'd go for it,” Darcy said with disgust as he watched Smythe climb into his carriage. "A pity." Darcy shrugged, glancing at Nick with a touch of satisfaction as Smythe drive off. “How many more, you think?" Nick was staring thoughtfully at the departing coach. “I shouldn't think the ones hanging out for a rich

wife will be too difficult to discourage. I make it four—last count." Darcy frowned. “You think there's any chance Smythe will mention it?" "One can always hope,” Nick murmured, turning to look up at Bronte's house. He smiled faintly when he saw a curtain twitch upstairs. He tipped his hat. Grinning, Darcy bowed. "Where are your off to then?” he asked, turning to Nick. Nick studied him thoughtfully for several moments. Finally, his lips tightened in annoyance. “I'd thought the club might be the best place to run into some of the others, but it occurs to me that we might not be welcome at the moment." Darcy frowned. “The boxing salon's out, too." "In that case, I believe I'll return to my rooms and sift through the mail for invitations." "I might as well go with you." Nick eyed him speculatively. “I suppose you might." After perusing the invitations for a few hours and debating the merits of each, they finally decided three of them had potential. Darcy departed for his rooms to look through his own mail to see if he'd gotten anything that looked more promising and to change into evening attire. He'd been pacing the floor for an hour before Nick arrived in his coach to pick him up. "I'd begun to think you'd given me the slip,” Darcy said irritably when he'd settled inside. Nick merely sent him a cool glance. “It didn't occur to you, I suppose, that to arrive too early is simply not done?" "Since when did we care about that?" "Since we decided on the hunt for Bronte,” Nick retorted with determined patience. “I see no sense in cooling my heels any longer than necessary. If we dally too long the hostess is bound to expect us to sign dance cards and I, for one, am not in the mood to be twirling some giggling debutante around the room." Darcy subsided. “I'd forgotten why we usually don't attend this sort of thing." Silence fell for several moments. Nick broke it. “How's your face?" "You missed my nose this time. At least I won't have another black eye." "In that case, perhaps you'll want to brush just a little of that powder off." Darcy eyed him with a mixture of annoyance and suspicion, but finally dragged his handkerchief out and rubbed at his cheek. "How's your jaw?"

"It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, thank you. I believe you may have loosened a couple of teeth,” Nick responded tartly. The carriage rocked to a halt at their first destination. Nick gestured toward the door when the footman had opened it and let down the steps. “After you,” he said politely. Darcy grinned. “You're not going to push me down the stairs, are you?" Almost reluctantly, an answering smile lit Nick's face. “Now why didn't I think of that?" They managed to elude their determined hostess for almost two hours, but since Bronte didn't show and they saw the hostess bearing down on them, they took their leave and moved on to the next stop. It was as well they'd started out in a lighthearted frame of mind. Neither of them were in a particularly good mood when they gave up at last and headed for their own apartments. "If you asked me, I think it'd be a hell of a lot easier just to park outside her house and wait to see where she goes." "Subtlety was never your strong suit." "I suppose you think calling Smythe out on her front doorstep was subtle?" "There is a time and place for subtlety. That wasn't one of them." Darcy studied him irritably for several moments. “What next?" Nick considered it. “Tonight?" "I think we can consider tonight a total bust." "I agree." "The theater?" Nick uttered a sound of impatience. “We might as well." **** Bronte let go of the drape and stepped back guiltily, then ground her teeth in irritation. She knew very well that Nick and Darcy hadn't seen her. They couldn't know it had been her peering down at them. They thought it was her, though, so even if it hadn't been, it might as well have been. She could well imagine how pleased they were with themselves! The last dregs of her sense of satisfaction vanished. She had no idea what Nick had said to Lord Smythe, but she had a feeling she wouldn't be seeing him again. Nick and Darcy's ‘big brother’ attitude had irritated her when she'd been a child. Now it really infuriated her. She knew they'd run off one of her best prospects and there wasn't a thing she could do about it! She stalked to her room and fumed about it for a while, but some of her irritation dissipated as it occurred to her that at least Nick and Darcy were still friendly enough to join forces to annoy her. It

helped her feelings some to know she hadn't permanently damaged their friendship. She was still annoyed at their determination to interfere. She was still resolved on her course. It would've been easier if she could've simply run for it. She couldn't, though, not all the way back to America, and she wasn't about to languish in the country through the winter, not even for Darcy and Nick. She needed a distraction. She thought it was possible that seeing Nick and Darcy again had only resurrected her girlhood infatuation. That combined with her natural needs as an adult could be the problem. If she found someone she was as equally attracted to, she would probably experience just as much lust, except that she could indulge herself without creating problems for anyone else and get it out of her system. If Darcy and Nick meant to guard her, though, she was going to run into a problem. Those two were bound to scare off possibilities, and if they didn't, then things could get much worse. They could end up on the dueling field. Terror suffused her at that thought. With an effort, she tamped it. There was no sense in scaring herself with her imaginings. Neither Nick, nor Darcy, were so dead set on having their way that they'd go that far ... she hoped. The most immediate problem was what to do now? She finally decided she simply wasn't up to dealing with either of them at the moment, which left her with two choices. She could stay home until she did feel up to the challenge. Or, she would have to avoid those places they would be looking for her. That ruled out most of the ton parties. "I've been giving some thought to what we might do for entertainment this evening,” she told her mother as they dined. Lady Millford sent her daughter a long suffering look. “I'm not at all certain that I'm up to going out this evening. My head has been throbbing all day. I'm very much afraid I might be coming down with something." "You poor thing!” Bronte said without much sympathy, for, as much as she loved her mother, Elizabeth Millford had been enjoying poor health her entire life and it was difficult to get excited about it. “I'd thought we might go to the theater." "Oh! What a lovely notion!” Lady Millford said, clapping her hands in delight. “I haven't been to the theater in.... “She thought it over. “Well, I declare, I can't recall! No matter! It's just the thing." "You're certain?"

Lady Millford massaged her temples. “I shall lie down and rest for a little bit and then I'm sure I can manage."

Chapter Twelve They arrived at the theater unfashionably early. Lady Millford seemed completely unaware of the fact that the ton considered enthusiasm gauche. Sophistication required a degree of ennui and arriving early at any function was just not done. Bronte was aware of it, but she didn't particularly care what the ton might think of it, especially since she found that she was looking forward to the play with almost as much excitement as her mother was. Neither of them were disappointed. The troop performing was experienced professionals who took their work seriously and knew how to play to a crowd of bored aristocrats. The sets, once the lights were dimmed, were excellent, and the comedic skit, which they began the night with, was bawdy but highly diverting nevertheless. By the time the first intermission was announced, the theater had filled considerably, but since Bronte saw no sign of either Darcy or Nick, she felt more relaxed than she had since she'd arrived in London. Lady Millford wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about taking a turn around the theater while the performers changed the set, but since Bronte seemed determined to do so and she felt it her duty to escort her daughter, she capitulated. Since a number of ladies of the ton stopped to speak to them, Lady Millford was feeling more in charity with her daughter after only a few moments and entirely forgot that it not only hadn't been her idea to ‘walk a bit’ but that she'd been loud in disclaiming any interest in doing so. "There!” she said complacently. “Aren't you glad we decided to walk about a bit after all? Lady Connolly was most kind to invite us to her soiree on such short notice! And it's bound to be a crush, for invitations to her affairs have always been much sought after." Bronte smiled. She'd forgotten her mother's tendency to consider good fortune of her making and bad luck as someone else's idea. It was strange that one could miss such an annoying habit. "Who is that young woman waving at us over by the door?" Bronte followed the direction of her mother's gaze and frowned. “I'm not certain. She looks familiar, and I'm sure I should recall her name, but ... perhaps she is waving at someone else?" "Oh? She does appear to be heading this way." "Lady Millford, Lady Dunmore! How delightful to run into you again!" Bronte smiled, casting wildly about in her mind for the woman's name. It eluded her, but the woman had made a point of singling her out and she felt sure it was she who was supposed to know her. "Let me make you known to a couple of very dear friends of mine. Mrs. Bolington. And this is Lord Ashley Fairfax." Mrs. Bolington's smile was friendly, despite the hint of hardness Bronte detected about her eyes and Bronte found herself smiling with an equal friendliness. “How do you do?"

"Tolerably well, thank you! Though I must say I'm disappointed in the offering tonight thus far." Bronte's brows rose. “I suppose I've become a rustic. I found it amusing." Mrs. Bolington chuckled. Lord Fairfax, a rather dashing figure, who exuded the sort of dangerous mannerisms of a conformed rake, smiled, an expression that softened his rather harsh features appealingly. “I hear you've only just returned from the Americas." Bronte felt her heart flutter with an unmistakable sense of attraction at his smile and the deep timber of his voice. “You heard incorrectly, I'm afraid." His dark brows rose questioningly. "I make my home there now. I am only visiting." He seemed intrigued by that, but since the announcement was made just then that the play was about to begin, it didn't seem likely they would be able to pursue their new acquaintance. Without quite knowing how it came about, Bronte found that she and her mother had been invited to Mrs. Bolington's private box. Mrs. Bolington, she discovered, was much of an age with her, and widowed, giving them a good deal in common. From the little she said, and the great deal left unsaid, Bronte also gathered Mr. Bolington wasn't deeply mourned and gained the sense that, quite possibly, she and Mrs. Bolington had a very great deal in common. She couldn't help but wonder if her own bitterness showed in her face as it did Mrs. Bolington's. Lord Fairfax's interest was both flattering and unnerving. To her mind, no man was quite as handsome as Darcy or Nick, but he did not miss it by more than a hair and was very well built, as well. He looked to be a few years older than Nick, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, but it sat very well upon him. He seemed amused by her reluctance to talk during the play, but entertained both her and himself by leaning close enough to convey low voiced observations regarding the play, as well as the various members of the ton in attendance. He'd just directed her attention to a macaroni mincing about the pit in the most absurd costume, provoking a chuckle from her, when Bronte's gaze was arrested by two men in the pit below whose attention was directed, not at the stage, but at the box in which she sat. Her heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned. Even from this distance, their displeasure was evident. Lifting her chin at them, Bronte pointedly turned her attention to the stage. "I believe I see two of your admirers in the pit." Bronte glanced at Lord Fairfax sharply. He nodded his chin in Nick and Darcy's direction. “Cain and St. James." Bronte managed a dismissive smile. “They are only friends." His dark brows rose. Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “That will be a blow to them, I'm certain."

Bronte's smile was easier that time and carried a hint of responsive amusement. “I take leave to doubt that, but certainly it will not wound them to any lasting degree. They grew up on estates that march with my family's and were prone to look upon me as an annoying younger sister when we were children. We are still quite friendly, but no more than that." His smile broadened to a wry grin. “Men are not generally inclined to view beautiful young women as friends, my dear, but I confess I'm relieved to hear your feelings on the matter." Bronte's smile stiffened. A faint color rose to her cheeks. “Does such effusive flattery generally please the London ladies? I confess, I'm fonder of temperance since it allows me the illusion that the compliment might be sincere." Confusion filled Lord Fairfax's eyes. “I beg your pardon. It's obvious I've offended, but I confess I'm at a loss as to how that may be so." Bronte smiled tightly, her color deepening as she struggled to tamp her irritation. “It's of no consequence. I should beg pardon myself for being so waspish. I believe I may be developing a headache." He studied her with keen interest and an understanding that was as profound as it was surprising. “Beauty is a state of being as much as appearance and, when all is said and done, the opinion of those who behold it. You should not assume, only because your opinion differs, that mine was not a sincere observation." "Very prettily said,” Mrs. Bolington said with a chuckle. “Lord Fairfax is known for his clever tongue, you must know." Lord Fairfax sent her an inscrutable look, which seemed to disconcert her mightily. Uneasy, though she wasn't entirely certain why, Bronte divided a conciliating smile between them. “She is right, and I thank you for the very kind sentiments, Lord Fairfax." "I'm am always all that is kind,” Lord Fairfax said dryly. Bronte wasn't at all certain that was true, but he was witty, he was handsome and he excited her almost as much as he unnerved her. She was fairly certain that he was not courting her with a view to offering an honorable proposal, but that hardly mattered when she was not seeking one, nor had any intention of accepting even if a proposal was forthcoming. She wasn't altogether certain that he was a ‘safe’ man to consider as a lover, however. In fact, she was fairly certain that he wasn't. If either Darcy or Nick challenged him, he would not back down. Reluctantly, she decided that as intriguing as he was, she could not pursue the matter. She would have to take care to avoid him in the future. By the time the second intermission was called, Bronte had a headache in truth, primarily, she was certain, from nerves. She could not like the situation she found herself in. As attractive as Lord Fairfax was, she knew that it would only cause more problems if she yielded to the temptation to pursue the flirtation he'd begun, but she discovered fairly quickly that she was way out of her league. He was older than any of the other swains who'd thrown lures in her direction, and far more experienced and sophisticated.

In short, she didn't know how to handle him. Mere courtesy required politeness and yet Lord Fairfax seemed oblivious to the coolly polite manner that Bronte had found generally held men at arm's length. More accurately, she supposed, he seemed to find it both intriguing and amusing. Acutely conscious of the fact that Darcy and Nick were both present and either watching, or laying in wait for her, Bronte found her nerves winding tighter and tighter as the evening wore on and to make matters worse, she could think of nothing that wouldn't sound plainly rude to disentangle herself and her mother from Lord Fairfax and Mrs. Bolington. Her mother had finally supplied the answer she was searching desperately for by observing, wonder of wonders, that Bronte appeared not quite herself. Bronte smiled at her wanly although she felt like leaping to her feet and kissing her mother. “I have a touch of headache." Lady Millford looked vaguely disappointed, but she got to her feet readily enough. “We should go home then. I have something that will fix you right up." Lord Fairfax stood, as well. “I would be delighted to escort the two of you home." Bronte had already opened her mouth to object when her mother spoke. “That is most kind of you, Lord Fairfax! I always feel much better with an escort. The streets are so unsafe." "We wouldn't want to impose,” Bronte said weakly. He lifted her hand, brushing a kiss across her fingers. “I assure you, it would be my pleasure." It was unfortunate that Mrs. Bolington chose that moment to open the door to the box, that Darcy and Nick happened to be standing just outside, apparently in the act of knocking—and equally unfortunate that Bronte could not forebear glancing at them guiltily. She wasn't at all certain that any expression would have appeased them, but the appearance of having been caught at something she shouldn't was probably the worst possible scenario. Darcy, reddened with anger. Nick paled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Lord Fairfax lifted his head and fixed them both with a look of amused satisfaction. Lady Millford chose that moment to swoon, bless her. It had the effect of averting disaster by creating chaos. Nick instinctively surged forward to catch her. Darcy, slightly behind Nick, also stepped forward, but collided Mrs. Bolington, who would have fallen if he hadn't reached out to steady her. All attention thus diverted to Elizabeth Millford, who preferred it that way and considered it the only truly acceptable situation, neither Nick nor Darcy managed to provoke a fight with Lord Fairfax. By the time Lady Millford decided she had recovered sufficiently to make her way to the carriage, so long as someone would lend her support, some of the tension between the three men had eased. Since she looked pointedly at both Darcy and Nick when she said it, they both politely offered to do so and she was escorted from the theater with one on either arm. Bronte, bringing up the rear with Lord Fairfax and Mrs. Bolington, wasn't certain whether to be more amused or more horrified by her mother's manipulation. It was fairly apparent that the entire episode had been manufactured although everyone was far too polite to treat it as the fabrication it so obviously was. Neither she nor her mother were terribly amused, however, when Darcy and Nick insisted upon

escorting her all the way home, particularly since that required that the six of them wedge themselves into a carriage that would've seated four a good deal more comfortably. Once there, she politely but firmly bid Mrs. Bolington and Lord Fairfax a good evening. She would have preferred to have bid Darcy and Nick goodbye, as well, but feared that they might use the opportunity to resume hostilities with Lord Fairfax if she insisted upon sending them away. Lady Millford made a bid toward miraculous recovery once the four of them were inside, but Darcy insisted upon lending his support all the way upstairs and handing her over to her maid's tender care. Bronte glanced at Nick as they started up. “I have a touch of headache myself...." He slid an assessing glance at her. “And yet you seemed quite well only a few moments ago." Bronte glanced from Nick to the butler. “I don't really feel like discussing this ... now." Nick smiled faintly. “If this is about what happened between the two of us...." "Why don't we have a little visit in the parlor?” Bronte said quickly. He offered his arm, but she pretended she didn't notice and hurried ahead of him, taking a seat in a chair. Looking torn between amusement and irritation, he settled in the chair across from her. "You've suffered a strange assortment of maladies of late." Bronte eyed him with disfavor. “Is that a question?" Nick's eyes narrowed. “I believe it is." Darcy strode into the parlor at that moment, closing the door firmly behind him. “What the devil are you about mixing with the Wicked Widow's set?" Bronte blinked at him in surprise, then frowned. “Mrs. Bolington?" "Don't bat those innocent baby blues at me! You know very well I'm talking about the widow Bolington." "They're green,” Bronte said tartly. "What?" "My eyes are green." Darcy frowned. “Don't try to change the subject,” he muttered, flinging himself onto a chair facing her. Bronte studied him, then looked at Nick. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw set with determination. “I'll ‘mix’ with whomever I please,” she said tightly. "If I catch you hanging around that ... uh ... female, I'll turn you over my knee!” Darcy snapped angrily, sitting forward in his chair to glare at her. Bronte eyed him for several moments and finally leaned toward him. “Bare? Or with my clothes on?"

