Their Wicked Ways (8 page)

He’d never had any encounter
affect him in this manner.  Maybe he was growing too old for dalliances, if
kissing Bronte could do this to him.  Disturbing, to say the least, and he
wondered the wisdom of pursuing the course if he couldn’t get a handle on his
lustful emotions.

His carriage was in front of
his apartment when he arrived.  Glaring at it for several moments, he stalked
into the house in search of his manservant.

“Where the hell have you
been?” he demanded.

Kingsley paled. “You told me
to pack your things and follow you down to the country estate.”

The explanation took the wind
out of Darcy’s sails for about two seconds.  “That was more than a week ago,
and, I might add, I sure as hell didn’t tell you to pack
all
of my
belongings!  I’ve been wearing the same three outfits for more than a week and
people are starting to talk!  What’s more, I can’t fathom why it would take you
more than a damned week to go there and back when I made it in a day!”

Kingsley flushed.  “The
carriage broke down twice.  When I arrived at the country estate no one had
seen you and it was thought that you might have been waylaid along the route by
thugs.  By the time we sent out inquiries, you’d already left the inn and
returned to town, sir.  Once I knew you’d returned to town, I loaded everything
up and came back.  We only broke down once on the return trip.”

Darcy stared at him in
horrified fascination for several moments.  “You mean to tell me you had people
searching for me all over the countryside?”

“Your mother,” Kingsley
supplied.

Darcy rolled his eyes. 
“Well, of all the cock brained things to do!  You know how she is!  Where are
my clothes anyway?”

“I’ve unpacked them, sir. 
The … uh … others were in the laundry.”

“As if I’d think to look for
them there!” Darcy said accusingly, stalking past his manservant and up the
stairs to his room.

Chapter Nine

Bronte wasn’t certain how
long she sat in the salon after Darcy had left, her emotions so tumultuous she
merely stared blindly at her hands in her lap, listening to her pounding heart
slow until it had resumed its natural rhythm.  When her body had ceased to
clamor for the release it had been denied, however, her mind began to kick into
gear once more.

Darcy wasn’t the only one
who’d completely forgotten himself.

They were fortunate her
mother was confined to her bed and none of the servants had happened by.

She was more fortunate that
Darcy had retained enough common sense not to yield to her demands.

She’d tried to seduce him. 
There was no point in lying to herself that she’d only meant to soothe his
hurt, or make amends for the terrible things she’d thought about him.

She’d wanted to see if he
desired her.

She had her answer, and yet
it left her feeling dissatisfied, and not just because they hadn’t finished
what they’d started.  She knew she could provoke him to lust.  What she didn’t
know was whether his heated reaction was particular to her, or if he would have
been equally excited by any female who’d crawled in his lap and fondled him.

It was perverse of her, she
knew, when she’d reacted just as heatedly to Nick’s kisses, but then she’d
always adored them both. Even as a young girl, she had felt just as thrilled by
Nick’s attention as she was by Darcy’s.

She’d always wanted them
both.

Maybe that was the real
problem?  It was her, not them.

Sighing, she rose finally and
left the parlor.  She’d just set foot on the first tread when she heard the
bell ring.  Her heart skipped a beat as it popped into her mind to wonder if
Darcy had come back.  She hesitated, listening as the butler moved to the door
and opened it.

The voice wasn’t Darcy’s. 
The moment Nick stepped through the door, their gazes collided.  She stared at
him guiltily.  His face hardened purposefully.  Without even stopping to
consider what she was doing, Bronte hiked her skirts to her knees and fled up
the stairs.

She heard Nick’s brisk stride
as he crossed the hallway and came after her.  He caught up to her in the upper
hallway, grabbing her around the waist and jerking her to a halt.

“Lady Dunmore!  Shall I summon
the footmen?” her butler called from below.

Bronte looked at Nick
uneasily, envisioning the struggle that was bound to ensue if her footmen tried
to oust him.  “No,” she said finally.

“Good choice.  You and I have
unfinished business,” Nick ground out.  Glancing around, he pulled her into the
upstairs morning room and closed the door firmly behind them.

“The servants will talk,”
Bronte said uneasily.

“But you don’t particularly
care, do you?” Nick asked tightly, releasing her finally although he did not
move away.

Bronte blinked, trying to
think what he was talking about.  As she stared at him, however, she noticed
the bruising beneath his eyes.  “You fought with Darcy!” she said accusingly.

Something flickered in his
eyes.  “It was a boxing match at the gym,” he said smoothly.  “Don’t change
subject.”

“I’m not sure what the
subject is,” she said evasively, having finally remembered the words she’d
flung at him the last time she saw him.

“I think you do,” Nick said
grimly.

Bronte studied him with an
assessing glance.  “Which part are you objecting to?”

His lips tightened and that
coldly devilish gleam entered his eyes.  “Both, but most definitely the last.”

She forced a disbelieving
laugh.  “You, of all people, are chastising me?”

“It was hardly ladylike,” he
retorted grimly.

Bronte’s eyes narrowed.  “But
then I never was much of a lady, was I?” she shot back at him.

“If you mean to blame that on
me, too, Bronte, I’m going to be severely tempted to turn you over my knee and
paddle your backside.”

