by Heather Boyd
~ * ~
Constance glanced at the drawing room clock again and grimaced at how late it was. Surely, the marquess wasn’t going to sleep the day away. He really was a beast—a cold-hearted beast. She hated calling people names, but the man deserved it. He must know she was anxious to learn how large the debt really was.
“Well, there it is,” Virginia announced as she sanded the paper she had just written, holding it for Constance to see.
The close-written sheet held a lot of names.
She took the list and read each one. She didn’t know any of the gentlemen listed after the first one. To her considerable discomfort, Virginia had ignored their earlier conversation and started the list with Lord Hallam’s name.
“This is just the beginning. If you are to make a good choice, you need to learn as much as you can about them all. I shall make sure to introduce you to as many of the gentlemen on the list as I see at the Huntley Ball. And we can add or subtract other names after each entertainment.”
Now that Virginia had a purpose ahead of her, she was embracing her return to society with great enthusiasm. Unfortunately, Constance had lost hers. Panic filled her as she contemplated marrying for money. She had always despised the women who did. “I don’t understand how my life could get any worse.”
“Why such maudlin thoughts so early in the day, Miss Grange?”
The marquess slid into the chair next to Constance and she glanced across at his gleaming boots. Was the man always perfectly turned out? She didn’t bother raising her eyes to his, but glanced back at the list. “Some of us started our day hours ago.”
“Ah, well, you will soon get used to Town hours. Everyone fresh from the country has trouble adapting at first.”
Constance gritted her teeth at the condescension in his tone, struggling to keep a rebuke behind her teeth. She really didn’t want to argue with him so soon. She had many more problems ahead of the marquess’ little irritations.
“Are we hosting a party? It looks like quite a guest list.”
Constance folded the list without comment. He didn’t need to know what she planned. Given how hard his sister had been pursued before her marriage for her dowry alone, Ettington had a well-known scorn for fortune hunters. With horror, she realized she was now of that same class of scoundrel. Albeit, the female kind.
“When is it to be?” The long-legged man settled himself more comfortably, seeming excited by the prospect of entertaining.
“Oh, there isn’t a party in the planning, brother. The list is for something else entirely. Pixie has thought of a way around her financial difficulties and has asked for help. Actually, since you owe me a favor, you shall help with our scheme as well. We will need your expertise.”
Constance hadn’t wanted to involve the marquess with this plan to save herself. “Virginia, I’m sure you shouldn’t waste your favor on me. You should make sure you get a greater benefit than this.”
The marquess twisted to face Constance. His knee brushed briefly against hers as he turned. “I shall admit I am intrigued. What is going on?”
Embarrassment flooded Constance’s face with heat.
Virginia chuckled. “Give him the list, Pixie. Let us see if my brother can work it out on his own.”
Constance’s hands shook as she turned the paper over and over between her cold fingers. She didn’t want to show him. He would laugh. She started to shake her head, but his annoying, long-fingered hand snatched the list before she could stop him. He stood, opened the paper, and began to read. He took a few steps toward the window and then his lean body grew rigid.
Constance closed her eyes, waiting for him to say something that would embarrass her, but the silence grew deafening. She risked a peek. He stared out the window, but one hand clenched and unclenched over the paper.
She switched her gaze to Virginia and found her pale. What was it she could see from her position?
The marquess raised the list, now crushed in his fingers. “This is utterly unacceptable. How could you involve yourself in this folly, Virginia? I thought you had better sense.”
Virginia’s chin dropped. “It is the only way. With your support, her lack of dowry will not matter and men will flock to propose.”
Constance stood. “It was my idea, not Virginia’s. Kindly direct your venom toward me.”
The marquess advanced, bristling with rage. He tossed the list onto the table between them. “So you’ve finally tossed out the notion of marrying Brampton, in favor of marrying for money. How practical of you. Enjoy your list, but bear this in mind. It takes a very wealthy man to afford you. There are only a handful in Town that have sufficient funds.”