Darcy's jaw dropped, his face turning fiery red. “Bronte!" Suppressing the urge to giggle at his shocked expression, Bronte sat back in her chair. “I'm not a child anymore, Darcy, in case you haven't noticed." Darcy swallowed as if he had an egg in his throat and glanced at Nick for help. "We had noticed,” Nick said dryly. “Nevertheless, I would prefer it if you avoided further contact with Mrs. Bolington." It irritated Bronte to be told what to do, particularly by two people who had no business ordering her around. It was even more annoying that she'd already decided that she didn't care to pursue that friendship, for now they would think that she had bowed to their demands when it had been her idea all along. “Why?" "Because she is a notorious—” Darcy broke off in irritation, running a hand through his hair in irritation. Bronte lifted her brows, studying both men. “She was your mistress?" Nick sent Darcy a look of annoyance. "Yours too?" Nick's lips tightened. She hadn't expected it to hurt. It shouldn't have. It was none of her business what either of them did, past or present, any more than what she did was their business. When all was said and done, they only shared a past. She still liked to think they'd been friends when they were children. Obviously, they'd considered themselves in the light of older brothers, and just as obviously they still considered themselves in that light, at least to some extent or they wouldn't be laboring under the impression that it was their ‘job’ to look out for her. “Well,” she said, getting to her feet. “I can certainly see that it wouldn't be at all convenient for either of you for me to become friends with your mistress! I'll consider your suggestions, though I have to tell you I really don't give a damn about her reputation, one way or the other. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now. I'm tired. I've had a very long, very eventful day."

Chapter Thirteen Bronte never actually came to a decision about Mrs. Bolington. If she had, she might have opted to pursue the friendship for no other reason than to show Darcy and Nick that she would do as she pleased. On the other hand, she was no more interested in befriending the woman both men had slept with than they were in having her associate with their mistress—she hadn't asked if it was a current affair, and she didn't particularly want to know. It was enough that the woman had been their lover. Mrs. Bolington had decided to pursue the friendship, however, and without being unforgivably rude, Bronte had no idea how to scotch it. She called the following day to invite Bronte to a ‘little gathering’ she'd planned. Since she made a point of assuring Lady Millford that she intended to safeguard Bronte herself and Lady Millford had come to the conclusion that she actually had had a ‘spell’ the evening before, she added her encouragement to the proposed plan the moment she realized that she wouldn't be

put to the trouble of escorting Bronte. As reluctant as she was to have anything more to do with the ‘wicked widow', Bronte couldn't help but be curious about the woman who had charmed both Nick and Darcy into her bed and finally agreed to attend Mrs. Bolington's diner party. She would go just this once, she decided, to show Nick and Darcy that she had no intention of yielding to their demands, to appease her curiosity about the woman who'd captured their interest, however briefly, and also because she did not want to give the appearance of discourtesy when Mrs. Bolington had made a special trip to invite her. Her mood that evening as she performed her toilet was an odd mixture of excitement, uneasiness, and rebelliousness. She felt as if she were doing something wicked, and she enjoyed the feeling, despite the occasional twinge of guilt. She had not previously socialized a great deal. Because she was betrothed so young, she had not actually had her debut. She had followed the drum when she had wed Isaac, which had removed her far from London and the ton, and in any case Isaac had not cared to socialize as a couple. She had socialized some after she'd made her home in America, but it was nothing like the London scene, and in any case, she had certainly never attended a function by a person of ill repute. Her excitement waned and uneasiness grasped the upper hand when Lord Fairfax arrived to escort her. His behavior was above reproach, however, and she mentally chastised herself for being suspicious. There were already a number of carriages lined up to let down their passengers when they arrived at Mrs. Bolington's and some of Bronte's anxiety subsided. She'd been under the impression that it was to be a more intimate gathering and feared she had arbitrarily been paired with Lord Fairfax. She had her first inkling that there was reason to be uncomfortable when they went inside. There was nothing outwardly unsavory about the gathering, but there were few people that she recognized. She dismissed it. It was not as if she'd had a great deal of time to get to know the ton. Her second warning was the fact that the guests were not quite as sedate as she was accustomed to. The noise level, considering the size of the gathering, seemed a little louder than it should have, the laughter a little freer. She dismissed that, as well, chiding herself for looking for fault when most likely the primary reason was that the guests were of a younger set. Lord Fairfax, in his mid to late thirties, seemed to be among the oldest of those present. By far, the majority of the guests appeared to be in their early to mid twenties. There were also far more men than women and that circumstance evoked Bronte's third warning bell. She was just wondering if there was any way to gracefully exit when Mrs. Bolington arrived, all a flutter and breathless with the success of her party, which showed every indication of being a ‘crush'. Slipping her arm through Bronte's, she ‘stole’ Bronte away from Lord Fairfax, secured a glass of punch for each of them, and introduced Bronte around. The punch was spiked. Bronte noticed it immediately. She was accustomed to drinking wine, however, and although she thought it a bit odd, she saw no reason to object. Perhaps, she thought, it was a new sort fad. It was certainly good, a little sweeter than she was accustomed to, but quite tasty and she thought as along as she drank sparingly of it that she shouldn't have to concern herself with becoming tipsy.

Some of her tension eased and she began to enjoy herself when the first sets formed up for country dances, soothed by the familiarity. She did not lack for partners and she rather enjoyed the rousing dances. After the third or fourth, however, she'd begun to feel a little uncomfortably overheated and very thirsty. She asked her dance partner, a young man near her own age, to bring her a glass of punch, sans the spirits. He chuckled and disappeared, returning with a brimming glass a few minutes later. It tasted suspiciously like the punch she'd had before, but she decided that Mrs. Bolington had undoubtedly had only the one punch, one bowl spiked, the other not, for she couldn't detect spirits in it. By the time she'd drained her glass, she knew without a doubt that it was the same punch, with spirits, not without, but she had reached a state by then where she didn't feel particularly concerned about it. No one looked at her strangely, and she decided that they couldn't tell that she was more than a little tipsy, perhaps because they were more than a little tipsy themselves. The party became louder, and rowdier. There were a few mishaps on the dance floor, due to the punch, Bronte didn't doubt. When Mrs. Bolington announced that they would forego dancing for a bit and engage in parlor games, Bronte thought it quite clever of her, for really everyone seemed a little uncoordinated by now. Vaguely aware that the offered dinner had not yet been announced and that she was in need of something to offset the effects of the punch, Bronte was glad to see that they'd moved on to something a little more sedate than the rousing country dances. She'd never played blind man's bluff in quite the way Mrs. Bolington announced, but she hardly thought it was worth objecting. The crowd was large enough she thought the chances of being captured fairly remote, and she had no real objection to forfeiting a kiss in any case. It went a little beyond a forfeited kiss. The blind man, after stumbling around the room for several moments, ‘mauled’ the young ‘lady’ he captured rather shockingly, and she, instead of slapping his face for blatantly groping her, giggled. Despite the number of glasses of punch that Bronte had consumed by that time, and the certainty that she was more than a little tipsy, her judgment wasn't so impaired that that didn't make her very uncomfortable and she began to look around for her hostess to excuse herself. She'd stayed long enough for the sake of politeness, she decided. The young woman—Bronte decided she was certainly no lady—who'd been captured, was duly blindfolded and proceeded to behave even more shockingly than the young man had. Bronte inched her way to the rear, no great feat when the men were crowding toward the front to make themselves available. She met up with Lord Fairfax before she'd made much headway, however, and threw him an uneasy smile. “I was just coming to look for you." He leaned down to hear her above the roar of the crowd. His eyes were glittering with a mixture of amusement and something else that Bronte didn't quite like when he responded. “Were you, my dear?" Bronte felt her face coloring. “I'm not feeling just the thing and I'd like to go home now."

He lifted his dark brows, his gaze flickering over her face assessingly. “Very likely you are only in need of a little fresh air and possibly some sustenance. I heard Olivia say only a few moments ago that there had been some sort of calamity in the kitchen, but that dinner was to be served shortly. Shall I take you for a turn on the balcony for fresh air? It is a bit close in here." The only fresh air she wanted was what she might catch through the carriage window on her way home. Before she could think of a response that didn't sound too rude, however, the woman who'd been blindfolded groped her way up to him and ‘captured’ him with a hand strategically aimed at his groin. Chuckling, he bent her backward over one arm and forfeited a long, deep kiss. Bronte was still immobilized by shock when he took the blindfold and made his way to the center of the group. Somehow, she wasn't entirely certain of how it happened, she found herself on the front row as Lord Fairfax was turned in a circle and given a shove in the direction of the crowd. Like the tide washing in to deposit debris on the shore, the crowd surged forward, depositing the women at the edge. Lord Fairfax made his way around the circle, narrowly missing first one and then another of the giggling women, who darted around him teasingly. Bronte had just discovered that he was slowly but surely making his way toward her when she realized that she'd not only been disgorged at the front of the crowd, but her way of retreat was blocked by those crowding behind her. It almost seemed inevitable that she was captured. She was still trying to find a route of escape when she was suddenly given a push from behind that might have sent her sprawling except that she landed against Lord Fairfax, sliding down his broad chest. He caught her, amidst roars of laughter and approval, hitching her upward and molding his mouth to hers. Under other circumstances, she might actually have enjoyed it. As it was, her focus was far more upon her embarrassment than the heat of his mouth. She grasped the lapels of his jacket, trying to wedge her arms between them. His arms tightened. He deepened the kiss and the crowd roared encouragement. She was even more lightheaded when he released her at last. She swayed and had to be steadied, which seemed to delight their audience. Still more than a little stunned by the turn of events, she was escorted to the center of the group, blindfolded and turned in a tight circle. Blinded, completely disoriented and unsteady already from too much punch, it took every ounce of concentration for Bronte to remain on her feet when she was released and given a nudge toward the group. The mellow glow of the spirits seemed to abandon her abruptly. Holding her arms out in front of her, she moved carefully around the group, trying to decide what to do when all she really wanted to do at this point was to leave. She certainly had no desire to capture any of the men. On the other hand, the longer she delayed the longer she would have to stagger about the room blindly seeking. She was still trying to make up her mind whether to grab the first man who came near enough or to wait until she neared Lord Fairfax, whom she knew at least a little, when a man stepped directly into her path, catching her as she stumbled and fell against him. She was pulled tightly against a hard chest, one arm was slid around her waist. With his free hand, he caught her face, urging her to lift it for his kiss. The mouth that captured hers was hot, greedy, demanding. Briefly, Bronte struggled against his determined assault on the barrier of her lips, but a drugging warmth suffused her from his touch, the heat of his

breath, from his scent and taste as it invaded her senses. He breached the barrier, conquered the ultra sensitive inner recesses of her mouth with his hungry caress, stroking his tongue along hers possessively. Pleasure invaded her senses, leached the strength from muscle and bone, leaving her weak, trembling. Without thought or consideration of the consequences, she returned his caress. The moment she yielded, he withdrew abruptly, snatching the blindfold from her eyes. Bronte blinked up at the face above hers, trying to focus her vision. Darcy's face swam into view. The careless grin that curled his lips did not reach his eyes. Those hazel orbs were glittering with anger, accusation ... need. “Fancy meeting you here, darlin',” he drawled.

Chapter Fourteen Bronte gaped up at Darcy guiltily, dumb struck. Before her disordered mind had managed to wrap itself around the fact that she'd decided that what she did, or with whom, was none of his affair, they were separated by the group of merrymakers. Darcy resisted the pull, his determined smile vanishing as he was swept to the center to take his turn as blind man. Bronte took advantage of his distraction, working her way toward the rear of the crowd. She spotted Nick before he spied her and managed to elude him, falling into Lord Fairfax's clutches instead. "I promised you a stroll in the gardens,” he murmured, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading her toward the stairs. As relieved as she was to be rescued from Nick, whom she had no doubt would give her a thundering scold, she had no desire to be alone in the gardens with Lord Fairfax. He did not seem to be suffering unduly from too much spirits, but he had not behaved quite as gentlemanly as she'd expected that he would. “You said the balcony,” she reminded him. "It will be cooler in the gardens, however, and you look a little flushed." "I don't have my wrap and I'm certain it would be too cool in the gardens,” Bronte retorted, trying unsuccessfully to pull free. To her relief, dinner was announced before he'd managed to whisk her from the room. “I should eat,” she said quickly. “I'm sure that must be why I'm feeling a trifle lightheaded." He bowed his head slightly. “I will escort you to dinner then ... first." And then home, Bronte added mentally. Either that or she would hail a cab, for she'd decided she had had quite enough adventure for one night, particularly now that Darcy and Nick had arrived. Apparently dinner had been announced in the salon downstairs first among those who'd chosen to play cards instead of joining the revelers upstairs, for the room was already crowded when she arrived with Lord Fairfax. Fearing Nick or Darcy or both would arrive at any moment, Bronte was focused far more on the entrance to the salon than on the task of filling her plate from the buffet. "You were hungry,” Lord Fairfax murmured. Bronte glanced at him in surprise, discovering to her embarrassment that she'd filled her plate with

enough food to feed two people when, in truth, she was far too nervous to be hungry at all. She smiled with an effort. “I am." His eyes narrowed, becoming almost predatory. “I find I'm famished myself." Bronte would've liked to think he was referring to food, but there was much in his expression to indicate otherwise, and she felt herself blushing again. His eyes gleamed. "I find you quite irresistible. You do know that?" Surprise flickered through her at his candor. Before she could decide how to respond, he spoke again. “You must tell me sometime why it is that you are always so surprised when you discover someone finds you attractive.” He guided her toward a table with two vacant seats. “It's refreshing, to say the least, to find a beautiful woman who does not seem to have any awareness of that fact." Bronte couldn't help but chuckle. “I expect that is because my mirror tells me otherwise,” she said, taking a seat. Lord Fairfax settled beside her. Leaning close, he murmured. “Your mirror lies to you." Repressing a responsive shiver as his warm breath caressed the side of her neck and ear, Bronte smiled, feeling slightly more comfortable with the ‘normalcy’ of his flirtation. “Mayhap it is only that I still see so much of the thin, freckled girl with the frightful shock of red hair that everyone used to tease me about unmercifully, but I can not see that the years have improved me beyond passable. I confess, though, that I had not thought you so shallow as to be carried away with nothing but what you perceive as beauty." He did not look the least affronted. “But I am a shallow fellow for I must confess it was your appearance that prompted me to demand an introduction. Imagine my surprise and delight to discover there was far more to you than luscious curves and a pleasing countenance." A jolt of shock went through Bronte at his blatantly sexual comment. He chuckled at her expression. "It is that touch of wide eyed innocence that appeals to me most, I think ... beyond the intelligence and the lively sense of humor, which I find almost as delightful as.... “His gaze strayed from her face to her bosom. “...the rest of you. The innocence in your eyes makes it difficult to imagine you ever having warmed any man's bed, and yet there is a sensuality about you that makes it equally difficult to believe that you would be one of those cold fish I am forever hearing my cronies complain about. "I would think that it would take any man, even one as jaded as I, a very long time to grow weary of your charms." The clatter of a plate penetrated Bronte's shocked dismay. She and Lord Fairfax both glanced around instinctively at the sound. Smiling grimly, Darcy sprawled in the chair across from them. “I'd wondered where you'd gotten off to, darlin'." Bronte studied him uneasily, wondering if he'd overheard Lord Fairfax. From the glitter in his eyes she thought it possible. On the other hand, he scarcely looked much angrier than he had earlier. “Lord Fairfax was kind enough to escort me to dinner,” she said shakily.