Finding she simply could not
resist the temptation to provoke him, she leaned closer.  “Naughty Nick.  You
want to play with my backside, don’t you?” she whispered.

When she straightened, she
saw his face was taut, stony.  He swallowed thickly.  “Take care, Bronte, or
you’ll find yourself on your back with your skirts over your head.  I’ve only
so much self-control and it’s wearing thin,” he ground out.

The threat alone was enough
to make the muscles in her belly clench.  Lifting a hand, she placed it lightly
on his chest.

He caught her wrist when she
began to slide her palm downward.

She stared at him a moment
and swayed toward him, lifting her lips in offering even as she slipped her
other hand between them and cupped his cock.

A shudder went through him
and then, like a dam breaking, he lost control, surging toward her, carrying
her backwards until she collided with the wall behind her, his mouth covering
hers with savage hunger. Her unappeased desire from before erupted inside of
her like a lava flow, fire pouring through her the instant he thrust his tongue
into her mouth possessively.

He moved against her,
pressing his swollen member into her belly rhythmically.  Bronte groaned into
his mouth, trying to shift so that she could feel him against her clit.  As if
sensing her need, he withdrew slightly, cupping his hand over her mound,
pressing his fingers against her in a kneading motion that was almost more
torment than relief.

He tore his mouth from hers
after a moment, pressing his lips along her jaw to her neck, breathing harshly
against the crook between her neck and shoulder as he fought for control. 
Abruptly, almost as if he’d come to a decision, he scooped one breast from the
low cut gown she wore and covered it with his mouth.

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, honey,” he murmured hoarsely.

She complied, her eyes
sliding closed as he found the slit in her pants and slipped his fingers
through, caressing her bare flesh at last, delving into her cleft until he
touched her clit.  She inhaled sharply as he began stroking her, teasing the
tiny bud and evoking jolt after jolt of exquisite sensation.

Moisture tickled the lips of
her sex, and he used her body’s response against her, rubbing the cream over
the swollen nub with expertly practiced movements.

Her cleft spasmed, jerking
with need.  She found herself gasping and rubbing against him, tangling her
hands in his hair and gripping his jacket.  It was all she had to keep her on
her feet, for her thighs and knees felt incapable of supporting her own weight.

Nick shoved a leg between her
thighs, letting her ride the hard ridge of his leg as he toyed with her clit.

He covered her breast with
his mouth once more, suckling as he stroked her, building the tension inside of
her until she felt her body surging toward the completion she so desperately needed.

Delicious spasms of pleasure
raked through her limbs, radiating out from her center.  When her body began to
quake with imminent release, he lifted his head from her breasts, covering her
mouth, absorbing her cries until she ceased to shudder against his hand.

He rested his forehead on the
wall behind her for many moments afterward, holding her, struggling with his
own needs.

Finally, he lifted his head,
sought her lips and kissed her with such infinite tenderness, Bronte felt a
terrible sense of loss, of confusion.

“Don’t let your hate drive
you into doing something we’ll both regret, Bronte,” he said quietly as he
pulled away from her at last.

With a tremendous effort,
Bronte opened her eyes and looked at him.  She found she couldn’t speak,
couldn’t think of a thing to say.  Turning away from her after a moment, he
moved to the door and opened it.

“I don’t hate you, Nick,” she
murmured as the door closed behind him.  “That’s the problem.  I love you … and
I love Darcy, too,  and now I don’t know what to do.”

Weakly, Bronte moved to the
sofa and sat down, drawing her knees up and hugging them to herself.

He’d took what she said to
heart, she realized, that she had needs, and he’d assuaged them to keep her
from looking elsewhere.  She covered her face with her hands.

He and Darcy had fought.  She
didn’t think she was flattering herself to think it had been over her.  They’d
been friends as far back as she could remember, and further than she could
remember.  Naturally, there wasn’t always harmony between them, but she’d never
known them to batter each other in such a way.

She was going to destroy that
bond and nothing would ever be the same.

She couldn’t do that to
them.  She loved them too much.  Even if she hadn’t been so torn that she
couldn’t choose between them, choosing one over the other would pit them
against each other.

She wished suddenly that
she’d never returned to England.

She wished she could simply
pack her bags and flee back to her adoptive country, leaving the mess she’d
made behind her.

This
was why she couldn’t indulge her fantasies about Nick
and Darcy.  When she’d thought about it, she’d never considered that either of
them might care enough about her to be hurt by it.

She frowned at that thought,
wondering suddenly if she’d misunderstood.  Maybe she wrong?  Maybe it wasn’t
an emotional attachment at all.  Perhaps the fight had only been because of
that fierce competition between them?

Perhaps.

She couldn’t chance it
though.  It made her feel a little better to think that she could be wrong
about hurting either of them.  She could live with them being angry with her
for trying to seduce them and then backing off without satisfying either one of
them.  In truth, it was probably for the best.

She would have to choose a
lover, she decided.  Revolted as she was at the idea, she knew it was the only
way out of the mess she’d created.  Once Darcy and Nick saw that she’d shunned
them in favor of another man, they’d probably be disgusted with her, probably
think she was completely without morals, but at least they wouldn’t be fighting
with each other over her.