Chills

by Heather Boyd

  Bridges landed on a delicate chair and it collapsed under his weight, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  “Get up you bastard.”

  Bridges scrambled to his feet and held up his hands in a poor attempt at defense.

  Irritated by the pose, Jack stalked in to deliver a sharp blow to his midriff, and then an uppercut that sent him flying into a sideboard. Crystal decanters shattered as they hit the floor.

  Servants swarmed into the chamber and their presence put a stop to his murderous inclinations. “Get this filth out of my house.”

  “Gladly, milord,” a footman agreed.

  Bridges brushed his mouth with the back of his hand. “She asked for it. She did.”

  Jack stopped in shock. Never. Not in a million years would he believe that lie. “I suggest you rethink your statement on your way out or our seconds shall meet.”

  Bridges’ jaw firmed, but he didn’t retract his statement. The groom ushered him from the room.

  Jack gave the destroyed drawing room a quick glance then went in search of Pixie.

  “She fainted,” Parkes squeaked from within the library and stood aside as Jack reached the table where Pixie’s still form lay. “I caught her as she fell.”

  Given the way Parkes wrung his hands, it was obviously a new experience to rescue a damsel in distress. But Jack was getting used to the experience. He never knew what would happen around Pixie, but he was learning he didn’t care.

  Jack gazed at Pixie’s face. It shone with perspiration. She should be back in bed. But the stubborn minx had refused to wallow. However, if she was not careful she could find herself in worse straits.

  He leaned further over her. Pixie still had her eyes closed and that worried him. He needed to see her awake. He wanted to touch her, but did not trust himself. If he laid his hands on her, he could not guarantee he would stop.

  He moved her skirts away from the table drawer and withdrew the vinaigrette Virginia kept there. Although Pixie looked good on his furniture and his mind leapt to doing other things with her on the sturdy piece, he worked the stiff catch open and moved the trinket toward her face.

  “Don’t.” The word burst from her lips before he had even fully opened the vinaigrette.

  Relieved, he dropped the vinaigrette back in the drawer and shut it. “Then open your eyes.”

  “Do I have to, Jack? I would very much like to remain invisible just now. This is not how I envisaged my day.”

  “Yes, you have to. Open them for me,” he begged. When her green eyes slid into view, he drowned in the lush color for some time before remembering they were not alone.

  “You see, Parkes, a job well done. Our thanks. Fetch a stiff drink and toss it down before you resume your post,” Jack suggested.

  The butler left the room, but Jack did not watch him go. He only had eyes for Pixie. The silence grew thick and he ran a finger across her cheek. “Are you ready to sit up?”

  ~ * ~

  Constance gasped and scrambled up, but couldn’t meet Jack’s gaze. She should not have met with Lord Bridges without a chaperone. He would probably be mad at her about it, but up until today Constance had never perceived a need to be so wary of gentlemen in the marquess’ house. Illness wasn’t really an acceptable excuse for missing the danger.

  Jack swept a hand over her hair as if to tame its wildness. “Did he hurt you?”

  Constance shook her head. “Jack?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Where is he?” She was terribly worried, all of a sudden, that Lord Bridges might still be in the house, and that Jack would demand he make an apology. She did not want to face Bridges ever again, but Jack’s mood lately had been tricky. Constance had no wish to cross him.

  Constance shuddered at the memory of Lord Bridge’s rough handling. Men like that were foreign to her. Except for Jack, every man she knew had been gentle. Jack only committed violence on other men, but she was glad he had thrashed Bridges.

  “He left, but Bridges is no longer welcome to call here. I shan’t let you marry him, love.”

  Constance nodded, but she was not really concentrating. She had heard an irregular word pass Jack’s lips. He had called her love. Twice. Jack never used endearments. She dropped her eyes. Jack’s hands touched her scrunched up skirts. She wriggled in mortification and he helped to straightened them.