Darcy's eyes narrowed on Fairfax. Whatever he was about to say, however, remained unsaid as Nick wandered up and settled in the chair beside him. "What a surprise to see you here,” Lord Fairfax murmured dryly, eyeing Nick coolly. “But then, where there is one, the other is not far behind. I'd thought you and Olivia were quits, Cain." Nick's face hardened. “I hadn't thought my affairs of public interest." Lord Fairfax shrugged. “Olivia was a bit maudlin about it ... insisted upon bending my ear. I assure you, I had no interest in the tale, but then I'm sure you're aware that it can be difficult extricating oneself from such a situation. You did ... ah ... comfort her when St. James’ interest waned, did you not?" Bronte glanced uneasily from one man to the other, realizing that, for all that they were behaving with excruciating politeness, there was a very definite undercurrent of violence in the air. In vain, she cast about in her mind for something to say to distract them from the course they seemed bound upon. Fate stepped in in a most unexpected manner. Two very male hands lifted her skirt and slid up her legs to her thighs. Bronte jumped, her eyes widening as her legs were wrenched apart and the rough scrape of whiskers abraded the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs as a head was thrust between her legs. Letting out a yelp, she surged to her feet, slapping at the bulge beneath her skirts. The man, who'd apparently passed out beneath the table sometime before their arrival, obviously too inebriated to know where he was much less retain any semblance of coordination, sprawled at her feet. Nick, Darcy, and Lord Fairfax were on their feet in an instant. Darcy literally leapt the table, tipping it over and sending dishes, glasses and food in every direction. Seizing the man, he lifted him from the floor by his neck, pinning him to the wall and commenced to pounding at his face with his other fist. Around them, half the guests gaped, too stunned to react at all. Several women screamed. A number of other chairs fell over as other men surged to their feet to see what was happening. Nick and Lord Fairfax each grasped one of Bronte's arms almost simultaneously, apparently both having decided it would be best to remove Bronte quickly from the scene. Before it resulted in a tug of war, however, Nick settled the dispute by slamming his fist into Lord Fairfax's jaw in an uppercut that was so swift and so powerful it rocked Lord Fairfax's head back on his neck. His eyes rolled up in his head. His knees wobbled, and he went down like a felled tree, catching the edge of yet another table and upending it. Grasping Bronte's hand, Nick dragged her from the room and down the hallway, his stride so rapid Bronte had to run to keep up. He said nothing to her as they waited on the steps for his carriage to be brought around, but his gaze was damning and Bronte withered under that hard stare. Still under the influence of a little too much punch, embarrassed, revolted at the assault, and feeling an onslaught of fresh guilt for attending a party she knew now was nothing more than a decadent sexual romp, Bronte found she couldn't meet his gaze. Shivering as much from the coldness of his condemning gaze as from the chill night air, Bronte wrapped her arms around herself, trying to still the quaking that seemed to delve deeply inside of her. Once they were settled inside his carriage, Nick looked her over assessingly. “Were you introduced to young MacFarland before he thrust his face between your thighs, or was that your introduction?"

Bronte felt her cheeks color. She sent him a resentful glance. "Why did you go when I expressly asked you to keep your distance from that woman?" Bronte sent him a look. “You forbade it!" His lips tightened. “Was that it then? To show me that you would do as you pleased ... even if it is dangerous? Foolhardy? Have you any notion at all of what ‘parlor game’ they were playing downstairs?" She didn't and he had to know she hadn't been downstairs at all. "They were using ether on one another. I saw two insensible women carried off upstairs while I was looking for you." Bronte swallowed against the surge of dismay that swept through her. She'd heard tales of such things, of course, but she hadn't believed they could possibly be true. She shuddered to think what might have happened if she'd allowed anyone to talk her into going downstairs. Regardless, she resented feeling as if she owed him any explanation, and still she found herself trying to excuse her behavior. “She invited me. I thought ... I thought it was only that you did not like it because she was your mistress,” she managed to say, though her chin developed an annoying wobble before she'd managed to finish speaking. "I did not like it because there is very little that she and her set will not attempt and you are no match for such as they, even though you seem to think yourself very worldly." "You would know!” she said accusingly. His face hardened. “I would." Bronte turned her head to stare out the window, trying to regain control of her wayward emotions. “I was ... curious,” she said in a small voice. "About what?" Bronte swallowed with an effort. “To see if I could understand what you and Darcy saw in her." He remained silent for so long that Bronte finally glanced at him. It was dim within the carriage, despite the street lamps that lit the interior intermittently, but she could see that his expression was stony and unreadable. Finally, he held out his hand. “Come here." Bronte studied him a moment in surprise and finally placed her hand in his. He pulled her across the space, settling her across his lap. Without even thinking about it, Bronte looped her arms around his neck and dropped her head against his shoulder just as she had when they were children and he'd offered to comfort her. She found that it was just as comforting to be held by him now as it had been then. It was odd that she'd forgotten the many times he'd held her while she cried, stroking her back soothingly, murmuring words of sympathy and encouragement. "Do you think that it never bothered me to think of you in Isaac's bed?"

Bronte stiffened, pulling away slightly to look at him. “It did?” she asked in surprise His lips twisted wryly. “It did." Bronte settled her head against his shoulder again. “There was something in the punch." "I know." "I feel most strange." "I'm trying very hard not to take advantage of you, Bronte. Do, please, cease to remind me that you've had far too much to drink." Bronte chuckled. "Why don't you tell me what frightened you? Why you're so upset?" The urge to laugh vanished abruptly. Bronte swallowed against the surge of fear and the sudden urge to burst into tears that replaced it. She could not bring herself to tell him that it was fear for him, though. He had punched Lord Fairfax out. She didn't want to think about what the repercussions might be. The urge to tell him, and to beg him not to meet Lord Fairfax in a duel was nearly overwhelming, but she knew it was useless to try to wring such a promise from him. In the first place, he would consider it an insult to suggest that he couldn't hold his own in any duel. In the second, he had hit Lord Fairfax. Lord Fairfax might well call him out on account of it, and Nick would not refuse a challenge. He might be persuaded not to call Fairfax out, but no amount of pleading would convince him to ignore Fairfax if he decided to pursue the dispute. "You went to the party because of me, didn't you?" He'd been stroking her back almost idly. At that, his hand stilled. “And?" She released him and sat up. “I wish you had not." He stopped her when she would have moved back to her own seat. “I make my own decisions and I am responsible for my own actions, Bronte." She shook her head. “Even when you did it because someone was where they should not have been and you felt duty bound to protect them only because it had become a habit with you?" His eyes gleamed with amusement. “You are a difficult habit to break, Bronte." "I do not want to be a habit!” she snapped, angry that he was making light of the situation when she was so swamped with guilt over the possibility that he could be hurt, or worse, only because of her own willfulness. Resentment swelled inside her too, for she could not have anticipated anything that had unfolded. "What do you want?" She looked down at her hands in her lap. She had wanted to hate him and Darcy. Better yet, she

wanted not to care at all. She had wanted that most of all—not to feel hate, or yearning but a complete absence of anything that would continue to haunt her whenever she considered seeking a life for herself that included a husband. She had wanted to discover that the feelings that had begun when she should have been too young to have felt them at all had not been real. Now, all she wanted was to undo everything she had done since she had made the decision to return home to England. Like the slow deterioration of dying nerves around an aching tooth, time and distance had dulled the pain of her memories. She should have been content with that. Instead, she had opened herself up to even more pain because she saw now that, no matter what happened, it was going to end badly and she was going to take even more regrets back with her than she had had to start with. "Peace,” she replied almost angrily, trying to wiggle off his lap once more. “The freedom to make my own decisions and take the consequences without having to worry that someone else will suffer for my poor judgment." Nick's hand tightened on her waist. His face hardened with anger. “That is only because you do not fully comprehend what the consequences might have been if I had not intervened." "Do you think I am so naïve I don't know that I might have ended in Lord Fairfax's bed, or that that was his intention?" "You wanted that?” he demanded, furious now. "No!” she retorted before she had time to consider it, making no attempt to hide her revulsion of the idea. The denunciation was no sooner out of her mouth, however, than it occurred to her that she had intended to convince Nick and Darcy that she had no interest in either of them even if she couldn't convince herself of it. “At least ... that is not why I went. It wasn't what I'd planned, or even expected, but there is no reason why I should not take a lover if I wish to! I am not an untried girl! I am a woman, a widow who knows her way around a man's bed!" "So ... you're saying you went looking for a lover?" "Yes!” It was only partly a lie. She had not intended or expected anything of the sort when she'd decided to go to Mrs. Bolington's affair, but she had realized that the only way she was going to avert a breach in the long standing friendship between Darcy and Nick was to eschew the company of both. She didn't need to know why they had taken the notion to pursue her. It was sufficient that she could see that she'd aroused the fierce competition between them. "Why?” he demanded tightly. Bronte stared at him in growing agitation. “Do you think because I am a woman that I do not have the same needs that you do?" "Then seek a husband,” he said harshly. "I can not!" "Again, why?"

"Because I'm barren!” Bronte blurted. “Because I could not give him what he would have a right to expect of me, an heir, a family." He studied her in silence for several moments. “You don't know that. You were not married so long that you could be certain of it." She turned to stare blindly out the window. “A physician confirmed it." "And he could still be wrong,” Nick said wryly. Bronte sighed, having covered the same ground numerous times with her mother. “Nevertheless, I could not, in good conscience, do so, and I have not the stomach to be tied to a man who would hate me for such a deception if time proved what I suspect to be true." Again, Nick fell silent for some moments. “If you are determined upon this course, then you have two to choose from,” he said, his voice laced with cold anger now. “Me ... or Darcy." Bronte gaped at him in dismay. “I can't! I couldn't!" His eyes narrowed. “I have had no complaints, not in many years at any rate. So far as I am aware, neither has Darcy. Women seem to find me attractive enough. I can not speak for their taste, particularly when they appear to consider Darcy handsome as well, but I have been led to believe they find little fault in my appearance. If you are seeking a lover, then you certainly could not object to a man of experience." "No, but ... but...." She could no more tell him that she couldn't choose because she didn't want to create trouble between him and Darcy than she could plead with him to avoid a duel. He would not consider the cost. Darcy would not consider the cost. It was possible that it would not result in a rift between them, but she could not risk it even if she could bring herself to choose between them and in her heart she knew she could not. "I ... uh ... the thing is, I just can't." "Why?" Desperation provided inspiration. “You are like brothers to me. It does not feel right. I know you are not, but I can not help feeling that way when we grew up together." He gripped her upper arms, dragging her against his chest. “Liar,” he murmured as he slid one arm around her, threaded his fingers through her hair and covered her mouth in a searing kiss that instantly heated Bronte's blood to a slow simmer. Dizziness swept over her the moment his tongue invaded her mouth in a possessive caress, demolishing what little resolve she'd managed to summon. She clutched the lapels of his jacket as full fledged desire wound through her body, rapidly tightening its grip upon her mind and senses, and finally slipped her arms around his neck. He hesitated when she capitulated, but Bronte was well beyond thought of drawing back. Driven purely by need, she pressed more tightly against him, caressing his tongue with hers. He tensed. A hard shudder went through him. He caught her arms once more, clearly torn between his own needs that urged him to draw her closer still and the little reason that remained to him.

Abruptly, he broke the kiss, moving his mouth along her throat in open mouthed kisses until he reached her breasts. Scooping one from her bodice, he closed his mouth around the distended tip, teasing it with his tongue, torturing her with the heated adhesion of his mouth as he suckled it. Bronte moaned, moving her hands over him restlessly, tightening her arms around his head as he continued to caress her sensitive nipple, sending waves of intense pleasure through her. He caressed her thigh, reaching down to grasp the hem of her dress and slipping his hand beneath it. She shifted as his hand skated up her bare thigh, trying to move to allow him better access, wanting his hand between her thighs. Lifting his head, he stared at her a long moment, his breath sawing raggedly from his chest. “As tempted as I am, a moving carriage is the worst sort of place to attempt this,” he said wryly. Disappointment swamped her, but reason reared its ugly head the moment her blood began to cool, and she realized she could not have left him in any doubt that she had lied. She moved away from him jerkily, adjusting her clothing, fighting the confusing mixture of emotions that pelted her. Uppermost was the near desperate desire to finish what they'd begun and to hell with the consequences. The temptation to burn her bridges completely and eliminate any future temptation by lying through her teeth was nearly as overwhelming, but she could not bring herself to tell him she had pretended in her mind that he was someone else. Almost as if he'd read her mind, he spoke then. “Don't bother trying to tell me again that you can feel nothing beyond a filial affection for me, or that you were imagining I was someone else. You and I both know that's a lie." Unable to meet his gaze, Bronte looked away. With unimaginable relief, she saw that the carriage had turned at last upon her street. “I won't,” she managed to say after a moment. “For Isaac never entered my mind, but I have tasted passion and it has been a very long time for me. You will have to agree, at least, that passion has no conscience and one's needs can often override ... other considerations." "In other words, all cats are gray in the dark?” he said tightly as the carriage came to a stop at last. It took an effort, but Bronte managed the lie with a semblance of truthfulness. “Yes."

Chapter Fifteen The entire episode threw Bronte into such turmoil that she decided to withdraw from company until she could find some semblance of rational thought processes. Lady Millford was rarely at home to guests at any time since she enjoyed the poorest of health, particularly at any time that anything might be required of her, and so she was unaware that the servants had been ordered to turn away any and all visitors. If she had been aware of it, her curiosity about the reason behind it might have stirred her sufficiently to draw her downstairs to question Bronte, but since she remained ignorant of the situation, Bronte was allowed to mentally thrash herself in peace. To Bronte's mind, there did not seem to be a satisfactory solution. She was tempted to urge her mother to return to the dower house in the country, but she was not entirely certain even she could pry her mother from the room she'd ensconced herself in. Her mother had sworn all the way to London that she felt herself slipping into a decline due to the rigors of winter travel on England's roads. It seemed doubtful

that anything short of manhandling her mother into the carriage and whisking her away despite her protests would succeed. In any case, Bronte wasn't at all convinced that Darcy and Nick would not follow her. In London, she had least had some buffer between herself and them. The opinion of society did not seem to hold a great deal of sway over them, but it had, thus far, seemed to rein in some of their wilder impulses. They had both gone far beyond acceptable behavior, taken liberties they should not have, but they had been careful to practice a modicum of discretion. Finally, she decided she could not simply hide herself away. Somehow, she would have to find the resolve and the wit to handle Darcy and Nick until the time came when she could return home. That fact was borne up four days after Mrs. Bolington's party. Roused from sleep by a clattering outside that seemed out of keeping with the typical city noises, Bronte was just beginning to drift to sleep once more when she heard the scrape of a shoe on the floor, the creak of a board, and then heavy breathing very close by. Opening her eyes, she discovered a man rounding the foot of her bed and moving quickly toward her. Instantly wide awake, she bolted upright, gasping in a sharp intake of breath to scream. The man promptly clamped a hand over her mouth that covered most of her face. "Now is that any way to greet me when I've gone to all the trouble to climb that twice damned trellis just to talk to you?" Bronte's terror instantly vanished. “Darcy?” she mumbled against his palm. He released her. “You have other men climbing in your bedroom window at night?” he growled angrily. "I haven't had any men climbing into my window!” Bronte snapped tartly. “I recognized your voice ... and that ham sized hand of yours. What in the world are you doing here?" Grinning as if she'd uttered an invitation, he settled one hip on the edge of her bed, bounced experimentally a couple of times, as if testing the sturdiness of it, and then lay back, dragging in a deep, relaxing breath. “It's a good deal harder to climb up than down,” he muttered. “Particularly on something that shaky. What in the hell is the point of putting something like that on a house when it won't even hold one's weight?" He'd come to lecture her about the party, Bronte suspected, but had apparently been diverted from his original intention by the difficulties he'd encountered in actually executing his plan. After peering at him suspiciously for several moments, Bronte leaned close to him to sniff his breath. As she'd suspected, he reeked of whiskey. Before she could sit back, he wrapped both arms around her. The weight of those massive arms alone was enough to bring her crashing down on his chest. "I knew you had missed me,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear and sending a rash of goose flesh scurrying across her flesh. Bronte struggled for a few moments and finally managed to push herself away from him far enough to look down at him. “You are foxed!” she said with a mixture of amusement and accusation. "Almost,” he responded agreeably and completely inaccurately. "There is no ‘almost’ to it. I don't know how you managed to climb that trellis in your condition, but you're going to have to climb down again. You can't be found in my bedroom."

