Jack wasn't gifted much by God, if you thought about the genes that had been slung his way with as much afterthought as the cat sicking up on a carpet. Yes, all right. Old money bred true, and Jack had the imperiousness of a man who had been a boy with every expectation the world would order itself his way round, but it hadn't, had it? He had a Northerner's breadth of shoulder, and his hair was mussed rather than sleek, and his eyes were sharp, sharp blue. He shed the Count the way he shook off the aftermath of a rainstorm: with it clinging in droplets and pieces just long enough to get a vague, damp feeling to the skin. He released the man who had been the kind of beautiful that closed throats no matter whether they were inclined that way or not, who slid sideways into becoming someone else like the rain blowing over.
He'd been smaller, as the Count. He straightened, and the neatness of movement the Count had had was replaced with Jack's impatient sprawl of motion. "Oh not again." He didn't dig for his phone, he rummaged in his pockets methodically, looking to check everything meant to be there was there.