  When she was respectable again, Jack placed his hands flat on the desk, but his thumbs rested on the edges of her skirts, his knuckles bloodied. Constance gently touched his fingers, carefully avoiding the raw edges. “Do these hurt?”

  “Not yet,” Jack told her. “But they will sting later when Cook cleans them. I won’t say it wasn’t worth it to trounce that bastard.”

  Constance gripped his wrists tight. She did not like it when he was angry. When Jack moved his weight from his hands and they touched the side of her legs, her heartbeat raced. She slid her hands higher up his arms. “I took his name off the list yesterday. I don’t know why he called today.”

  His fingers pressed harder against her leg. “So you didn’t ask him to kiss you then?”

  Constance shuddered “Ask him to kiss me? Why would I do that? Bridges wasn’t interested in me yesterday.”

  Jack rubbed her legs. The sensation mesmerized her. Her breath hitched. “He moved so fast.”

  Unfortunately, the motion of Jack’s hands did not appear to calm him. His breathing quickened against her face and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper. “Desperation will do that to a man.”

  “Desperation?”

  “I learned yesterday that his situation is a fabrication. He lost a lot on the ‘Change,” Jack admitted.

  “He said members of his family were born lucky. When I told Bridges I didn’t gamble, he dismissed me. Why would he visit me today?”

  Jack stroked the diamond necklace she wore and lingered where it lay between her breasts. “This may have given him the wrong impression.”

  His littlest finger brushed the curve of her breast, and then dropped away as she froze.

  Tears squeezed past her control and slid down her cheeks. “He thought I was rich?”

  Now Constance could appreciate how truly horrible she was. She was pursuing men for the same reason. How could she hate Bridges for that?

  She pressed her head into Jack’s chest and tried not to think.

  Her first deep breath drew in his scent and warmed her chilled soul in a way that amazed her. She had always liked being close to him, but she could not lie to herself that it was the same anymore. She moved her head off the cravat knot and diamond pin to rest her face above his heart. Jack’s heart beat fast against her cheek. Why was he still so angry? She caressed his arms, hoping to calm him.

  When his lips grazed her brow, she smiled and enjoyed the sensation. Jack embraced her, caging her in warmth and security. She shivered in bliss.

  Constance’s lids fell, but Lord Bridges’ face flashed before her. She snapped her eyes open as panic returned.

  But it was Jack who held her tight. Jack whose scent surrounded her. And Jack’s lips she wanted to feel against her own. She wanted to forget the ugliness of Lord Bridges, Miss Scaling, and the rest of the ton. Constance raised her face before Jack could kiss her brow again, and their lips brushed.

  Her kiss startled him.

  Jack stared at her mouth as her hands rose to his shoulders. He pressed his lips gently to hers. Their first kiss lingered sweetly, but he drew back to meet her gaze again.

  The blue of his eyes was dark, but she was not afraid of him. With her body so restless, Constance stretched up closer to Jack, inviting him to kiss her again.

  He raised one bruised hand to cradle her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek, burning her with heat. Slowly, breathing harsh to her ears, he dropped his lips to hers, and kissed her. Not the way Bridges had attempted, but with a tenderness that stunned her.

  She reveled in the heat of his pressing lips, clutching at his lapels to keep him close. Tr
uth to tell, she did not want the sensations to end. Constance threaded her fingers into Jack’s hair, holding him close.

  His lips twisted to apply more pressure. When he kissed her again, sucking on her lower lip, she wriggled impatiently. With barely a pause, he dragged in a breath, slid his own fingers into her loose curls and pressed his lips back to hers, eating at her mouth until she thought she might die. He drew back and she drew in a quick breath, desperate not to miss a moment of this exquisite torture. She had no idea that kissing could be so marvelous.

  Bridges obviously had not done it the right way.