He lifted his head and looked around the darkened room almost with a look of surprise. “Damned if it ain't." Bronte chuckled. “Darcy!" "Shhh! You want to wake everyone?" "You have to go!” she said in a fierce whisper. “You will wake everyone and then all the servants will be talking." "Can't." "Why not?" "Because the damned trellis is lying in the yard. Besides, I already told you. I came to talk." Since he'd removed one arm from around her shoulders and was busily examining the nightgown she was wearing with curious fingers, Bronte had the impression that talking wasn't exactly what he had in mind. "We need light,” he muttered finally. “It's too dark in here." "We don't need light." "Yes, we do. Can't figure out how to get this off of you." "I've no intention of taking it off, so it doesn't matter." He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Grasping the neck of her gown, he gave it a tug that separated the fabric almost to her waist. Her breasts, suddenly freed, bounced before his face, swaying. Bronte gasped in shocked surprise and dawning outrage. Before she could do more than suck in a sharp intake of breath, however, Darcy caught the tip of one of her breasts between his teeth, biting down just hard enough it sent a keen shaft of sensation straight through her breasts and into her belly, making it clench almost painfully. She gasped again, this time at the intensity of heated desire that rushed through her. “Darcy,” she said despairingly. Ignoring her weak protest, he settled his mouth more firmly over the nipple he'd captured and dragged her across him, slipping one hand down her back to her buttocks and pressing her mound tightly against his hard erection as he arched upward, sending another rush of desire through Bronte that was so powerful she felt lightheaded. Groaning, as if in pain, he released her nipple, clutching her tightly to him and rolling over so that he was sprawled on top of her, his hips wedged firmly between her thighs. Bending his head, he nuzzled his face between her breasts. “You smell so good, Bronte,” he murmured against her skin. “You taste even better,” he added, raking his tongue over first one distended nipple and then the other before he closed his mouth over one trembling peak and sucked it. Bronte gasped at the dizzying wave of heat and stimulating abrasion of his tongue. His suckling mouth as it closed over the engorged tip dragged one involuntary, uncontrollable groan after another from her as jagged bolts of pleasure forked through her like lightning. It seemed that every nerve ending in her body

jumped and danced with the sizzling heat radiating from that point of exquisite sensation, making every muscle in her body tense, but focusing more intensely on her breasts and the moist channel of her sex that began to quake and weep for his possession. She was so dizzy and weak with desire by the time he ceased to tease first one breast and then the other that no thought of protest entered her mind as he hitched himself upward and ground his engorged cock against her mound. Instinctively, she arched her hips to meet his thrust, gasping as the pressure teased at her clit beneath her night clothes, spreading her thighs wider and tipping her hips to allow him better access, groaning in frustration when the fabric prevented the contact she needed. He bent his head and covered her mouth, kissing her greedily, his tongue dueling with hers as he rocked against her in a way that sent her spiraling upward toward release until she was moaning into his mouth almost incessantly, clutching at him frantically. His hands moved over her restlessly, tangling in the folds of her voluminous night gown as he sought bare skin with a touch of desperation, searching in vain for the hem of her nightgown to thrust it out of the way. A sharp rap on the door to Bronte's room jolted them both instantly from their mindless search for gratification. “Bronte?" "Hell!” Darcy muttered harshly at the sound of Lady Millford's quavering voice, rolling off of Bronte abruptly. Unfortunately, they were closer to the side of the bed than either of them realized. As Darcy, thoroughly entangled in Bronte's nightgown by now, rolled off the bed, he dragged Bronte with him. Bronte uttered a squeak of surprise as she went over the edge, grunting as the air left her lungs when she landed on top of Darcy, who'd struck the floor only seconds before so hard it rattled every piece of glass in the room. The door flew open. Grunting, Bronte scrambled to her feet. "What happened?” Lady Millford gasped, clutching her heart and slumping back against the door as she spied Bronte's disheveled form emerging from the shadows on the opposite side of the bed. "I fell out of bed,” Bronte gasped promptly. "But ... but I heard you moaning. I thought you were ill. What happened to your night gown?" It was fortunate the light from the hallway was not sufficient to illuminate the room enough Lady Millford could see the guilty, heated blush that rose in Bronte's cheeks. Belatedly, she remembered Darcy had ripped the gown in his enthusiasm. She grasped the ragged edges, pulling the gown together and clutching it in one fist. “I ... uh ... I was having a bad dream. I must have caught my nightgown on something when I fell out of bed." "Why are you breathing so strangely? Do you feel unwell?" She was gasping, but Darcy was panting far louder. Bronte kicked him warningly, realizing it was his ragged breaths her mother could hear. “I'm fine. Really. I'm sorry I startled you. Go back to bed mother." "I'm not feeling at all well myself. I think I may have had one of my spells. I had decided to go downstairs to get a glass of warm milk when I heard such moaning and groaning from your room it near

frightened the life out of me. I thought sure you were ill. You're certain you're all right?" "I'm fine, Mother. It was just a very bad dream." "Perhaps you could help me to my room and bring me a glass of milk?" "Uh ... certainly. Can you wait until I've found a robe?" "Of course, dear. I'll just rest here on the edge of the bed...." Bronte's eyes widened. “No!” she yelped, holding out her hand as if she could stop her mother from approaching the bed by sheer force of will. “Stay where you are. You look so pale,” she added after a moment when she saw from her mother's expression that she was beginning to have some doubt about the story Bronte had fabricated. “You might faint and hurt yourself." Deciding that removing her mother from her room was far more important than what was left of her modesty, Bronte stepped over Darcy and hurried around the bed to her mother. "Why didn't you summon one of the maids to get you a glass of milk?” Bronte fussed as she helped her mother down the hallway to her room. "Pooh! They are always so slow. I thought I might as well get it myself." "It's the middle of the night, Mother. You can't expect them to respond quickly when you wake them." "I don't know why not,” Lady Millford complained. “They need only toss a robe on to see to my needs. It isn't as if I expect them to arrive perfectly groomed in the middle of the night." "But ... never mind,” Bronte said, deciding as she helped her mother into her bed and tucked the covers around her, that it was useless to remind her mother that some people functioned very poorly when woken from a sound sleep. “I'll be back momentarily with a glass of milk." "And perhaps a sliver of the cake cook baked earlier,” Lady Millford added as Bronte reached the door again. Bronte hesitated, turning to look back at her mother. “Should you—? Never mind. Anything else?" "Well, perhaps a bit more than a sliver, but just a small piece, mind you." Darcy grabbed Bronte the moment she entered her room, shoving her back against the wall and kissing her as avidly as if they had not been thoroughly interrupted. As tempted as she was to allow herself to be dragged once more under his spell, Bronte had had time for more cool headed thinking. After a moment, she pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Darcy, you have to go." He dragged in a shuddering breath, fighting for control with an obvious effort. “I had a very bad feeling you were going to say that." Bronte couldn't help but chuckle at his expression. “I have to fetch Mother something from the kitchen. If you'll be really quiet I'll let you out the back so you won't have to go out the way you came in."

He nodded. “I'd as soon not try the window again. It wasn't easy coming up with the trellis." Bronte shook her head at him, feeling a surge of both affection and amusement. “You are the most incorrigible rogue. How am I to explain the broken trellis?" He grinned at her unrepentantly. “Pretend ignorance, darlin'. That's usually the best bet. Trying to come up with a story only creates more problems because then you have to remember what lies you told."

Chapter Sixteen "You and I have unfinished business,” Darcy murmured close to her ear as he twirled Bronte about the dance floor in a waltz, bringing a flood of color into her cheeks. She sent him a startled glance, for up until that moment, he'd behaved as if the incident of two nights ago had never occurred. He grinned at her expression, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. “That. Too. I don't mind telling you I'm sorely in need and I can offer you no guarantees—if you continue to tease me so unmercifully and then withhold your favors—that I will remember next time that I'm supposed to be a gentleman." Bronte felt her heart flutter at the promise/threat, felt her breath catch in her chest. “You are more rogue than gentleman, and always were, Darcy St. James! And what's more, I could as easily lay that accusation at your door as the other way around, for you know very well I did not initiate anything." Amusement gleamed in his eyes as he gazed down at her. His arched one brow. “No? It seemed so to me." His teasing drew a smile, despite her best efforts to contain it. “You were foxed. Mother gave me a most suspicious look when she learned of the trellis." "I will use the door next time." "You will not!” Bronte gasped, uncertain of whether he was serious or not. He shrugged. “I'd hoped to avoid the rose canes." "There are no rose canes!” Bronte responded tartly. “You stomped the rose bush down." "I have far more reason to be outdone about that than you. It is I who spent a good deal of the night picking thorns from my arse." That comment provoked a chuckle. “Behave yourself or I will regret that I did not eschew your company altogether after your trespass." His expression became serious. “Speaking of which ... why came you to be at that disreputable gathering when I had warned you away?" Bronte sighed. “Nick lectured me all the way home. Is that not sufficient? Must you lecture me, as well?" A troubled look came into Darcy's eyes. “It might have turned out far worse than it did, Bronte."

"I know. I was fearful that you or Nick, or both, would end up on the dueling field. I wish the two of you would stop trying to protect me. I am not a child anymore." He shook his head disbelievingly. “You don't truly believe it's no more than that, Bronte." Bronte found she couldn't maintain her gaze. She looked away. “You're saying that is not a part of it?" She could've bitten her tongue the moment the words were out for even to her own ears it sounded as if she was fishing for some sort of declaration when she most definitely was not. A declaration of any kind was something she most desperately wanted to avoid, for then she would be put in the miserably uncomfortable position of having to decline. Nick had not bought the ‘you're too much like an older brother’ excuse, and she doubted very much that Darcy would, especially after the way she'd behaved the other night. Darcy frowned. “I suppose it was, in the beginning, at least. And it's for damned sure you've little more notion of how to look out for yourself now than you did when you were no more than knee high and about as big around as a green twig. "I wouldn't have considered it of any consequence if I had ended up in a duel, and can say with certainty that Nick wouldn't have either. I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about what might have happened to you." Bronte's jaw set. “It could not have been as bad as all that. I'm not a green girl, Darcy. I was married, remember?" "I ain't likely to forget,” Darcy said grimly. “Especially when you are so determined to throw it at me every time I open my mouth, but Isaac was damned near as green as you were when you wed, and being with your husband isn't the same thing at all." "How would you know? You've never married,” Bronte pointed out tartly. "I've been with plenty of women that were,” Darcy shot back at her. “And don't give me that look, Bronte. You know damned well I'm no saint and never claimed to be." "But I'm supposed to be?” Bronte demanded indignantly. “Perhaps I went because I was looking for a lover,” she added. “Did that not occur to you?" "No, it didn't, because I know better. Is that what you told Nick that's got him tied in knots and out looking for somebody to kill?" Bronte sent him a startled look, but there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he was being other than completely serious. His face hardened. “Fairfax didn't call Nick out. Nick called Fairfax out. The only reason neither one of them are dead now is because Fairfax refused to meet him on the field. They went a few rounds at the boxing salon instead." Fear clutched at Bronte's insides. “Darcy, this must stop." "It must,” he said grimly. “You'll have to choose between us, Bronte. If it's Nick, I'll learn to live with it, but I'll tell you plain out, unless you tell me right now that you care nothing for me at all, I won't step aside

for anyone else." Dismay filled her. It was all very well to say he would learn to live with it, but what about her? Could she live with it? She swallowed with an effort, wishing she had thought of an excuse not to dance with him for she didn't at all care for the direction the conversation seemed to be taking and she couldn't for the life of her think of anything to say to turn it. “You would know that I was lying if I told you I did not care for you." He seemed to relax fractionally, though she had been so unnerved herself she didn't realize until that moment that he had tensed as if expecting a blow. “Then marry me." It was just as well that the dance ended at that moment for Bronte was so stunned she froze in shock, gaping up at him stupidly. He reddened slightly. “For God's sake, Bronte, don't look at me like that. Everyone will begin to think I offered you an insult." Bronte closed her mouth, but when she looked around, her head swum dizzily. The fear seized her that she was going to disgrace herself by fainting dead away in the middle of the dance floor, and perhaps even worse, that she would distress Darcy by doing so. Try though she might to fight it off, however, the darkness seemed to close in more firmly upon her. “I think I may have gotten a little overheated,” she said through strangely numb lips. Nearly as white faced as Bronte was by that time, Darcy glanced around a little desperately and finally spied her mother seated near the refreshment table. “Can you make it to the chair just there?" Bronte couldn't see the chair, but she nodded hopefully. “I think so." He tucked her firmly against his side. “I suppose I should take this as a definite no,” he said hesitantly, drawing a quick look from her. "Please don't think like that, Darcy! I'm just feeling a little dizzy." She began to feel a little better when he'd helped her into the chair, but only in the sense that she was no longer in plain view of everyone if she should keel over in a dead faint. Her mother took one look at her and immediately began to fuss about the heat of the overcrowded room. She drew far more attention than Bronte cared for, but it was a relief that everyone seemed to accept that it was no more than an understandable episode brought on by tight stays and too much exertion in a heated room. Darcy brought her a glass of punch and when she'd drunk it she began to feel better in truth, but she did not argue when her mother insisted that they go home. They had no more than settled in the carriage than her mother dropped all pretense of believing Bronte had become ill from the heat. "What in the world happened?” she demanded. Bronte slumped into one corner, closing her eyes, for she still felt more than a little ill. “Darcy proposed." "Darcy St. James?” Lady Millford exclaimed. Bronte winced, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. “What other Darcy would I be talking about?” she

asked testily. "I can't say that I care for your tone." "Please excuse me, Mother. It's just that I'm not feeling at all the thing." Lady Millford sniffed. “Well, I must say I am not surprised you nearly fainted dead away. If you had told me before, I am sure I would have. Darcy St. James! You are certain you heard him correctly?" Bronte burst into tearful wails. “I can only imagine what he must have thought when I nearly passed out on the dance floor! I have behaved so dreadfully, but I could not help it, Mother. Truly, I couldn't. I was just so surprised." "There, there, dear. You mustn't cry about it. I'm sure you have not wounded him too deeply. He is a disreputable rake, my dear ... worse, if you can believe it, than Nick Cain ... and both of them confirmed bachelors, though there have been many a female who has tried to entice them down the aisle from what I hear. Most likely you misunderstood something that he said to you." Instead of comforting her, the suggestion that she had wounded Darcy made Bronte cry harder, for she couldn't help but remember the expression of dismay on his face, or his comment about taking her faint as a refusal of his proposal. "You are not seriously considering a proposal from him, are you? Assuming, of course, that you did hear him correctly and it was not some silly bet or something of that nature." Bronte sniffed her tears back, searching for her handkerchief. Far from being insulted at her mother's suggestion, she felt a ray of hope that, perhaps, she had not wounded Darcy after all, and that she needn't torment herself with trying to think of some way she might decline without hurting or angering him. "You think it might have been something like that?" Lady Millford rolled her eyes. “Men! They will wager on anything, up to and including which male fly will mount the female first, though I am not at all sure how it is that they can tell which are male and which female." "Mother!” Bronte gasped in shock, torn between amusement and horror. Her mother gave her a complacent smile. “I did not find you in a garden patch, my dear. I do know a little something." Lady Millford did not cease to marvel over the fact that Darcy had proposed, and Bronte began to think that perhaps she had heard him incorrectly. He came to visit the following day to see how she was, but he said nothing, nor did he behave as if anything at all had happened. On the other hand he had been much the same about the night he had climbed into her window and she'd become convinced then that he had been so foxed he either didn't remember it at all, or he wasn't certain what woman's bed he had climbed into. Since he'd proved her wrong that time, she couldn't decide whether he was merely allowing her time to come to terms with the idea and decide upon an answer, or if her mother was right after all. What, she wondered, might he have said that she could have misunderstood though?

Try though she might, she couldn't remember the precise words that he'd used. It had not been the least like a formal declaration, but then she would not have expected Darcy to be at all formal. Still ... on the dance floor? Almost as if it were one of his peculiar impulses? Was that it? He was impulsive. Perhaps something had prompted him to ask, and he'd immediately regretted it, and he was hoping she wouldn't bring it up again? Nick called upon her later that same day and asked to speak with her alone in the parlor. Bronte had no idea why it popped into her mind that Darcy had asked him to come and explain that he hadn't really meant it, but that was the trend of her mind when her mother left them alone. When he knelt and took her hand, Bronte merely stared at him blankly, wondering what in the world he was doing on the floor. He seemed to be having difficulty saying anything at all, however, and he looked so pale that she began to wonder after a few moments if he was quite all right. His poor face was battered still, and she wondered what Lord Fairfax must look like. She couldn't imagine how such a handsome man could be so careless of his looks as to allow other men to punch it with such regularity, although, to do him justice, except for when he fought with Darcy, he generally managed to avoid flying fists. "Are you feeling all right?” she asked finally. “You're not unwell?" He flushed. “You are not making this easy, Bronte." Bronte stared at him, feeling the blood leave her face. “This isn't bad news, is it, Nick?” she asked breathlessly, her mind instantly supplying her with a half a dozen horrible possibilities. "I should bloody well hope not,” he said irritably. The response jolted Bronte from her tormented thoughts but did nothing to calm her racing heart. "I wanted to ask if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife." Bronte merely stared at him for a couple of moments and then burst into tears. Nick stared at her in dismay, turning whiter if possible. “I take it those are not tears of joy,” he finally managed to say. Bronte searched frantically for her handkerchief, wailing louder. After a moment, Nick pulled his from his pocket and handed it to her. Lady Millford burst into the room, stared at the tableaux before her in horror for a couple of seconds, then fell back against the door, holding her heart. “Who? Who? Has someone died?" Reddening, Nick got to his feet. “Perhaps I should go." "No!” Bronte cried, grasping his hand. “Please don't. I'm so sorry. Mother, please! Everything is fine ... really." "No one died?” Lady Millford asked, obviously confused.

