Chills (2 page)

“Oh, what a terrible thing to say about your twin. I doubt you suffered.”

“My sister has many talents, but mathematics is not one of them. She outshines me in many other, far more important arenas. One of them includes having an acknowledged, warm heart.”

Constance fidgeted. Secretly she thought his nickname, the Cold-Hearted Marquess, well deserved. But hearing him joke about being cold-hearted, and challenging her to deny it, made her extremely uncomfortable. “One of them includes having the tact to stay out of other people’s affairs.”

Ettington leaned close. “My, my, have your affairs become interesting?” He held her gaze. “What has changed?”

Constance bit her lip. She had not informed her friends of her recent attachment. Not that the decision should interest Ettington one way or the other. But she’d held her tongue to avoid upsetting Virginia when her health remained delicate.

Unfortunately, Constance had never been a proficient liar, and was usually unsuccessful with Ettington. The marquess would hound her until she confessed. It would be best to get the discussion over and done with. “I am engaged to be married.”

The marquess’ face whitened. “Good God. To whom?”

Constance clenched her hands into fists. “There is no need to sound so surprised at my good fortune. Cullen proposed before I left home, and I was very happy to accept. We will be married in a month.”

The marquess rose to his feet. “I forbid it.”

Constance stumbled back a few steps. “How dare you? You have no right to an opinion on my engagement. You might have Virginia under your control again, but not me. I am not your responsibility.”

The marquess took a step forward. His jaw appeared to be locked in place. She hoped he kept it that way. When Ettington stopped a mere pace from her, she had to raise her chin high to keep him in view.

“You will not marry Cullen.”

Heat stung her cheeks. How dare he attempt to bully her? Well, the marquess could go to the devil for all she cared. She’d not listen to him.

Constance turned her back on him. “The date is set.”

Ettington gripped her upper arms tightly, restraining her when she would have moved further away. “We will continue this discussion later. Alone.”

Constance shivered. “No, we will not.”

Luckily, footsteps clattered across marble. Ettington released her as Virginia swept into the room followed by a tea tray-laden maid. Constance sank into a chair, still shaking from the marquess’ touch. She didn’t know why they could never remain civil. It wasn’t as if he was truly cruel, but he was bossy and opinionated. She just needed to learn how to better ignore his pronouncements.

Fearing Virginia would sense her additional distress, she raised her head, determined to defy him silently. The marquess’ lips curled into an unfamiliar smile as he sank into his chair like the grand pasha he aspired to be.

~ * ~

Despite the smile, Jack Overton’s pulse raced with shock. Who the devil was brave enough to take on Pixie as a wife? And how in hell had the devil slipped past his spies to get so close to the chit? Jack gritted his teeth then let out a slow breath. He would see an end to this disastrous misalliance the minute Virginia was occupied elsewhere.

Pixie scowled at him and, despite his anger, he softened a touch. For all her headstrong ways, she was a good girl. As his ward, she’d caused little serious trouble. But she wasn’t under his control now, as she asserted. His guardianship had ended last Christmas, but old habits die hard. He would expect to hear everything, and then he’d end her engagement.

Virginia sat beside Pixie, smiling a little nervously between them. Had she heard the discussion? Pixie had been here for five days and hadn’t said a word about this Cullen fellow. Was Virginia as upset that Pixie had not confided in her as he was?

Jack couldn’t question her while his twin was nearby, but he didn’t often get his former ward alone anymore. Without the role of guardian to give him reason enough for privacy, Virginia tended to hover.

Yet Virginia continued to worry him, too.

The depression of her spirits had continued far longer than he’d expected. As a widow, society expected a period of sadness, but the real reason for her fears was known only to a few. It was a nuisance to live on pins and needles, but with luck and time, Virginia improved. She had already taken great leaps since Pixie’s arrival. Now he just needed to get her out of the house and back where she belonged.

Jack shifted in his chair and his hand nudged a piece of parchment that Pixie had left behind. Supposing it was the grand total of debt, he picked it up and, while toying with the top edge, caught another glare aimed squarely at his innards. While his sister filled the void with nervous chatter, he let the paper slide between his fingers. Across the room, Pixie bit her lip, but he thought it an attempt to keep her annoyance with him in check.

He stifled a laugh. Her nickname was fitting. Small, dark haired, and always emotional. Pixie had grown beautiful, but had not grown out of her propensity for trouble. Given the wild flare in her eyes, she would like nothing better than to grasp a spear from the wall with which to run him through.

He let his gaze drift over her gown. Mrs. Grange wasn’t running up bills of sale on Pixie’s behalf. He hoped the new gowns ordered would get here soon. Pixie looked like a school girl in all that pale, high-necked muslin.

According to Madame du Clair, she would resemble a princess when properly dressed. She’d better. He’d paid the modiste extra to deliver them promptly. He wanted Pixie fit to accompany his sister into society soon. Her impending marriage interfered with his immediate plans for that.

Jack lowered his gaze to her feet. Sensible shoes did not hide the curious turning of her ankles. As he watched, her feet fidgeted. He slowly, ever so curiously, raised his eyes back to her face. Fury blazed in her eyes. Jack enjoyed the gooseflesh that raced down his spine as she held his gaze.

“Jack, are you paying me any attention?”

Jack chuckled. “Forgive me, sister, my mind wandered onto a vexing topic.”

Pixie’s face pinked.

“Hmm, I was just suggesting that you should help Pixie straighten out those papers. Will you?”

When his sister put herself out to ask him to do something, he invariably did as she bade, but on this matter he paused before answering. He wasn’t Pixie’s guardian any longer. He had no right to get involved in her financial affairs again.

