His Wicked Ways Page 4

  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."