Nick sent her a chagrinned look. Lady Millford glanced from Nick to Bronte and finally shook her head and departed without another word, closing the door once more. When she had gone, Nick settled beside Bronte, studied her for several moments and finally grasped her hand. “It's all right, sweetheart. Don't cry." Bronte felt her chin wobble and tried to fight off a fresh onslaught of tears. Finally, she flung herself upon Nick's chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and burrowing her face against his neck cloth. “It isn't all right. I'm so sorry to behave so badly. It's just ... I had this terrible feeling that something very bad had happened." "I didn't mean to scare you,” Nick murmured wryly. “Darcy is fine." Bronte stiffened. She should have known that Nick would know instantly that it was fear for Darcy that had upset her so. She lifted her head, placing her palm on his cheek and urging him to look at her. "Do you love him?" Tears filled her eyes again and ran down her cheeks. “No more than I love you." He swallowed with an effort. “You meant it then, the other night when you said that you could only think of me and Darcy as brothers." 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 that 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 draw 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 assessingly. “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. “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." 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!" Nick frowned and moved to the front, glancing around the theater. After a moment, Darcy joined him. “What do you think?" "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." "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 surrendering 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. 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. 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 frowningly. "What?" They 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 desire 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. Just as she felt her body beginning to struggle toward her peak, he 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. Nick caught her jaw. “They'll hear you, sweetheart,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his and catching her little whimpering cries as Darcy fondled her breast with his mouth and tongue unmercifully. Darkness began to swarm around the fringes of her consciousness. Bronte gripped ... someone's arm frantically as she felt her body soaring upward, felt the tension inside of her winding tighter and tighter until she began to think that she would faint, or die, if she didn't find surcease. Almost as if he'd read her mind, Darcy ceased to tease her. Cool air brushed her skin as he lifted his head, making her nipple pucker more tightly still, throbbing almost painfully. Nick broke the kiss, lifting his head to study her face, she knew. With an effort, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. "How do you feel?" Bronte blinked at him. “I ... uh ... a little faint, actually." Darcy frowned. “A little? Or a lot?" She felt as if her eye balls were rolling around in her head drunkenly. “Very,” she managed after a few moment's thought. "Close,” Darcy said with a touch of triumph. Nick gave him a look. “She didn't faint, though."

"Am I supposed to faint?” Bronte asked, thoroughly confused. “Why am I supposed to faint?" Instead of replying, Nick scooped her other breast from the neck of her gown. Cupping the trembling globe in his hand, he bent his head and covered the tip with his mouth. Bronte gasped, feeling her head swim, moaning mindlessly at the pleasurable sensations until she remembered Nick had said she must be quiet. She was no longer entirely certain why she was supposed to be quiet, but she bit her lip, trying her best to contain the urge to cry out. She thought at first when she felt the wafting of cool air across her heated flesh that it was the flash of chill that presaged a full fledged faint, which was probably why the two palms that skated up her bare thighs and around her hips to cup her buttocks sent a jolt of surprise through her. She shuddered as she felt heated breath against her mound. When his tongue found the opening in her pantaloons and parted her cleft, teasing her clit, she could no longer contain herself. She felt like she was suffocating from a lack of air and began to pant a little desperately, trying to drag air into her laboring lungs. Having discovered bud nestled there, however, he caught it beneath his mouth, sucking it and dragging a ragged cry from her. Nick released her breast abruptly, lifting his head to assess the situation and Bronte opened her eyes, clutching at him as she felt her body beginning to quake with release. He dipped his head, covering her mouth with his and capturing her cries as her release swept over her with a force that completed her descent into oblivion.

Chapter Eighteen Bronte was not fully aware of her surroundings again until she felt herself being lowered to a firm surface. Blackness surrounded her when she opened her eyes, but after a few disoriented moments, she realized that the hood of her cloak was over her face. Lifting her hand with an effort, she pushed it back as she felt the seat beneath her dip. Darcy settled in the seat across from her. After a moment, Nick climbed into the carriage. "What are we doing here?” Bronte asked in confusion. "You fainted,” Nick said tightly, settling beside her and slipping his arm around her. She settled against him gratefully, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I did?" Darcy grinned at her. Nick glared at him. Darcy flushed, looking at Bronte a little sheepishly. “I got a little carried away." Bronte reddened, remembering abruptly what had happened just before she'd blacked out. She covered her face with her hand. “Oh my god! We were in the theater." "I'm sure nobody's any the wiser,” Darcy said soothingly. “Nick brought you out the back after you ... uh ... fainted. And he covered your mouth to keep you from crying out when you ... ah ... well, you know."

Bronte bit her lip, trying to decide whether she was more outraged, embarrassed, or just plain stunned by what they'd done. "I didn't have a great deal of choice,” Nick said tightly. “Someone would've summoned the watch." Bronte lowered her hand and sat back. “Where are you taking me?" "Home." Nick was clearly furious. Bronte wracked her brain to think of something that would ease the tension between the two of them and came up empty. “I swear if you two fight over this ... insane thing ... I'll never speak to either one of you again." Nick slid a narrow eyed glance at her. “The insanity was his idea, but you're right. I could not have been in my right mind to agree with it." "It proved my point,” Darcy said angrily. "Do you think so?” Nick asked coldly. He turned to Bronte. “What do you think?" Bronte blinked at him. “I'm not sure,” she said cautiously. “What was the point supposed to be?" "Do we have a clear winner, or not?” Darcy demanded impatiently. Bronte clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the insane urge to giggle. “That was ... that was ... like a duel?" Nick reddened, but his lips twitched. “I suppose you could call it that." Darcy didn't look terribly amused. “Nick said you couldn't make up your mind. I figured ... well, you kept harping about taking a lover, damn it!" Bronte covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with the effort to keep from laughing. "Now look what you've done,” Darcy said irritably. "I?” Nick demanded indignantly. Bronte fought the hysterical urge to giggle to a standstill and peered at them through her fingers. Realizing they were once more on the point of coming to blows, and that Nick was feeling particularly misused, she moved onto his lap, looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face against his neck. As she'd hoped, he subsided, rubbing her back soothingly. "I'm sorry as hell I upset you,” Darcy said after several minutes of absolute silence reigned in the carriage except for the clop of the horses’ hooves over the cobblestones. It was almost enough to set her off again. “It's all right, Darcy,” Bronte managed to say in a choked voice. “Really." By the time they'd turned onto her street, Bronte had sobered enough to realize that Nick's foul temper might have a cause other than irritation with Darcy's tactics. Apparently convinced that she was in a state

of extreme distress, he made no attempt to release her or to return her to the seat beside him, but he shifted uncomfortably from time to time and the rock hard ridge digging into the side of her hip didn't mysteriously disappear. She'd shifted against it several times before it dawned upon her what it was. She stilled when she finally did realize that he was still in a good deal of distress himself, feeling a mixture of renewed desire and more than a little sympathy for his plight. No doubt Darcy was in no better condition, which probably had a good deal to do with their short fuses. Even if she'd wanted to, and she wasn't absolutely certain she did after the stunt they'd pulled, there was certainly nothing she could do about it at this point. As they had pointed out themselves, her mother was a light sleeper. She was also prone to get up and wander about the house at all hours. It was nothing short of a miracle that she'd managed to get Darcy out of the house without her mother discovering him and throwing a dying duck fit that would've roused the entire household if not the whole neighborhood. In any case, they had behaved abominably. It had felt wonderful. She wasn't going to deny that, to herself at least, but scandalously wicked, nonetheless, and about as indiscreetly as humanly possible short of making love to her on the stage itself. They didn't deserve a reward for it, and if they were suffering, then they certainly deserved to. Composing herself finally, she moved back to the seat beside Nick as they neared their destination. Nick and Darcy were still glaring daggers at one another. She strongly suspected the possibility that violence would erupt the moment she was no longer between them to act as a buffer, but there seemed to be nothing that she could do to diffuse the situation. The two of them escorted her to the door and politely declined her equally polite offer to come in. She stopped them as they turned to leave. “I'm ... I was just wondering." Nick and Darcy both stopped and turned to look at her. She bit her lip. “If I said it was a draw, would you feel compelled to try again?" Nick and Darcy exchanged a look. She smiled at them when they turned to her once more. “Goodnight Nick. Goodnight Darcy. I had ... an extraordinary time." "Lord Sheffield didn't care to come in?” Lady Millford called from the front parlor as Bronte closed the door and started toward the stairs. As tempted as she was to fling a comment at her mother and head for the stairs, Bronte stopped and altered direction. Lady Millford looked her over assessingly as she reached door of the parlor and Bronte realized belatedly that she must be in a shocking state of dishabille. She reddened at the knowing look in her mother's eyes. "Actually, he ... uh ... no. I'm really tired, Mother. I believe I'll go up." Lady Millford sniffed disapprovingly. “Well, I'm sure you'll say it's not my affair, for you are a woman full

grown, but my own dear mother used to say that you could not expect a man to buy the well if you allowed him to take a drink whenever he pleased." Bronte bit her lip. “But ... how are you to know you'll like having him drink from your well if you don't allow him a sip first?” she retorted and turned and fled for the stairs before her mother could recover sufficiently to offer a rebuttal. **** As blithely as Bronte had dismissed the possibility of notoriety, the actuality of it was more difficult to take than she'd expected. She had her first inkling that the little episode at the theater had spawned a great deal of speculation two days later when she attended her first post theater dinner party. She didn't actually notice the whispers and titters that followed her every move at first. She was accustomed to the oft times underlying maliciousness of society and thought to begin with that they must be gossiping about someone else, or that, perhaps, there was something about her toilet that was not up to their rigid standards. The frank stares of a number of men who'd previously behaved very gentlemanly toward her began to hammer home the fact that she had, virtually overnight, become fodder for the gossip mills. It angered her. The plain truth was that very few of them were virtuous enough to have any right whatsoever to criticize her behavior, but then such was the human animal. They had only to catch the scent of blood and straight away they all turned upon the hapless victim. She ignored it, behaving as if she had no idea what the whispers were about, but she couldn't help but wonder who had begun spreading the tale. She had seen no more than a handful of people at the theater that she even recognized, and of those she knew none of them at all well. She supposed it was possible that they had known her well enough to have an interest, but it seemed rather strange that they would when she barely even knew them by name and some of them not even that well. She also knew very well that no one had actually seen anything. Perhaps it hadn't been necessary? Perhaps being with Nick and Darcy was sufficient in itself? Her brazen, unaffected behavior worked after a fashion. When she did not flee in disarray, there were many who began to wonder just how much faith they could place in the rumors after all. There were still the truly malicious, those who were determined always to believe the worst of anyone at any given time, but much of the whispering and snickering had begun to subside after a time and Bronte began to relax and enjoy the evening with less grim determination and more actual enjoyment. She was just returning from the dance floor, with no inkling that her entire world was about to fall apart, when it did. She'd just noticed Nick and Darcy and started toward them when a former admirer of hers stopped to speak to them. Grinning maliciously, he looked directly at her before dividing a look between Nick and Darcy. “Well, which of you won the wager?" Bronte halted as if she'd hit a brick wall. Darcy frowned, giving the man an uncomprehending stare. “What wager?"

William Moreland snickered. “I've heard tell that one of you succeeded in proving you were England's greatest lover by seducing the lovely Lady Bronte Dunmore. I was only wondering if I had a debt that needed to be paid. Or if my man had won after all." Almost as if he felt her eyes upon him, Nick turned. For several painful heartbeats their gazes met. Slowly, the color completely left Nick's face. He swallowed with an obvious effort and turned to look at William Moreland once more. The smug expression on Moreland's face vanished even as Nick reached for him. Darcy glanced toward her then, studied her face for several moments and turned to Nick and Moreland. “For God's sake, Nick! Not here,” he muttered, grasping Nick's arm and trying to pry his hand loose from Moreland's throat before he could choke the life out of him. Bronte turned away, staring blindly at the sea of faces around her. Without any conscious thought but escape, she began to thread her way through the crowded room. Her mother met her at the door, grasping her arm. Bronte looked at her without recognition. "You can't run away like this,” Elizabeth Millford hissed urgently. “They'll believe the rumors are true." Bronte stared at her mother, looked around at the people nearest them, who were trying very hard to pretend they didn't have their ears cocked to catch every word. “I don't care what they believe, Mother. I never did,” she said almost calmly. "You don't mean that!" Bronte smiled at her mother almost pityingly. “Yes, I do. I'm sorry it distresses you, Mother." She pushed past her mother then and made her way down the stairs. She waited outside for the carriage to be brought round, fearful that Nick or Darcy or both would catch up to her before she could leave. Finally, the carriage drew to a halt before the steps and she climbed in. Lady Millford, who'd followed, climbed in behind her. "You were doing so well,” Lady Millford said mournfully. “Why?" Bronte swallowed with an effort. She wanted to be alone. She didn't want to have to try to behave like a civilized, dutiful, respectful daughter. She wanted to release some of the pain that felt like it was going to tear her apart. She managed a wavering smile. “It seems you were right, after all. It was nothing but a silly wager." Lady Millford stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What wager?" Bronte rubbed her temples. “They didn't mean it. Neither of them meant it. It was only a wager to see which of them could seduce me ... to prove—I've no idea what it was supposed to prove, actually." "Who? Who didn't mean what?" "Darcy—Nick,” Bronte managed to say in a suffocated voice. “I always was a fool about them, wasn't I? They never cared for me ... never."

Lady Millford stared at her, obviously torn. “The scoundrels!” she muttered finally. “I might have known they would get you into some sort of scrape! They were always doing so when you were a child. Heaven knows I tried to keep you from trailing after them." Bronte rubbed her pounding temples. Merely breathing was an effort, for it felt as if a giant hand were squeezing her chest in a tight fist. “I know, Mother. And you were right. I just ... I couldn't help it." Lady Millford looked as if she might burst into tears. “I have never seen a harder case of hero worship. You adored those two young hellions." "Yes." "They adored you, too. That was what made it so difficult." Bronte emerged from her self absorption at that, drawing a shuddering breath. “What?" Lady Millford's face crumpled. “We were wrong to arrange a marriage between you and Isaac, weren't we?" "It doesn't matter now." "But it does. He was cruel to you, wasn't he? That's why you never came back while your father was alive. That's why you decided to move half way around the world from us." Bronte covered her face. “I don't want to talk about this, Mother. Not now. Not ever." "They came to your wedding. At least, they tried." Bronte lifted her head. “Who came?" "Nick and Darcy. Your father sent them away. Nick was in a terrible rage. Darcy, too, for that matter ... but neither of them was at all suitable, Bronte—penniless younger sons who had no choice except to make a career of the military. Who would've thought they would ever amount to anything, let alone make their fortunes? We could not in good conscience settle our only child on a man with nothing, however much they seemed to care for you." The urge to cry grew stronger, almost unbearable. “They spoke to father?" Lady Millford sniffed. “Nick asked for you. Darcy would have, I think. He asked to speak to your father, but I sent him away. Your father was ... so.... he was furious that Nick even dared to think he was good enough for you. He was ... not civil. He threatened to have him horsewhipped if he came near you again. When Darcy showed up almost on his heels, I didn't know what your father might do. I told him you loved Isaac and that he was your choice. It seemed to have the desired effect. He left without trying to speak with your father." Tears filled Bronte's eyes and ran down her cheeks. A sob tore its way from her painfully tight chest. She covered her mouth with one hand, knowing if she lost control she might never stop. “You might at least have told me, Mother. You could have given me that. I hated them for abandoning me. My whole life they'd protected me from hurt, from Isaac's cruel pranks, and then, when I needed them the most, they weren't there."

Lady Millford pulled her handkerchief out and dabbed at her eyes. “I know you blame me, but ... I thought it was only a little girl's infatuation with older boys and you would outgrow it. And ... well I suspected Isaac had a cruel streak, but so many young boys do and they grow out of it ... mostly." Bronte uttered a sound that was half wry laugh, half sob. “It is a very good thing that he did, mostly."