  Jack’s lips came back to hers and stayed a little longer this time, burrowing against hers as if he wanted to devour her. Constance liked the way he tasted. Dear lord, he tasted as good as he smelled. His hands firmed on her face, but his body stirred, moving nearer, arms sliding to encircle her back. Her gown helped her slide across the mahogany tabletop and further into his embrace. Legs touching, almost fused together, Constance tightened her arms about his neck and pressed close.

  Suddenly, Jack wrenched away. “Tea tray.” He dropped one last fleeting kiss to her lips before stepping back and slightly behind, leaving Constance to wiggle off the table on her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE LIBRARY AT Ettington House was one of Constance’s favorite rooms. The book-thick walls muted the sound of the world outside, the dark mahogany soothed her. Standing just inside the chamber, Constance gazed at the thousands of tomes above her. Jack and Virginia combined couldn’t read them all in their lifetimes.

  Her friends were both gone from the house and Constance was restless. All because of Jack. If she had been busy, going to parties and making calls, she would have been able to push these troubling thoughts aside. Everything could have gone back to normal.

  However, Jack had been adamant that, due to her illness, she must stay inside and recover. His insistence postponed her pursuit of her last potential suitor and she fretted over the delay. Constance needed the distraction of Mr. Abernathy to keep her mind off the marquess.

  He had indulged a whim by kissing her. No doubt triggered by his anger at Lord Bridges. But he had no real intentions toward Constance—not with his betrothed waiting for him. Jack was just trying to make her forget and feel better about Lord Bridges’ attack.

  And it had worked. She hadn’t thought of anything much but Jack’s lips touching hers.

  Struggling to bring her mind back to the present, Constance looked out the front window. Carriages rattled past, intent on some activity, but it was no use. She searched for the marquess’ carriage among them. Chastising herself, she moved away and slid her fingertips over the smooth, mahogany reading desk—the place where Jack had kissed her, held her close with such an insistent grip. The passion in Jack astounded her.

  Nothing made sense.

  Constance sank into a low chair, her spirits sinking with her. Jack had become a very complicated man, a puzzle she had no hope of understanding.

  Reaching for a book to redirect her thoughts into safer, calmer waters, she traced around the pattern of gilded vines with her finger and then the central motif pattern. Constance could not quite make out what it stood for—perhaps a flower.

  Inside, the same red, trailing vines graced the cream endpapers. The book was titled Les manières de l'amour, and while Constance’s French was not as perfect as it could be, she settled more comfortably into the chair, placed the pillow on her lap to hold the book, and opened it to the first page, expecting to find a French novel.

  It took several minutes for Constance’s brain to comprehend what she held in her hands. The finely drawn and hand-colored pages depicted scenes she could not have anticipated. Scenes she should not be looking at.

  Constance trembled. What wickedness was this?

  She glanced at the door. Luckily, she was still alone. She turned the page and found yet another image, similar to the first. Then turned page after page.

  They were all of a kind. It was a book depicting all the ways and positions to make love. Good gracious, there must be sixty pages.

  Constance snapped the book shut, blush burning her skin. How could Jack have such a scandalous book in his library where anyone might find it? She peeked again, but the book opened to another page and her mind refused to believe that a lover, a husband, would expect a woman to do that. Was it even possible or comfortable?

  Constance twisted the book this way and that. Yet, no matter the angle, it still amazed her. Had she truly thought she could marry? Thinking of the gentlemen she had met this season, she hesitated at doing any of those things, with any of them. No, she refused to.

  The front door opened and Jack and Virginia’s voices echoed in the entrance hall. Panicked, Constance closed the book, and then left it exactly where she had found it.

  Hopefully, no one would suspect that she had seen the scandalous thing. She crossed the room, picked out another book, and pretended to read about arranging flowers.

  But both her mind and her body thrummed because of those images. She grew hot, restless, and she patted her flaming cheeks with sweaty hands.

  “Parkes, have you seen Miss Grange?” Virginia asked.

  “Not recently, my lady. Shall I summon her for you?”

  “No, Parkes. She is probably upstairs resting again. I’ll peek in later.”