He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
She spun back to face Virginia, but her friend’s expression wiped away her rage over the marquess’ rudeness. Virginia’s hand fluttered at her throat, panic evident in the gesture.
Constance crossed the room and managed to get an arm around Virginia before the older woman burst into tears.
Oh, the marquess was a horrible, cold-hearted monster.
When she realized Virginia was not going to stop crying anytime soon, Constance turned her and held her close as she sobbed against her shoulder. It felt strange to be the one to comfort Virginia. It had more often been the other way around.
“Dearest, don’t cry. He’s angry with me, not you.”
“You don’t understand.” But Virginia said no more than that. Perhaps a good cry was what she needed. So Constance held her, soothed her, and let her have her cry. When her sobs had lessened, she fished in her pocket for a handkerchief, and pushed it into Virginia’s hands. All the while, however, Constance planned exactly what she would say to the insufferable brute about his temper.
A prickling up her spine warned her they were no longer alone.
She glanced around Virginia toward the door and saw Jack standing there.
He stared at Constance, and her unease increased. Yet, she knew that Jack felt his twin’s distress very keenly. They were so close that they always knew when the other was in pain.
Despite her own feelings on the matter, she nodded, ready to call a truce until Virginia calmed.
As Jack reached them, Constance turned her friend in to his embrace. When he spared her a brief glance with unspoken thanks in his eyes, his eyes had darkened to an intense blue. Shocked, she took a pace back.
Goodness, he was moody.
She looked on as Jack apologized, speaking a jumble of words she didn’t fully understand. She caught the odd French word, some Italian, and perhaps Latin but soon gave up. What the twins shared was private, but Constance had never felt disturbed by how close they were.
Jack scooped his sister effortlessly into his arms and strode from the room. Constance followed along, wanting to be of help. She lagged behind on the stairs, unaccountably fascinated by the sight of Jack’s leg muscles outlined by his tight fitting breeches.
The marquess was as well-made a specimen as any man she’d imagined. But she blushed at thinking of him that way. He’d been her guardian—a role so close to that of parent that she’d always tried to please him. Thinking of the limbs beneath his clothing was simply scandalous.
Jack strode through Virginia’s sitting room to the bedchamber and settled his sister on the bed. As Constance dampened a cloth at the washbasin, she struggled to suppress her ridiculously inappropriate thoughts about her friend’s brother.
Once steady again, she crossed to the bed and handed Virginia a cloth to press to her face. When the cloth was warm again, Virginia handed it back.
Jack had settled on the bed edge, holding one of Virginia’s hands, a frown creasing his face. “Are you all right?”
“We overreacted,” Virginia whispered.
“The fault was mine,” he replied. “All forgiven?”
“Perhaps,” Virginia replied. “If you’ll help me see Pixie settled.”
When Jack raked his hand through his hair and growled, Constan
ce returned to the washbasin.
It was a great pity the twins hadn’t come with instructions. She had no idea how to prevent this discussion without upsetting Virginia again. Perhaps she could talk to Jack later and convince him she didn’t need his assistance.
Constance took her time rinsing the cloth in more cool water. When she turned back, Jack had leaned forward until his head touched his twin’s.
Watching them together reminded her of their earlier conversation about marriage. At least Virginia had no surprises to contend with when Jack took his bride. His arranged marriage was a longstanding agreement, without love as far as she knew. Constance steeled herself to accept such a situation.
“Will I see you later?” Jack asked.
“Yes, as we planned.”
With a last look and squeeze of Virginia’s hand, Jack stood. When he approached Constance, his broad chest blocked Virginia from her view. His closer-than-usual proximity startled her.
He touched her sleeve, but then his hand swiftly fell away. “Will you stay with her, Miss Grange?”
“Of course. I won’t leave her.”