Chapter Nineteen Bronte was finishing her packing when Lady Millford knocked at her door. She hesitated and finally went to open it. Lady Millford glanced beyond her at the trunks piled near the foot of the bed and the color left her face. “You're leaving?" Bronte looked away. Turning, she left her mother standing in the threshold and returned to pack the last of her things. “Not just yet. I'm ... I'm off to visit with some old friends before I leave England." "You weren't even planning to say goodbye?” her mother asked mournfully. Bronte glanced at her. “It's not even daylight. I thought you would be asleep." "But ... you don't need to leave so early, surely?" "I didn't sleep, not much at any rate. But now that I'm done packing, I see no reason not to be on my way." Lady Millford's chin wobbled slightly. “It's about that silly wager, isn't it?" Bronte sent her a sharp look, then looked away again. “Perhaps." Lady Millford shook her head. “I can not believe that they would be so crass as to wager on such a thing, certainly not with you." Bronte sent her mother a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. “I'm not convinced that they did. I think it was proposed, but not by them. Perhaps they couldn't refuse the challenge. Perhaps they hated me enough to accept because they blamed me for what father did, but I can not believe it of them. "On the other hand, it might only be that I am making excuses for them again because I don't want to believe it. I have never been able to quite trust my judgment when it came to Nick or Darcy. "I'm not sure it matters to me either way. The truth is that I have always loved them and I always will. Whatever they might do, I will always forgive them and love them anyway." "But ... if it's not that, why are you leaving?” Lady Millford asked, bewildered. "Because it's time. I should stay, I know, and try to quell the scandal for your sake, but you have never seemed to care for society. I can't think that it will disturb you much if you are to remain at the dower house. And, in any case, it will die down eventually. Scandals tend to run out of steam when the object under discussion is no longer around and I'm quite sure some other delicious scandal will erupt soon

enough to divert the ton." "You don't mean to come back to see me before you leave England?" Bronte moved to her mother and hugged her. “I will make no promises. It depends upon how long I stay with my friends, for I have already sent to make arrangements for passage. If I have time, I will come to see you. If not, I promise to write often." "If you are not concerned about the scandal then why must you go back to that uncivilized place?” Lady Millford asked tearfully. Bronte kissed her cheek. “Because I belong there. I have never felt as if I belonged here ... and, I love you, Mother, but it is too painful for me here. There, at least I can find contentment with my life." Dawn was only beginning to lift the darkness from the streets when the last of Bronte's trunks had been stowed and the carriage pulled to the front. Bronte hugged her mother one last time. "I will miss you dreadfully,” Lady Millford said tearfully. "You need not, you know. You are always welcome to come to America to live with me if you grow tired of annoying cousin Wilford and decide to give up the dower house." Lady Millford sniffed, giving her daughter a reproachful look. “I do not stay only to annoy cousin Wilford. Your father left me a life interest in the dower house and it comforts me to live near my old home, even if that wretched woman is mistress there now. In any event, you know very well that my constitution is far too delicate to withstand a trip to the Americas." Bronte chuckled. “I do not believe I got my determination from father. You could do it if you would only make up your mind to do so." She left her mother glaring at her indignantly. When the servants had helped her into the carriage, she handed him two notes. “Please see to it that these are delivered for me straight away." The servant bowed. “Certainly, my lady. Should the man wait for a reply?" Bronte shook her head and settled back against the carriage seat. **** Nick was in the act of tying his cravat when the pounding came on the front door. His valet sent him a startled glance. “That will be Darcy. Tell him to come up." There was a commotion in the foyer and then the sound of booted feet pounding up the stairs. "Never mind,” Nick said dryly. Darcy burst into the room as if he'd been pitched in, slamming the door back against the wall. Nick turned to appraise him, lifting his dark brows. “I despair that you will ever learn the proper way to enter a room." Darcy raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Don't start, Nick. Did you get a note?"

Nick frowned, waving his valet away. When the man had closed the door behind him, Nick moved to the cellaret and poured each of them a drink. “I did." "Well?" Nick's gaze flickered over Darcy's face. “I will certainly go." Darcy frowned. “You don't think she did this just to throw us off, do you?" Nick shrugged, settling in a chair. “No. But then, it doesn't matter, does it? I'm reasonably certain we have covered every eventuality. The ship is ready, is it not?" Darcy relaxed fractionally, downed his drink in one gulp, and flung himself at a chair. Nick winced as the chair groaned. "Yes. It has been for weeks. Assuming we can still round up the crew,” he said morosely. "And the coachman and all the footmen bribed. I saw to it personally." Darcy frowned. “It almost seems too easy. I don't mind telling you it makes me very uneasy, especially after the stunt that damned fool Moreland pulled." "It was hardly that,” Nick said dryly. "I still don't like it." "You are laboring under the illusion that I do?" Darcy scrubbed his hands over his face. “I'm dead on my feet. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night." "You can sleep on the way." "I'd feel better if we knew with absolute certainty that Bronte hadn't hired a carriage to take her." "We'll stop by and check before we leave town,” Nick said soothingly. “You can dash off a note to your captain and instruct him to round up his crew and then we will be certain that we have everything covered and may relax." "You don't think Lady Millford will be suspicious that we're leaving town on Bronte's heels?" Nick shrugged. “Perhaps, but then again, I don't particularly care." **** Bronte could not recall ever being quite so nervous, even on her wedding night. Night had already begun to set in by the time she had arrived at the hunting box. The windows were dark, unwelcoming, and her stomach had tied itself into a little tighter knot. Regardless, she'd felt a little relief, too, knowing that she'd arrived first. It would give her time alone to come to terms with what she'd planned. When the servants had unloaded her small trunk, set the tiny cabin to rights and built a fire, she had sent

them away again to stay at the inn on the outskirts of town. If they didn't come, she would be stranded for nigh a week, unless she grew so tired of her own company that she walked to town, but she didn't want to think about that now. It only made her more anxious. She had not been able to eat more than a morsel of the food she'd brought, and wondered a little wryly if she had overestimated her appeal as the minutes and hours ticked past. They might not come tonight. They might not come at all. Banishing the thought, she set about preparing a bath with the water the servants had hauled from the well and set on the hearth to warm. The warmth of the water and the rose scented oils she'd stirred into it soothed her. She was half drowsing when she heard the sound of a carriage arriving. She stiffened, fighting the urge to leap from the tub and dash for the bedroom she'd chosen. Already, it seemed, her careful plans were unraveling, for she'd chosen a most seductive gown to wear, had intended to comb her hair until it gleamed and leave it loose down her back. Instead, she was probably pruned from lying so long in the water and her hair piled haphazardly atop her head. It couldn't be helped. She heard the scrape of booted feet on the porch before her mind had even had time to run down the list of things undone. She sat up as the door opened. Nick stood on the threshold. He halted, filling most of the doorway. “Set the trunks there,” he said to someone behind him. She held his gaze as she listened to the thump of several trunks. In a few moments, she heard the sound of the carriage departing and Nick stepped inside. Darcy followed him, closing the door. "I hadn't expected you to arrive so early,” she managed to say finally, and was pleased that her voice hardly quavered at all. Girding herself, she rose from the tub and reached for the cloth she'd left warming to dry herself with. When she'd nerved herself to glance at Nick and Darcy again, she saw that they were still standing near the door, as if frozen in place. A sliver of confidence wafted through her. “I'll only be a moment. There's a basket of food on the table if you're hungry." She was shaking by the time she reached the room and closed the door behind her, but very little of it was due to the chill of damp skin. After several moments of panicked indecision, she decided to revert to her original plan. It would give her time to steady her nerves and give them time to settle and have a bite to eat. She heard the splash of water as she moved to the small fireplace the room boasted and pulled the pins from her hair. She bit her lip, wondering which of them would be reeking of rose oil. Shaking her head, she combed her fingers through her hair, loosening it to allow it to dry. When it had ceased to drip, she moved to the bed and donned the gown she'd chosen. There was no mirror in the

room, but she didn't need one. She'd examined the gown carefully before she decided on it. The fabric was fine and sheer, revealing far more than it concealed, she knew. Unhurriedly, she moved to a bench near the fire and began to comb her hair. When she'd delayed as long as she dared, she rose and moved to the door, took a deep, sustaining breath and opened it. Nick was standing by a window, staring out at the night. His hair was still damp, and hung loosely about his shoulders. He was wearing nothing more than his breeches and shirt which, she saw when he turned, was loose to the waist. Darcy, in a similar state of half dress, his damp hair already beginning to curl, was sprawled on the couch, idly shuffling the deck of cards in his hands. She moved across the room to warm her hands at the fire. When she turned, she saw she had their full attention. Nick dragged his gaze up her length with an effort. “Why?” he asked a little hoarsely. Bronte lifted her brows questioningly. "Why did you summon us here?” Darcy asked. Bronte smiled. “It seems to me that you've figured it out." "Nevertheless, I'd like to hear it,” Nick said. She shrugged. “I can hardly be expected to judge which of you is England's greatest lover when I have not had the opportunity to discover it for myself." Nick paled. “I feared as much." Darcy flushed. “It wasn't like that, darlin',” he said quickly. “I swear on my mother's soul it wasn't!" Bronte bit her lip, trying not to smile. “Your mother is still living, is she not?" Darcy grinned sheepishly. “Yes, but ... just the same." Since her backside had grown uncomfortably warm, Bronte turned to warm her hands once more. “What was it like?” she asked, staring into the fire. "Moreland proposed a wager on it, but neither of us ever accepted, never even considered it. It was just that ... well we didn't know you'd come back until he mentioned it, so we went straight away to see you." "And that was all there was to it?" "Not entirely." Bronte turned to look at Nick when he spoke. "He seemed to be laboring under the impression that you would not be at all receptive to either of us. I wanted to know why. I'd still like to know."

"It was because of Isaac, wasn't it?” Darcy put in. “I swear to you, we tried our best to save him, Bronte. We were damned near killed ourselves, but he was dead by the time we got to him." Bronte felt the blood leave her face. “You tried—you were hurt?" "I caught a bullet in the shoulder. Nick was hit twice. I had to haul him out of there." "Shut up, Darcy!" Bronte stared at them in horror, realizing finally that that was why she hadn't seen them after Isaac was killed. That was why they hadn't even come home for the funeral. They'd both been battling for their own lives. Swallowing her fear and horror with an effort, Bronte crossed the room toward Nick, stopping when she was barely a foot away from him. “Where?” she whispered. He shook his head fractionally. “It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago. I survived." "It does matter. It matters to me." "I'll show you mine,” Darcy volunteered. Bronte turned to smile at him. “Yes, you will ... in a little bit." "This is insane, Bronte,” Nick said tightly. She lifted her brows. “Why? You two have shared before. Even I remember that." "This is different." She moved a little closer, lifting her hand to trace a rounded scar on his chest almost hidden beneath the dark hair that covered it. “Why?" He jerked at her touch, sucking in a sharp breath. “Because ... I love you,” he said harshly. Darcy got up from the couch and left the main room abruptly, climbing the stairs to the second floor. A pang smote Bronte, but she could only deal with one thing at the time. She would soothe his hurt, she promised herself, later. Leaning down, she brushed her lips across the scar. “I love you, too." He caught her upper arms in a tight grip. “Tell me why then. Why did you behave as if you hated me?" "I thought I did. But it wasn't because you didn't save Isaac. It was because you didn't save me from Isaac. I thought you had abandoned me when I needed you the most." His face twisted with pain. “I didn't have a choice." Bronte skated her hands up his chest and looped her arms around his shoulders. “I know that now. I wish I'd known then. It would've ... made it easier to bear." Nick slipped his arms around her, pulling her lightly against him. “You don't have to do this, sweetheart,”

he murmured against her throat. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Chapter Twenty Nick caught her face between his palms. “Good, because it is either this, or you will have to shoot me to put me out of my misery,” he murmured, closing the distance that separated them and capturing her mouth with a hunger that detonated an explosion of heated desire inside of her. Heady with the sensations pouring through her, fogging her mind with a heated haze of rapture that focused her entire being on his touch, the feel of him pressing against her and delving inside of her, his heat, his strength, Bronte returned his kiss with an urgency that matched his. Uttering a sound of longing, she closed her mouth tightly around his tongue as he caressed hers and then began a rhythmic thrust and retreat that emulated the mating of their bodies. Within moments the intimate dance had enflamed them both to a state trembling perilously near their peak. He pulled away abruptly, caught her up against his chest and strode toward her room. Bronte tightened her arms around his neck when he scooped her off her feet, kissing his neck, tugging at his ear lobe with the edge of her teeth. He almost dropped her when she stuck her tongue into his ear, tracing the swirls with the tip. "For God's sake, Bronte,” he muttered hoarsely, wrestling with the latch of her door. “If you keep that up I'll disgrace myself before we get to the bed and I'll be no use to you at all." Smiling, Bronte ceased to tease his ear and sucked a row of love bites along the side of his neck instead as he stepped back and kicked the door open, having tired of trying to juggle her and wrestle with the latch at the same time. Shouldering his way into the room, he kicked the door closed behind them and strode toward the bed. Collapsing upon it with her, he covered her mouth in another fiery kiss as he came down on top of her. Impatient to feel his skin, Bronte pushed his shirt from his shoulders, stoking his back and shoulders and arms with her palms as she removed it. Breaking the kiss, Nick pulled away, dragging his shirt from his breeches, then shrugging out of it and tossing it aside. Bronte's hands were already working at the fastening of his breeches. He chuckled shakily, placing his hands over hers to still her movements. “Slowly, sweetheart. I have waited far too long to rush." Bronte looked up at him, lifting a hand to stroke his cheek. “I have wanted you to have your way with me since long before I even knew what it was that passed between a man and woman. I want to feel you so deeply inside of me you feel like a part of me. I have waited too long to wish to wait any longer." His face hardened. Taking several shuddering breaths, he looked down at her as he stroked his hand along her body and caught her gown, dragging it upward. Leaning over her, he kissed the flesh he revealed, along her thigh and hip and belly. He covered one breast with his mouth when he had thrust the gown to her shoulders, catching her other breast in his hand and massaging it until the nipple puckered with painful pleasure.

Bronte gasped at the heat of his mouth and tongue. With an effort, she disentangled her arms from the gown, dragged it over her head, and grasped his shoulders, holding him to her. When he lifted his head at last, she was panting for breath, writhing with fevered need. She parted her legs in invitation, in desperate need, reaching down to cup the rigid heat of his cock through his breeches, massaging him. Groaning, he unfastened his breeches and thrust them down his hips as he settled between her legs and leaned down to kiss her deeply. She arched upward, pressing her mound against his engorged cock, feeling him part the flesh of her sex and glide along her moist cleft. Frustration filled her. It felt so good, so nearly what she wanted and yet not nearly enough to satisfy her. She struggled to reach him, to grasp his cock and guide his flesh inside of her. He released her lips, lifted his head, pushing his upper body up on his locked arms as he thrust his hips forward. She gasped in pleasure as she guided his cockhead to the mouth of her sex and arched to meet him. Feeling his body lock with hers, begin to press into her flesh, she released his cock and grasped his hips, pulling him to her, moaning with both pleasure and impatience as her flesh resisted. He lowered himself slowly until his chest was resting against her breasts. Burying his face against her neck, he slipped his arms beneath her shoulders, holding her tightly against him as he pressed deeper inside of her. They were both gasping for breath and slick with the moisture of exertion by the time he was fully imbedded inside of her. He paused, struggling for control. Bronte held herself still, barely breathing, enthralled by the feel his flesh inside of her, feeling her muscles quake around his hard length as if clutching at him. She stroked his buttocks and back, glorying to have him like this, inside her, on top of her. She felt immersed in his essence, dizzy with his spicy scent mingled with the rose oil. “Nick,” she whispered, yielding to the need to taste his name on her tongue. He lifted his head. “Am I hurting you?" Bronte opened her eyes with an effort and found him gazing down at her in concern. “It feels ... more wonderful even than I imagined to feel you inside of me." A tremor went through him. He dipped his head to kiss her lips briefly, her cheek and then her neck as he began to move his hips, withdrawing and plunging deeply again, murmuring her name almost feverishly as he quickly built the rhythm of his thrusts. Bronte moaned as she felt the tension in her body winding tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock along her sensitive core. Within moments she felt her body surging toward completion, began to utter little gasping cries of delight as ecstasy peaked inside of her, exploded, washed through her in a heated wave that made her entire body quiver with rapture. Nick thrust harder, faster, went perfectly still as his culmination caught him, groaned in an agony of ecstasy as it rolled over him, shaking as his body convulsed in the throes of the ‘little death’ that bathed her insides with a hot liquid rush. Contentment filled Bronte as he collapsed weakly against her, gasping for breath. She nuzzled his neck, kissed him, stroking his back. After a few moments, he dragged in a deep, shaky breath and rolled to his side, kissed her on the lips briefly and then released her, rolling onto his back. He sighed gustily.