But perhaps helping her sort through this mess would convince her to trust his instincts about this marriage. Although he didn’t know this Cullen fellow, Jack doubted he could be the right man for her. Any fellow who’d let her out of his sight for longer than two seconds had no idea what he was getting himself in for. She attracted trouble.

Although Pixie might come to resent his renewed interference in her life, he did want to know the size of the mess she and her mother had made of their finances in so short a time. Their affairs had been secure when he’d had the management of the estate. Pixie should have had a comfortable life ahead of her.

Jack gave Virginia his most charming smile. “As long as Miss Grange has no objections, I would be happy to offer my humble assistance.”

CHAPTER TWO

CONSTANCE WAS THINKING of poisons. Not poisons to kill, but poisons to make the marquess very, very sick. She could not understand why he took such perverse pleasure in tormenting someone so far beneath his notice.

She struggled not to clench her fists. Virginia would notice her anger if she conducted herself as she wanted. The term
box his ears
had always rung with resounding finality, and Constance longed to do precisely that to the insufferable man. Maybe she could just blacken the eyes that skimmed so insultingly over her gown.

It wasn’t possible for everyone to be as well dressed as the Marquess of Ettington and his elegant sister. Virginia did not notice the extent of her shabbiness, but Constance was uncomfortably aware of how outdated her wardrobe had become. The new gowns were supposed to replace them, but now she had no means to pay for them. She would have to pen a note to the modiste to cancel her order. With luck, Madam had not commenced work already.

Seeing no way out of the awkward offer, Constance turned a sunny smile on the marquess. His smug smile slipped.

“If his lordship has the time, I’m sure I could find something for him to tally.”

Such as the number of occasions he thought himself better than others. That could keep him busy for hours.

Virginia rose, excused herself with an assurance she did not normally show, and made her way from the room. Left alone with the arrogant man, with only a self-effacing maid as chaperone, the silence was deafening.

The marquess stood and held out his hand. “Shall we adjourn to the library?”

Constance looked the impeccable marquess over as insultingly as she could, but didn’t get the response she was after. He looked pleased.

Botheration.

Ignoring his outstretched hand, Constance stood and preceded him from the room, grumbling under her breath at how easily he got what he wanted. His low chuckle followed her, but she ignored him, placed the box on the long reading table, and lifted the lid on the catastrophe.

Lord Ettington edged close and unfolded the paper he held. The scent of cinnamon wafted over her again, and she struggled to ignore the impulse to inhale deeply.

“Sweet, merciful heaven,” he said. “Did you read this?”

“Of course I did. Do you believe me incapable?”

“I commend your acting skills. One would think that a woman, faced with almost certain disaster, would react in some feminine fashion. Fainting springs to mind.”

Absurd comments like that reminded her why she didn’t like him. She turned to deliver a retort, but found him untidily slumped against the table devoid of his usual satisfied expression. “I don’t faint.”

Constance snatched the paper from his lax grip. He retaliated by dragging the box across the smooth table surface. At the loud screech, they both glanced down at the ruined wood, but the marquess dismissed the long scratches with a shrug in favor of turning out the contents of the box.

After an hour of sorting, Constance was numb. With the notes spread thick across the dark mahogany tabletop, the scale of debt looked worse. “Where are the December bills?”

 
“What is that one?” The marquess queried, squinting at the paper Constance held. “A tradesman’s bill or another gambling debt?”

“Gambling.”

“Just put it right in front of you.” Ettington suddenly straightened. “Good God, how can one spend eighteen shillings on a single pair of gloves when in the country?”

“Show me that.” Constance moved to his side and scanned the bill. “Ah, I remember. They were to match a lovely gown of Mama’s. I’m surprised you didn’t object to the price of the silk stockings, not to mention the number.”

Ettington tugged the note from her fingers slowly. “I had hoped your mother would have sent at least a few of those in your direction. I certainly couldn’t complain about that, since I’m partial to touching silk stockings.”

Constance stared.

The marquess clenched his jaw, and then shook his head as if tossing the comment away. He lowered his gaze to the paper as if the shocking words had never passed his lips.

Constance was relieved, because when the marquess spoke of personal matters she had no idea how to answer. Part of her wanted to continue the discussion, the other part blushed. She hated blushing, so she retreated to the window to keep from asking him how he had gained such strong opinions.

All afternoon, she had suffered through his highly improper comments on their expenses, but he seemed fascinated by the fashionable purchases. Constance wasn’t particularly interested in fashions. She’d had the worst time with the modiste a few days ago. Rifling through fashion plates and trying to imagine wearing such stunning creations was so hard that she had asked Virginia to approve the final choices.

But it
had
been the best thing for Virginia. She had radiated with animation and purpose, almost her cheerful self again. Constance couldn’t remember what dresses she’d ordered, but she did know how much they were going to cost.

China clattered behind her back and then boot heels tapped in her direction. She braced herself for yet another argument, but the marquess’ arm curved around her, presenting a cup of tea. The scent of cinnamon swamped her again, and she allowed herself to be lulled by the delicious smell.

“Take a break. There are still a lot of papers to go through.”

Constance accepted the cup and sank into the nearest chair, relieved for the distraction from her problems. Ettington joined her and they sipped tea in silence. At a loss for something to say, Constance kept her eyes on the bustling world outside the window.

London astounded her. She’d never visited Virginia here before and, after close to a week of watching, the variety of unfamiliar sights hadn’t lost their appeal. An orange seller’s cart rolled past the townhouse, its ragged owner calling out her wares: “oranges, cheaper by the dozen, or five pence a pair”. She almost dug in her pocket for the coins.

The marquess cleared his throat. “That is a very rude habit you have acquired. Have my features grown so fearsome that you cannot meet my gaze? I do hope you will behave better when we are out and about in society.”