Constance raised her gaze past his waistcoat, past the mathematical knot in his cravat, to his frowning face. The glassiness of Jack’s eyes brought instant action. She settled her hand flat over his heart. There was so much uncertainty in his blue eyes that she lost her anger with him. He only wanted to protect his sister from scandal and foolishness. She couldn’t fault him for that.
The superfine of his waistcoat was smooth beneath her hand and she rubbed to soothe him. Cinnamon swamped her, smooth as velvet to her senses, creating a moment of peace amid the chaos. Prickles raced up her arm and warmth spread with it. In a moment so slow, Jack’s gaze dipped to where her hand rested and then he covered her fingers with his.
Blushing as tension sizzled through her, Constance snatched her hand back, dropped her eyes, and curled her fingers into her palm.
Jack moved and was gone long before Constance’s gaze had risen again.
CHAPTER FIVE
VIRGINIA STARED AT her reflection with a mixture of fear and disappointment. At nine and twenty, she should have felt more confident that she did. She tugged at the neckline of her gown and grimaced at the small scar, a constant reminder of pain etched on her skin. Her marriage had changed her, turning her into a weak woman—constantly afraid of exposure as a victim of violence. Her actions and reactions were still controlled by her late husband, a supposedly meek and mild gentleman who had turned the tables as soon as the wedding guests had gone.
Orkney had fooled her as he had fooled everyone. But his memory should not retain the power to manipulate her from the grave. During the four years since his death, he had kept an iron grip over her life, and she chafed at his continued influence.
She repositioned her neckline, smoothed her skirts, and thought of the way she used to be. Pixie was right—at one time, she had been fearless. But as Virginia tried to recall her life before she married, the memories skittered away behind a smothering blanket of pain.
The harder she struggled toward them, the heavier the blanket grew. Visions of strangling bed linen surfaced to blind her, and she gripped the bedpost to steady herself. Perhaps she didn’t need to remember the past now, but one day she vowed to. She would not remain a prisoner of her fears, left gasping at the memory of fresh, linen sheets pressed over her face.
Determined, she left her chamber then made her way down to breakfast. It was too early for Pixie to be up, but Virginia had to regain her life—and especially her confidence. As the footman lay dishes on the sideboard, silent, efficient, and above all else, respectful, his gaze flickered to where she stood waiting.
Approaching the array of dishes, Virginia stepped close to the tall footman and waited as he reached for a plate. The servant moved slowly, holding her plate while she picked out the food she liked, doing his best not to startle her. The poor servants had endured far too much of her skittishness. When heavy footsteps paused at the door, she repressed the urge to turn. She would not overreact today. It would only be the butler, assessing the footmen going about their duties.
But the soft swish of skirts turned her around. Pixie had dragged herself from slumber earlier than usual, yet the tense set of Pixie’s shoulders spoke of unease, and a poor night of rest.
“Didn’t you sleep well?”
“Not particularly, no,” Pixie replied. Her tired eyes turned and she waved away the hovering servant.
What could have preyed on her mind?
Then Virginia remembered yesterday’s argument. “You didn’t lose sleep over my grouchy brother, did you?”
“He was very angry,” Pixie said. “Perhaps I had better go home.”
“Pish posh. My brother might be marginally older, and a marquess, but he is not my master. We had that particular argument out when we were seven. I give you leave to ignore him when he becomes unreasonable. I am going to help you, with or without his approval.”
“He won’t like that,” Pixie promised.
Jack could go to the devil. Virginia grasped Pixie’s cold fingers and squeezed. Really, Jack should be ashamed of himself for causing her friend distress. She should have protected Pixie from him yesterday, and silently promised to do better by her from now on.
“Pixie, he is just like any normal man. Once he cools down, he will behave as if nothing has happened. Trust me on this.”
~ * ~
Wind whipped through Jack’s hair and freed the long strands from their once tight confinement. He shifted his weight and drew back on the reins, gently at first, and then with more insistence as his horse tried to ignore his command to slow. Lucarno, the finest stallion he’d ever owned, snorted as Jack used firmer pressure on the reins to drop them back to a canter. He couldn’t ride forever.