Bronte lay half drowsing beside him, skating her hand lightly over his broad chest. He shivered as she plucked at the dark hair, covering her hand, and she smiled. "Did you mean what you said?” he asked almost lazily. She rose up on her side and leaned down to tease his nearest nipple with her tongue. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Yes. I love the feel of you inside of me." He swallowed thickly. Grasping her, he dragged her across his chest. “Not half as much as I love being inside of you, I'll warrant. I meant before that." Bronte wrinkled her brow, thinking back, and finally smiled. “Yes. That too." He grinned at her. “Just how old were you when you wanted me to ‘have my way’ with you?" Bronte chuckled. “I haven't a clue. Very young. It was after I caught you and Darcy and Isaac ‘playing’ with the girl from the village in the barn." "Good God!” Nick said, surging upward and dumping her on the bed beside him. “You knew about that? You couldn't have been old enough to think such things." "Darcy didn't tell you?" "He didn't." "I was very outdone that I wasn't allowed to play, too. Isaac told me later that you were having your way with the girl. He told me in great detail what you'd been doing. I suppose he thought it would horrify me, or disgust me. I don't know, except all I could think about was that she'd sounded like she was enjoying it and I wasn't horrified or disgusted. I was angry that you'd done it with her instead of me and threatened to tell. That was when he beat me up." Nick's arms tightened around her. “You couldn't have been more than ten. If I'd known what he'd been telling you, I would've beat the living hell out of him." Bronte chuckled. “You did beat the living hell out of him." "Twice, I mean." Bronte sighed, propping on his chest once more. “Then, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, I asked you to kiss me like you kissed the other girls. You said you couldn't, because then you would want to have your way with me. I was very disappointed that I couldn't convince you to try it because I still remembered what Isaac had told me and I wanted you to." Nick closed his eyes. He looked pained. “I said that to you? My God! It's a very good thing for me that you weren't prone to carrying tales. Your father would've killed me ... and I needed it." Bronte shook her head. “You were only teasing me." "I shouldn't have been teasing you like that."

"No, you shouldn't. You should have kissed me and had your way with me,” Bronte said with a chuckle, nibbling a path across his chest to his neck. "For both our sakes, I'm glad I had enough sense, and sense of decency, not to." Bronte didn't agree. However young she'd been at the time, she would've far rather that Nick or Darcy had been her first than Isaac, but she didn't want to think about it and there was no sense in bringing it up. In any case, she was far more interested in provoking Nick to have his way with her again. He proved to be far more receptive to her attempts at seduction than he had been those many years ago, making love to her with a slow thoroughness that satisfied her desires and yet was so poignant, it made her ache with her love for him. Afterwards, they curled together and drifted to sleep. When Bronte woke, the fire had died to little more than embers. She lay still for a while, listening to Nick's deep, even breaths, feeling herself grow tense as she contemplated what she had to do. Finally, she rolled away from Nick and moved to the side of the bed to search for her discarded gown. "You're going to him." It wasn't a question. She stilled, listening to her heart thundering in her chest with dread. “Yes." He said nothing else, and she bowed her head. “This is the part I never wanted to face. I wish that it was as simple as proving a silly wager. I love you both and I can no more bear to hurt Darcy than I can you. And, in the end, if you truly love me, I will hurt you both." **** The water was tepid, but Bronte bathed. She could not go to Darcy when she could smell Nick on her skin, taste him. It was bad enough that they both knew that she was going from the arms of one to the other. She had to make an effort to show Darcy that she loved him as much, desire him as much. She was shivering when she climbed out and dried off, her stomach tied in knots, partly from anticipation, partly from dread. After a little thought, she tossed the nightgown aside, wrapped the cloth around herself and went up the stairs to Darcy's room. He woke when she closed the door behind her. Sitting up, he stared at her a for several moments in surprise and finally fell back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "You shouldn't be doing this,” he said. Bronte moved to the side of the bed and sat down. “Why?" He dropped an arm across his face, swallowing audibly. “Nick loves you, darlin'." "But you don't? Not that way?” she asked tentatively, feeling sick inside at the thought. He said nothing for so long that she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he let out a gasping breath as if he'd been holding it, sat up and pulled her into a tight embrace, squeezing her almost painfully. “If I told you I didn't, you'd know I was lying,” he muttered.

Bronte smiled faintly, wrapping her arms around him, stroking his back. “It would be so much easier if I didn't love you, too." He pulled her across the bed and lay her back against the mattress, leaning down to nuzzle his face against her neck. “You smell like roses." Bronte smiled. “So do you." He chuckled. “Next time I'll toss your rose water out. I wasn't in the mood to be drawing water for a bath." "I cheated. I had the servants do it before I sent them away." "Why didn't I think of that?” he murmured, brushing his lips lightly along her neck to her collar bone. Bronte sighed, feeling desire burgeon inside of her. “Make love to me, Darcy." He lifted his head, giving her a lopsided smile. “I'm working on it, darlin'." Bronte chuckled, stroking his cheek lovingly. “I've missed the way you could always make me laugh ... even when I felt like crying." He brushed his lips lightly across hers, plucking at the lower lip with his and then sucking it gently. “I've missed the sound of your laugh,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his own, and kissing her deeply, filling her with his warmth, his essence in a way that built both desire and a sense of homecoming, of belonging. She moaned when he dragged his mouth from hers and traced a path of kisses along her jaw to her ear, traced the delicate shell with his tongue, and then blazed a fiery trail downward. With his fingers and palms, his mouth and tongue, he explored every inch of her, massaging her breasts, suckling until she began to writhe and moan beneath his touch and then exploring her belly, her thighs. She gasped sharply when he pushed her thighs apart and kissed the exquisitely sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, her nether lips and then parted them with his tongue, raking it along her cleft to her clit. A jolt of heat went through her as he teased the nub with his tongue, suckled it. The blood pounded in her body, building to a crescendo that blocked all sound save the rapid tempo drumming her ears. She uttered a choked cry, caught his head at the nearly unbearable pleasure, of half a mind to hold him closer still, and half to push him away. He caught her wrists, manacling them to the mattress as he continued to torment her with the heat and adhesion of his mouth, the faint abrasion of his tongue until she was gasping hoarsely, felt herself teetering on the verge of release. She didn't know what was worse, the exquisite, piercing pleasure produced from the flicking of his tongue against that most sensitive nub, or when he alternated his attentions to her tight passage. The thrust of his tongue deep inside made her cry out hoarsely, had her squirming against his mouth, her feet moving restlessly against the mattress. His tongue undulated, and his nose rubbed erotically against her clit, wringing whimpers from her throat.

"Darcy,” she cried, her hands clenching and unclenching, her hips bucking against him. “I am ... dying. Oh ... Darcy ... please!" Abruptly, rapture exploded inside her, dragging a sharp, ragged cry from her throat. Her muscles flexed convulsively, and she nearly strangled on a whimper at the loss of his mouth upon her. He rose above her then, as a climax reared inside her. She spread her thighs as widely as possible, eager to be filled by his breadth and heat. His hips grazed the sensitive surface of her inner thighs as he pressed the head of his cock against her opening and thrust fully inside her, her womb's moisture easing his tight entrance but not nearly enough. She gasped as an abrasive but wholly welcome pain rippled along her inner muscles as he sank to the hilt. Bronte gripped his arms tightly, scarcely realizing she dug her nails into his biceps. He groaned, long and loudly, eliciting a shiver of warmth throughout her insides. Scooping her into his arms, he sat up, pressing upward steadily as he pushed down on her hips until he was so deep inside of her she could barely catch her breath. She sat astride his lap, gasping, feeling the muscles of her passage quaking around his hard length. He lifted her slightly away from him, then arched upward again, guiding her until she found the rhythm that pleased them both, clutching her tightly as she moved. In this position, she could touch him as she longed to, watch his face, feel every tremor of his body. The intimacy warmed her, laid bare her soul in a way she never thought possible. Looping her arms around his neck, she titled her face upward and tenderly kissed his jaw, nibbling at him as she caught his movement and began to move with more surety. She watched his face contort with quickening desire, drawing pleasure from that that she gave until she felt her body begin to quake once more with imminent release. As abruptly as he'd pulled her upright, he twisted. Laying her back against the bed, he took control, began to thrust harder and deeper, faster. Culmination burst upon her explosively, harder than before. It radiated from that point of joining, deep inside, alighting nerve endings in an explosion of sensation. Lights flickered behind her closed lids, dancing like fireflies. Her blood thrummed, called to life by his rhythmic pounding. She called his name and he caught her cries of ecstasy with his mouth, groaning as his own body reached its peak and he found release with an explosion not unlike her own. Gathering her tightly to him, he rolled onto his back. Bronte lay draped limply on top of him, struggling to catch her breath, listening to the comforting pounding of his heart beneath her cheek as she drifted away on a tide of expended bliss.

Chapter Twenty One It had seemed to Bronte when she had told her coachman to return for her in a sennight that she was placing too much on faith, that the three of them could not share so small a space under such circumstances without falling afoul of one another's temper. She thought, perhaps, that she'd hoped to find that prolonged proximity would prove that they simply could not deal together well. She had thought that the inevitable quarrels and the competitiveness of Darcy and Nick would make leaving easier. Instead, they spent their days going about the mundane chores necessary for a modicum of comfort—gathering firewood, or chopping it for the fireplaces; preparing meals; joking, playing pranks upon each other; walking in the woods ... making love.

Bronte didn't know whether to be grateful for the gift she'd received or not, for as each day passed, her dread of leaving grew. She did not want to go. She especially did not want to leave Nick and Darcy, but she knew she really had no choice. As wonderful as it had been to stay with them in the little hunting cabin in the woods, they could not stay forever. Each of them had responsibilities in the real world outside the woods—homes, estates, servants, business interests. These could not be neglected indefinitely and, unfortunately, there was no place in England that the three of them could be together. She wasn't even certain if it was a thing to be desired. She loved them, but it was unfair to both of them to expect them to share her affections when each deserved the undivided, adoring attention of someone of their own. As for herself, she hoped she could be content. The truth was, she would never have found true happiness without them, and the time she'd spent with them had not changed that. She might find passion. She might find contentment, but she didn't think she could ever find anyone that she could love as much as she did them. When the day at last arrived for her departure, she packed her trunk and tried to fortify her spirits to take leave of them without regrets, without leaving them with regrets of their own. Darcy and Nick were playing a hand of cards when she left the room in her traveling clothes. Darcy noticed her first, pausing as he tossed a card onto the table. “You're leaving?" She managed a smile. “I've stayed far longer than I should have. I have to go." Nick turned to survey her attire. “Returning to London?" Her smile wavered. “I'm going home." His brows rose. Something flickered in his eyes. “Your mother is still in London, is she not?" Bronte realized that he'd misunderstood her. He thought she meant to return to her mother's home in the country. Resisting the urge to correct him, she managed a shrug. “I don't expect the scandal has died down much in so short a time. She'll probably be more comfortable if I don't return to London." He tossed his cards on the table, rising as the sound of an arriving carriage was heard outside, and moved toward her. She went into his embrace readily, hugging him tightly. “I will miss you so dreadfully." He chuckled. “But not for long." She swallowed with an effort. “No." Pulling a little away from him, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Darcy dragged her away from Nick, wrapping his arms around her tightly and rocking her slightly. “Will you miss me, too?" "Infinitely,” she said with an effort, lifting her face to kiss him as well. They walked her to the carriage and helped her inside while the footman stowed her trunk. She leaned out the window as the carriage pulled away, waving. “Tell Moreland that his wager is forfeit, for you are both the very best that England has to offer!” she called out to them. Nick shook his head disapprovingly, but Darcy only laughed.

She allowed herself to cry then. It was a relief and long in coming. When she'd cried herself out, she dried her eyes and took the small lap desk from beneath the seat, penning a letter to her mother to say that she was sorry she hadn't had the chance to go to see her once more before she left. When she'd finished it, she sealed it and drew more paper out. The letters to Darcy and Nick were harder, but after several failed attempts, she'd managed to write each of them a letter that she was reasonably satisfied with. Despite the coachman's best efforts, it was nearing dusk when they arrived at last at the seaside town and Bronte had grown anxious that she would miss her ship. To her relief, when they pulled into the harbor, it still bobbed at the quay, though she could see from the activity aboard that they were readying to set sail. It was just as well, she reflected. She wasn't at all certain her nerves could take a prolonged leave taking. She did not think it likely that Nick or Darcy would come to look for her, but she didn't think she could bear having to explain to them in person what she'd taken so many hours to explain on paper. Almost as soon as the carriage rolled to a halt, the footmen leapt down and began removing her trunks and carrying them aboard. Stiff from the long ride, Bronte alit slowly, gathered her few belongings from inside the carriage and handed the letters to the coachman along with instructions on delivering them. "Ye nearly missed the tide,” the captain of the vessel barked at her as she climbed the gang plank and stepped onto the rolling deck at last. Bronte gave him an apologetic look. “We were delayed along the road." He shrugged. “Ye made it, and that's all that matters.” Turning, he yelled at one of the sailors. “Show the lady to her cabin." Bronte jumped when he shouted but refused to be intimidated. “I'd prefer to stay on deck a while." "Suit yerself,” he muttered, stalking away and shouting orders as the sailors rushed around the deck readying the ship. Looking around a little uneasily, Bronte finally spied a relatively calm area of the deck and moved to the railing, clutching it tightly as the ship lurched and began to move away from the docks. There was no one to see her off, of course. The traveling carriage had already departed. Still, she couldn't bring herself to go below until distance and failing light finally hid England from her view. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she turned finally and picked her way carefully over the coils of rope until she reached the gangway. Clutching the railing, she began her descent. "Your cabin is the one at the end,” said a voice behind her. Startled, she turned to look up at the captain in surprise. “At the end? But .. isn't that usually the captain's cabin?" He smiled wryly. “Not this trip." Bronte frowned when he turned and strode away. She'd paid for comfortable accommodations, but she

had certainly not expected to get the captain's cabin. Shrugging finally, she placed one hand on the wall to steady herself and traversed the length of the ship. A light was burning inside the cabin she saw as she reached it, lifted the latch, and stepped inside. "The view from the deck must have been better than I'd thought,” Nick drawled, startling a squeak of surprise out of Bronte. He was sitting in the captain's chair, his shirt open, his bare feet crossed on the top of the desk. She put a hand over her wildly fluttering heart, staring at him in confusion. “Nick!” she gasped, stunned. "It'll be a while before she sees England again. I was half tempted to go up for a last look myself,” Darcy said. Turning, Bronte saw that Darcy, in a similar state of dishabille, was propped against the bulkhead, his long legs stretched out before him on the wide bed that took up much of the room. "Darcy?" He grinned, sliding off the bunk and starting toward her. "You didn't really think we were going to let you slip through our fingers again, did you?” Nick drawled, dropping his feet to the floor and closing in on her from the other direction. "I don't understand,” Bronte managed to get out as they stopped on either side of her. Nick placed a finger beneath her chin. Tipping her face up, he smiled down at her. “You are a very difficult woman, Bronte, but the only woman in this world for me. If you won't choose, you'll have to take us both." Bronte's eyes widened. She glanced from Nick to Darcy and back again. “But you said that I had to choose between you." "I was hoping you would, darlin', but you didn't." "So ... you're both—how did you get here before me?” she asked suddenly. Nick caught her arms and pulled her toward him. She looked up at him in surprise, and then over her shoulder as she felt a tug at the lacings of her dress. Darcy, in the process of unlacing her gown, winked at her. Bronte's stomach curled into a heated knot of anticipation. Her mouth went dry. She looked at Nick again. He was smiling faintly. “I paid your servants. You'll have to tell me what the coachman did to get you here precisely at the specified time. I only suggested that he use his imagination." Bronte frowned, struggling with the comments. “You bribed my servants? How? When?" His brows drew together thoughtfully. “Let me see ... two months ago?" He was looking at Darcy questioningly and Bronte glanced at Darcy. “Sounds about right. Maybe two and half. It was right after the Sheffield's shindig."