  Virginia’s footsteps faded up the stairs as Jack’s heavier tread disappeared toward the back of the house. His steps were slow and measured. He was calm today, she thought with relief. Since the pond incident, his steps had been hurried and loud as he moved about the house.

  Constance looked toward the scandalous book again. It was calling her. It beckoned her to learn all that it could teach. Constance almost laughed aloud. She had only just learned kissing. Kissing was very good, thrilling. She wanted—no, needed—more kisses. She stopped pretending to read, and sat back thinking hard about the book and about Jack. Might he have done all the things depicted in that wicked book?

  The thought worried her.

  ~ * ~

  Constance managed to secret the wicked book upstairs later that night. Despite the fact she had danced two dances with Mr. Abernathy, she had barely thought of him at all. And he was not the reason she couldn’t sleep now. She held the page toward the candlelight and studied the pose. Certainly not ladylike. She doubted she could permit any of them, but the book had given her a tantalizing glimpse into her future.

  Of course, she did not believe that only married couples behaved like this. She was not that naïve. But this new awareness proved a real distraction. She had not been able to concentrate on dinner, and had blushed harder when Jack had questioned her health. If he only knew the naughty thoughts swirling around her head, he would be ashamed to know her.

  Constance accepted that men’s minds turned readily and easily to sex. She had not realized that a woman was as capable of the same thing. She found herself watching Jack’s movements, wondering what he looked like beneath his clothes. Of course, that caused a surge of embarrassment, and to excuse her high color, she’d coughed heartily.

  Jack did look very good stripped of his coat. The curve of his rear, firm and well-muscled, encased in trousers drew her eyes. His broad back tapered to a trim waist. He was certainly strong enough for position thirty-four.

  Constance leaned back, raised her legs high, and separated her knees. No, the space was still not wide enough. She parted her knees further. A pillow replaced the man and she wrapped her legs around it. Constance groaned. It would bring Jack so close.

  Constance hugged the pillow to her. Jack, Jack, Jack. Her mind brought her continually back to him. He was the man she imagined. But it wasn’t possible—she couldn’t have him.

  Rolling to her front, she wriggled up the bed, and reached for the book again. The next page was very similar to the last, except the man was standing. Constance wriggled until her bottom neared the edge of the mattress. Yet it didn’t seem right. She twisted back to the page
, saw her mistake, and wriggled closer to the edge. When she twisted to view herself, her nightgown, bunched up at the top of her thighs and exposed white legs spread wide. The sight shook her, excited her. She pressed her head back to the mattress and panted.

  The images in the book and her own imagination had inflamed her. But she had no idea what to do. Blushing, she rolled face-down into the mattress and groaned. She was depraved, wicked, and so very confused.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Yes?” she managed to squeak out.

  “Is everything all right, Pixie?”

  Jack’s voice.

  No, it was not all right. But she could not answer truthfully. Jack would never understand. Constance tried to think of a plausible lie. But none came to mind before the doorknob turned. Why hadn’t she thought to lock it? Jack’s fingers appeared around the door.

  “I am fine, really, Jack. Just having trouble sleeping, is all.”

  He stood just outside the room, his fingers pressed white against the dark wood of the door. “Perhaps, if you blow out the candle?”

  Constance squirmed then realized her knees were bare and visible. She hastily tucked them beneath her nightgown. “You are right, of course. Forgive me for disturbing you.”

  “You were not disturbing me.” He seemed about to leave, but he glanced back at her once more. “You groaned. Is something vexing you?”

  “Only a small matter.”

  “I would be only too happy to help, if I can.”

  Constance fidgeted, the hard edge of the book digging into her calf. She ignored the pain. Jack could not learn she had it. He was ridiculously proper sometimes. She risked a glance down. The book hid enough beneath her pillow that Jack would never see, yet she squirmed with embarrassment. She had just spent the better part of an hour imagining Jack in this very bed, doing a great deal more than sleeping this time.