But he wanted to.
Lucarno tossed his head but broke to a trot, and then a walk. The exuberant horse hated moving slowly so Jack thumped his glistening neck in gratitude.
He had a lot to think over this morning.
First and foremost, he was ashamed to have lost his temper with Virginia. He never yelled at his sister unless she was shouting back at him, too. He had crossed a line yesterday and hoped he’d not affected her recovery. Jack hadn’t meant to blame her for the damned list, but he couldn’t have acted out his first impulse. He had chosen what he’d thought was the lesser of two reactions.
The second, and most puzzling, was his reaction to that list. By the time he’d read the third name, he’d known what it was meant for. Pixie was hunting a rich husband. Fury, unlike anything he’d known before, had lashed at him. He had held back from throttling her by the skin of his teeth.
Yet Jack had forced himself to read the rest of the names, to be sure he had not misunderstood. But all of them were single gentlemen, wealthy—and all younger than him. Lord Hallam was the only exception, and his name graced the first line. Virginia had put him there. When Hallam found out, he’d be furious.
Jack, to his considerable horror, was angry because his own name hadn’t been anywhere on the damned list.
Old, arrogant, and unwanted.
Fury built anew and Lucarno sidestepped in agitation as Jack sent mixed signals to the horse. Cursing under his breath, Jack gentled him and set off for home, still no closer to understanding his reaction. It wasn’t as if he was ancient. And despite what Pixie thought, lots of gentlemen married at an age older than his—most marrying young things barely out of the schoolroom.
What was he thinking?
He didn’t want to be a target for any young miss bent on catching herself a wealthy husband. He’d decided long ago that marriage wasn’t for him. After seeing what Virginia had gone through, courtesy of her loathsome spouse, he had no wish to make a match.
Jack didn’t need to be on that list, but a part of him—the stupid part obviously—thought his name should be there. He could amply afford Pixie. Her debts wouldn’t cause a ripple of distress for the estate.
The sooner he could take control of her life and gain the right to dress-down Mrs. Grange, the better.
Jack pulled his horse up sharply and cursed aloud.
He did not want to marry.
Jack let loose a string of curses. He did not want to marry Pixie. But that foolish part of him thought it was the best idea he had ever had. He did find her more attractive than he should.
He kicked Lucarno into a gallop, attempting to run from that very thought. He liked his life as it was. There was no need to take a wife yet.
Damnation. Eternal damnation.
There were plenty of good reasons not to marry Pixie. She thought him old and arrogant, most likely thought of him as a parent figure, too, thanks to the guardianship. He grimaced. Virginia had hinted he could change Pixie’s mind, but he wasn’t going to change anything. He liked their little discordant rubs. He liked that she’d stopped being agreeable.
Jack imagined the dressing down Pixie was waiting to give him when she got the chance. With luck, Virginia would be occupied elsewhere long enough for the sparks to truly fly. He could imagine the little woman’s aggressive scowl, lightning quick fingers flashing to illustrate her point.
Perhaps she’d touch him again. The sensation of Pixie’s fingers rubbing against his chest had affected him. Overwhelmed by the sublime scent she wore, that touch had sparked something else. Something he hadn’t wanted to admit to. A reaction, if he was honest with himself, he’d been fighting for quite some time. He lusted after the pint-sized woman.
His Pixie—he’d even given her the nickname.
Shocked at his own thoughts, he pulled on the reins and stopped again. Dear God, he couldn’t want Pixie like this.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Jack glanced up. A rider on the ugliest mount he’d ever viewed regarded him from the nearby stand of trees.
He groaned. “Riding. What are you doing, Hallam?”
“Waiting for you to stop talking to yourself in public and move your horse in a forward direction. Are you aware that you have been riding in circles for the last half hour? Lucarno is going to throw you if you don’t start paying attention.”