"But ... you're not serious?" Nick's dark brows rose. “Why would you think I am not perfectly serious?" "But ... that was right after ... that was.... I had scarcely even arrived in London then." "But,” Nick said pensively, “you were thoughtful enough to tell Darcy your plans and you'd already reminded us of how quickly you could retreat if things seemed to be getting out hand.” He shrugged. “We thought it best to hedge our bets,” he added, frowning in concentration as he pulled her gown from her shoulders. “Up or down?" "What?" "The gown. You remove it over the head? Or push it down?" "Up,” Bronte responded instinctively. He caught hold of the skirt, separated it from the underskirt, and tugged it off over her head. It caught on her bonnet. He disentangled the dress from the bonnet and tossed it aside. “This is a bit more complicated than I'd anticipated. We shall have to practice. Remember, Darcy. Bonnet first." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Bronte bit her lip. Responsive amusement gleamed in his eyes. “We thought it best not to bring the maid, but don't concern yourself. We'll get the hang of it." Bronte frowned, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation of before as Nick looked her over and found the ties of her underskirts, loosing the ties and allowing them to drop around her ankles. “How did you know what ship I'd be sailing on? I didn't even know that myself until I had booked passage." "It's our ship,” Darcy said absently. Bronte glanced at him. He was frowning in concentration as he worked at the lacings of her corset. “Our?" "One of mine and Nick's. We have four now." Bronte was stunned. “Four? But, still, how could you know I would book passage on one of yours?" Nick stroked her cheek affectionately, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “We didn't have to, sweetheart. I paid your coachman to bring you to this ship." "Oh.” She looked down as Darcy tugged her corset down her hips, taking her pantaloons with it, and discovered that she was down to shoes, stockings and chemise. Nick caught the bottom of the chemise and tugged it up. She lifted her arms, allowing him to pull it over her head. She felt the heat of Darcy's body as he moved closer, skating his hands down her back to her buttocks and a shiver of sensation went through her. Nick stepped closer, grasping a breast in each hand and kneading them. Leaning down, he plucked at

first one nipple and then the other, until they were both standing rigidly erect. He covered the engorged peaks one at the time, sucking on them in an unhurried fashion that made her knees go weak, made her breath catch in her throat. Behind her, she felt Darcy's faintly abrasive cheeks as he nuzzled his face over her buttocks, kneading them as Nick had her breasts, placing nibbling kisses over the tender surfaces. After a moment, they ceased to tease her, led her to the bed and urged her to sit. Kneeling, each of them took one foot and lifted it to remove the shoe. Bronte placed her hands behind her, propping herself on her arms, watching them as they massaged her feet briefly and their gazes, almost as one, moved along her legs to the apex of her thighs. Her belly clenched. After a long moment, Nick reached for a garter and removed it. Darcy slid his hand down her leg to her mound, carefully smoothing the damp tangle of curls back, parting her nether lips. She gasped as she felt his fingers slip in the moisture along her cleft, her eyes slid closed, but he removed his hand after only a moment. Pulling her leg wider, he removed the other garter and began rolling the stocking down as Nick removed her other stocking from her foot, massaged it briefly, and leaned down to suck her toes. Her belly clenched, jumped with delighted shock. After a moment, he lowered her leg and stood up, shrugging out of his shirt. When Darcy released her other leg and stood, she scooted back on the bed, watching them as they undressed, marveling at how absolutely magnificent their bodies were. When Nick had stepped out of his breeches, he climbed onto the bed beside her, skating a hand over her body from the thatch of curls that covered her mound to her breasts. Leaning down, he covered the tip of one breast with his mouth, massaging her other breast and teasing the nipple with his fingers. Bronte uttered a sound of pleasure as the heat of his mouth covered the achingly sensitive bud. She felt Darcy's hands on her thighs. Pushing them apart, he worked a trail of love bites along the inside of one thigh, nuzzled his face against her mound and then parted her nether lips with one hand and dragged his tongue along her cleft to her clit. She lost her breath as his tongue moved over her it teasingly, building the moisture that seeped from her lips until she could feel it slip in a tickling trail down her cleft to her buttocks. Wrapping one arm around Nick, she reached blindly for Darcy, stroking his shoulder as he stroked her clit with his tongue, sucked it, sending keen jolts of pleasure through her to join the fiery waves of pleasure coursing through her at Nick's attentive caresses. Within moments, she felt her body racing toward climax. She fought it, trying to hold on to the pleasurable sensations a little longer. She found she could not hold it at bay. The muscles along her passage began to quake and spasm, spreading a tide of hot ecstasy through her body and dragging cries of release from her. She went perfectly limp when the echoes began to die away, hardly even aware of Darcy as he moved up the bed to lie beside her. She tasted herself on his lips as he kissed her, felt her belly tighten in response, already warming, wanting more. He released her after a moment, moving down her body to her breasts and teasing them as Nick had. She roused herself when Nick leaned down to kiss her, realizing that she'd taken pleasure but not given it, kissing him back even as she reached down and began to caress Darcy with her hands.

When Darcy moved away, she broke the kiss and turned to him. Coming up on her hands and knees, she kissed his throat, dragging a trail of kisses downward, over his male breasts, down his belly, until she reached his cock. Grasping it, she studied it a moment and placed her mouth over the rounded tip, tasting him experimentally. He jerked, tensed, groaned as she sucked the head and, realizing that it gave him as much pleasure as it did her, she took him into her mouth. Nick's hand skated down her back and over her buttocks. He tugged at her legs, urging her to part them and she shifted to accommodate him. Her belly tightened, spasmed with pleasure as his mouth covered her nether lips and he began to tease her, plunging his tongue into her passage in a curling, twisting rhythm that made her pulse pound madly. Renewed desire filled her like flash fire and, as it rapidly escalated, she caressed Darcy's cock with more hunger, sucking on him harder, thrusting his cock in and out of her mouth more quickly until he began to move restlessly beneath her, clutching and releasing her head, as if he couldn't decide whether to push her away or hold her tightly to him. The tease of Nick's mouth and tongue brought her body rapidly to the crest once more. Still, her culmination caught her unaware. She gasped, groaned around Darcy's cock even as she thrust her hips back toward Nick, arching her back in entreaty. Before the last echoes had died, Nick positioned himself behind her, caught her hips and thrust inside, burying himself deeply in her wetness. She hesitated in her ministrations. Catching the rhythm he set as he pumped into her, she began to move Darcy's cock in and out of her mouth in the same rhythm. Darcy tensed suddenly, letting out a harsh gasp, gripping her head and trying to push her away. Bronte was beyond anything by that point, however, but focusing upon her own gathering passions as her body instantly began to climb toward culmination again. Mindless with her own impending release, she held him tightly in her mouth, resisting his efforts to push her away, sucking him harder, undulating her tongue against him faster and faster. Abruptly, his cock jerked in her mouth and his hot seed shot down her throat. It surprised her, but before she could decide whether to release him or not, her body seized in a hard climax. She groaned, sucking him harder until his cock ceased to spasm. Nick uttered a harsh growl, caught her hips as she released her hold on Darcy at last and slammed into her in quick, hard thrusts as he found his own surcease. Weak in the aftermath, the three of them collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs on the bed, gasping for breath. "That was the most wonderfully decadent experience I've ever had in my life,” Bronte murmured finally, skating a hand down the chests on either side of her and toying with the nest of hair that surrounded their cocks. Nick rolled on his side, facing her. “I think, if we put our minds to it, we can probably come up with something equal, or surpassing it in wickedness. What do you think, Darcy?" "Don't ask me to think right now,” Darcy said with an effort. Bronte chuckled and rolled over to look at him. “I did it right?” she asked tentatively. He cracked an eye and looked up at her. “Darlin', I thought you were going to kill me." "Oh. I didn't do it right?" He lifted an arm with an effort and dragged her down for a kiss. “I've never felt anything more ‘right’ in

my life." Relieved, she lay down once more, wrapping an arm around him. Nick settled behind her, draping an arm and leg over her. Sighing contentedly, Bronte drifted to sleep. She woke when she felt them move away from her and sat up, watching them dress. Noticing her at last, Nick shoved his foot into his boot and strode toward her, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. “Stay put. We're going topside for a bit. I'll have the cabin boy bring you a bath before dinner." Subsiding, Bronte pulled the covers over herself and lay back, watching them contentedly until they departed.

Chapter Twenty Two The cabin boy appeared just as Bronte was drifting to sleep once more, dragging a tub into the room. Groggily, she sat up, clutching the sheets to her. “Pardon me, Lady—” He stopped, obviously confused as well as disconcerted to find her lying in the bed. “Are you Mrs. Cain? Or Mrs. St. James?" "I'm Lady—” Bronte broke off, biting her lip. In truth, she wasn't a ‘lady’ at all, not that she felt particularly mournful over it. She wasn't even entitled to the title since she was no longer an English citizen. “You can call me Bronte." He bobbed his head and left again. When he'd finished filling the tub, he bowed. “Will there be anything else, Lady Bronte?" She shook her head. "Cook said to tell you dinner would be ready in twenty minutes and he wasn't taking responsibility for ruined food if you weren't ready to eat." Bronte chuckled. “I'll be quick." She was still in the tub when Nick and Darcy returned a few minutes later, tapped at the door and then entered. She jumped but relaxed when she saw it was them, settling back and watching as they brought in a table and chairs. When they'd ceased fanning the door and sprawled in the chairs to watch her, she climbed from the tub and took the linen toweling, ignoring them as she dried herself. She sent the two of them an irritated glance. “Are you going to help me dress for dinner?" Darcy grinned at her. “I was thinking you could wear that." "The towel?" "No." Bronte gaped at him in outrage. “Nothing?"

Nick got to his feet and opened one of her trunks. Rummaging through it, he unearthed a robe and held it up. She looked at him doubtfully. “A robe?" A slow smile curled his lips. “There's not much point in dressing when we'll be taking it off again." Heat curled in her belly. Shivering, Bronte slipped her arms into the robe, securing the belt at the waist. “You intend to keep me naked throughout the entire crossing?” she asked, torn between amusement and irritation. "We have a lot of lost time to make up for,” Darcy explained, mock serious. "And it will be a long, otherwise boring voyage,” Nick said pensively. Bronte uttered a disbelieving laugh. “And I'm supposed to be the entertainment?" Nick slipped his hands around her waist, pulling her close. “Mmm. We'll entertain you, too." **** When Bronte awoke, she discovered without a great deal of surprise that she was alone in the cabin. They had established a habit in the past week and a half since they'd been at sea of disappearing up on deck for much of the day and leaving her to her own devises. She didn't particularly mind. They were attentive enough—more than attentive enough when they spent their evenings and nights with her. Between the two of them she'd been too sore even to consider leaving the cabin after the first few days. Truthfully, she'd been too exhausted to do much besides sleep. She'd grown accustomed, however, and even though she didn't feel as if she required their constant attention, even though she was quite content to have time to herself, she wasn't content to remain in the cabin. Rising, she dug through her trunks until she'd found something that looked simple enough that she could dress herself without assistance and moved to the washstand and bathed. The corset presented problems, but she tied it as snugly as she could and pulled the gown over her head. After struggling with the lacing down the back for a time, she ran her fingers over it, decided it was good enough and sat down on the bed to comb her hair and arrange it. There was no mirror in the room. She could do nothing more than check what she could see and feel, but she finally decided that she was dressed acceptably and left the cabin. The sun dazzled her as she reached the deck and she paused, shielding her eyes. When her vision had cleared, she saw Nick striding toward her. He stopped as he reached her, looked her over critically and grasped her arm, hauling her back down the stairs and to the cabin without a word. Bronte was too surprised even to protest. She'd recovered, however, by the time Nick closed the door firmly behind them to glare at him. He grasped her jaw, giving her a quelling glance. “Unorthodox our relationship may be, my love, but make no mistake. You are mine and I will not have other men gaping at you. If you'd told me you wanted to go topside for a stroll, I would've helped you dress and escorted you." Bronte was still gasping in surprise when he released his grasp on her cheeks, caught her shoulders and turned her away from him. Loosening her ties, he spread the gown and reworked the ties of her corset,

binding it snugly. When he was satisfied, he adjusted her bodice and sleeves and tied her gown once more. He turned her once more, surveyed her critically and nodded. “The hair will have to do. Arranging that is beyond me." His gaze met hers. Seeing the quizzical look in her eyes, he smiled faintly, flicking an affectionate finger over her cheek. “You will have to grow accustomed, you know." "Will I?" "You will.” He pulled her close, tucking her head against his shoulder. “In my heart and mind, you are my wife." Warmth suffused Bronte, but she bit her lip as a touch of uneasiness moved over her as well. “And Darcy?” she asked tentatively. To her surprise and relief, he chuckled. "In his, too." "You are ... comfortable with that?" His arms tightened. “Will it surprise you if I say yes?" "I think it would." He sighed. “I didn't think I would be. I do love you, you see, and I am as jealous and possessive as any other man. Strangely enough, Darcy and I are more like two halves of a whole, though. I don't know how, or why, or even when that came about ... probably when we were still youngsters, but that is the way of it. And after a bit of adjustment we came to the realization that we would far prefer to share you than not to have you at all." Kissing her briefly, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her to topside once more. Darcy joined them as they strolled around the deck, tucking her other hand in the crook of his arm. After a couple of circuits of the ship, they stopped by the railing and stared out at the vast sea that surrounded them. "Where are we going?” Bronte asked, suddenly realizing that she hadn't even asked. She'd assumed she was going home, but then she had thought to begin with that she'd booked passage home. "Virginia first. I sent a agent to purchase land, but I've no notion until I speak with him what he's come up with. I've a mind to try my hand as a planter and give over the running of the shipping business to Darcy. He's far better at it than I am. Hopefully he's found something near a promising port town. "I suppose we could stay at your place until the house is built." Bronte frowned thoughtfully and finally smiled wryly. “I'm not so sure that would be a very good idea. Americans are a lot different than Englishmen, but they are as easily scandalized ... perhaps even more so." Darcy shrugged. “One of us could pose as your brother and the other your husband and there would be no reason for anyone to think anything of it."

"An excellent suggestion,” Nick said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I shall be the husband. You can be the brother." "Now wait just a damned minute,” Darcy snapped angrily. “Why do I have to be the brother?" "Because you have a touch of red in your hair. I do not." "What's that got to do with it? I don't look like her brother!" "You're saying I do?" Bronte glanced from one to the other and started laughing. “Neither of you look as if you could be my brother, and what's more, I've been living there for years. They know I don't have a brother." "That's that, then. We'll have to find rooms until the house is done ... in another town. It would be best anyway if we found something close to the plantation." "Yes,” Darcy said, “but one of us is still going to have to pose as a relative or things could get very uncomfortable. It's not that I care that much about socializing, mind you, but I won't have the locals snickering about my wife." "Our wife,” Nick reminded him, all traces of amusement gone. "That's what I meant,” Darcy retorted. "That's not what you said." Bronte rolled her eyes. “I'm not your wife or yours,” she said tartly. “I told you I didn't want to get married again. I'll not tie either of you to me, for I'd as soon not have you growing dissatisfied when we have no children." Darcy and Nick eyed her speculatively for several moments. “We'll cross that bridge when, and if, we come to it,” Nick said. "We won't. We'll cross it now." "It's settled then." "It is?” Bronte said blankly, wondering if she'd missed something. "Yes. I'll have the captain perform the ceremony, grease his fist and threaten his life if he ‘remembers’ the names when he's in his cups,” Nick said. "Good idea,” Darcy agreed. “Better yet, I'll put him on one of the long hauls and make sure he doesn't hit port for a while." "Now?" Darcy shrugged. “There's no time like the present."

Nick nodded. “I'll meet the two of you in the cabin.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “The emerald, I think. I like the green on her." "What are you talking about?” Bronte demanded. "Never mind,” Darcy said soothingly, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading her toward the gangway. “I'll explain when we get to the cabin." Bronte tugged at her hand. “Darcy!" He gave her a warning look. “You don't want me to carry you down, do you?" She subsided. “You wouldn't!” she said doubtfully. "Ah, but I would, darlin’ and likely spank that luscious backside of yours for putting me to the effort." She was still arguing with Darcy when Nick tapped at the door a few minutes later and entered. His eyes narrowed when he saw that Bronte was clutching the front of her gown, resisting Darcy's efforts to remove it. Striding toward her, he caught her hands in his. “What's this all about?" "I don't want to get married. It wouldn't be legal anyway, would it?" "If you think so, then why argue?" "Because.... “She looked at Nick helplessly. “It wouldn't be right to tie you to me, Nick. Eventually, you will want children. You'll come to resent me. I would far rather we simply lived together and then, if you find someone else you would be free to wed." He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We have compromised for you, Bronte. You will do this for us,” he said sternly. Put that way, it seemed completely unreasonable of her to object. After a moment, she nodded. “If you're certain it's what you want?" "We're sure." Bronte stood quietly while they helped her to dress in the emerald gown Nick had chosen for her, too terrified to speak, or even to think. Partly, it was because she had a very bad feeling that this would be breaking the laws of pretty much every country in the world. Even those that allowed for multiple partners only allowed for more than one wife, not more than one husband. Primarily, however, her fear was rooted in her first marriage. She knew it wasn't the same. She trusted Nick and Darcy, loved them, knew that they would take care of her as they always had. In the back of her mind, however, the horror of her first marriage still held sway. The captain looked the three of them over as if he was staring at a group of lunatics when he was allowed inside, or, more accurately, as if he strongly suspected the three of them were too inebriated to realize what they'd demanded of him. Shrugging, he performed the ceremony ... awkwardly, since he wasn't accustomed to addressing two grooms. When he'd finished by announcing his authority to legally perform marriages, he concluded with the customary, “You may kiss the bride ... uh ... both of you." The three of them butted heads and drew back, rubbing their foreheads. Sighing irritably, Nick

produced a coin. “Heads or tails?" "Heads,” Darcy said promptly, watching the proceedings suspiciously. Nick flipped the coin, showed Darcy the results and pulled Bronte into his arms for a lingering kiss, handing Darcy the coin. "Damn it to hell, Nick! This is that trick coin!" Nick began to chuckle and finally pulled away from Bronte, grinning at Darcy unrepentantly. “You knew I still had it. You should have called tails." The End

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