Their Wicked Ways (12 page)

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 on the edge
of a chair.  She folded her hands primly in her lap, crossing her ankles and
tucking her feet beneath the chair.

Looking torn between
amusement and irritation at her propriety, 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 as if that would force her into
submission.

Bronte eyed him for several
moments and finally leaned toward him, arching an eyebrow.  “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.  You cannot order me about
as if I were.”

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 dinner 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
assessing gaze flickering over her face.  “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.