What an Earl Wants (17 page)

“Over five years, since before I bought my colors.” He stared at the fire.

How could one own an estate in the country, yet choose to live in the noisy, dirty city? Quincy saw Sinclair shift his weight, off his bad leg. How foolish of her to forget. He’d had no choice in the matter—he’d been brought to the London town house last fall to recover from his injury. Now that he was almost healed, he was staying for the Season. To search for a wife.

She needed to sit down. The stew they’d eaten a few hours earlier suddenly felt like lead in her stomach.

Bentley’s quiet cough brought her thoughts back. “I’ve had hot water sent to your rooms, my lord. I am afraid your things are quite soaked, Mr. Quincy. I have one of the maids tending to them now, so they should be ready by morning.”

Quincy felt the blood drain from her face. Someone had gone through her things? Well, of course they would. In a household like the earl’s, guests didn’t lay out their own belongings, even if the guest was an employee. Had she packed anything that would give her away? “Thank you.”

Sinclair made a choking sound. “He’s about Anthony’s size, wouldn’t you say, Bentley? See if you can find one of his nightshirts and a dressing gown. I doubt Quincy fancies sleeping in the altogether.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As soon as the butler left, Quincy pinned Sinclair with a glare. He looked unapologetic for discussing her bed attire. Or lack thereof.

“Well, we don’t want the bath water getting cold, do we?” Sinclair slapped her on the back and, with an arm draped heavily across her shoulders, led her from the drawing room.

For the first time today she realized he hadn’t brought his walking stick. If she was stiff and sore after spending the day in the saddle, she could only imagine the pain Sinclair was feeling. He must be holding on to her for support.

Heedless of any observing servants, she tightened her grip around his waist when they reached the stairs, taking more of his weight as they climbed. Neither spoke. Quincy didn’t want him to mistake her concern for pity, and lines of concentration creased Sinclair’s brow. She was breathing heavily herself by the time they reached the top.

He didn’t let go until they reached her room. He slid his arm from her shoulders, briefly cupping her cheek before dropping his hand to his side. “Good night, Quincy,” he whispered.

By the soft candlelight in the hall, she read a multitude of emotions in his eyes—apology for her soaked clothes and servants going through her things, acknowledgment of her assistance, discomfort at needing such help. She swallowed, realizing she’d happily hold on to him all night.
He’s your employer.
“Go soak in the tub before the water cools.”

He quirked one eyebrow, then smiled and limped to his own room, two doors down from hers. She felt bereft without him. She shook her head and entered her room.

The fire had been lit just after their arrival, and was only beginning to remove the chill from the room. The red and black Chinese decor was perfectly coordinated, down to the silk screen in one corner. She moved it closer to the tub, blocking in more of the fire’s heat. Now that she considered it, every room she’d seen in the magnificent house was perfectly coordinated. Nothing like the mismatched pieces in Sinclair’s library or his bedchamber. His rooms were comfortable, yes, but not conforming.

She had removed her waistcoat and cravat and was reaching for the buttons on her shirt when she heard a short knock, and the door opened.

“Good evening, sir,” said a footman, closing the door behind him. “I am Wilford.” He bowed, careful to keep the garments draped over his arm off the floor. “Since you came unattended, Bentley has assigned me to assist you during your stay. May I help you with your shirt?”

Q
uincy stared at the footman, dumbstruck.

“Have I given offense, sir?”

“No!” She cleared her throat. “That is, I am grateful for your offer, Wilford. I am just used to making do for myself.”

“I see. Of course, sir.” He shook out the nightshirt and dressing gown hanging over his arm and spread them on the bed. “These belong to Master Anthony, the earl’s brother. I trust they’ll do until your own clothing is dry.” He gave her a frank look, his gaze traveling from head to toe. “You seem to be of a size.”

She fought the urge to snatch up her coat and cover herself. “Thank you, Wilford. That will be all, I think.”

The footman turned to leave but stopped with his hand on the knob. “His lordship has requested supper in one hour. I shall return to help you dress after you bathe.”

“No!” Quincy heard the squeak in her voice, hoped Wilford did not. “If it is not too much trouble, I would prefer a tray in my room. Please extend my apologies to Lord Sinclair, but I find I am…quite fatigued.”

Wilford nodded and at last left her in peace.

While she waited impatiently for the tray to be brought, Quincy sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise from the tub. Her stomach growled. She longed to undress and slip into the bath—a hot-water-up-to-her-chin soak was a luxury she hadn’t been able to indulge in for quite some time—but didn’t dare. Not yet.

After what seemed hours, a maid delivered the tray and bobbed a curtsy on her way out. Quincy glanced between the two objects of her desire, debating. Hot food, cold bath? She decided both were better lukewarm. She stripped and stepped into the tub, bringing the tray within reach, and ate while washing.

After the rigors of the past two days, and a warm bath and full stomach, she barely had the strength to climb into bed and pull the covers up to her chin before she fell fast asleep.

A familiar, throbbing ache in his thigh woke Sinclair just before dawn the next morning. He threw back the covers, stretched his sore muscles, dressed, and limped downstairs. A little coffee with his brandy took the edge off the ache, and he prowled through the house. Not much had changed in the years he’d been away.

How was it possible for him to experience such cataclysmic changes in his life, yet his home appear the same as the day he left?

Since returning to England, he had stayed in London only to ease his mother’s anxiety. Feeling guilt for the strain and worry he’d caused her, he’d allowed her to bring in an endless parade of doctors to consult about his leg. His patience just stretched so far, however. Dr. Kimball had been the only one not to chastise him for fighting off the sawbones after he’d been injured, and so Sinclair had not sent him packing as he had the other quacks.

Quincy’s question about his choice of residence last night had started him thinking. Now that he was fully recovered, he could move back to Brentwood. The thought made his steps light, until he remembered a tiny complication. It was one thing to have Quincy work for him in London, going home to her family every evening. Living at his estate, that wouldn’t be possible.

Her grandmother and sister wouldn’t allow Quincy to follow him to Brentwood permanently. He shouldn’t even consider it.

He would find a way.

He entered the study and skimmed through the steward’s books. Good thing he’d brought Quincy, because he found nothing to indicate Johnson had pulled his tricks here. What secrets might the ledger yield to Quincy’s trained eye? He set the books aside and stared out the window.

How could she sleep through a glorious morning such as this? Gone were the rain clouds. The sun shone brightly, showing everything clean and refreshed. He longed to saddle his mare and go riding, to explore his property. He wanted to show it to Quincy, to see it through her eyes. Wanted to spend the day in her company, relaxed.

Wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to taste her again, feel her lush mouth against his, wanted to discover what feminine charms were hidden beneath her masculine disguise.

He rushed up the stairs, the ache in his leg forgotten, and stopped outside Quincy’s door to listen. All was quiet within. If she hadn’t thrown the footman out last night, Wilford would be hovering nearby, waiting to assist her.

That had been a damn close call. Sinclair had become so used to his chaotic town house that he’d forgotten what a well-trained staff was like. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bentley would take it upon himself to assign a footman to their “gentleman” guest. Not until Bentley had shocked him with the news that Wilford said “the boy nearly fainted at the suggestion of help with his bath.” Sinclair winced at the near disaster.

He had brought Quincy on this trip so she could enjoy a little freedom, not be embarrassed or hopelessly compromised. She thought she was here merely to further investigate Johnson’s embezzlement. Sinclair had other ideas.

If she was denied the ability to participate in feminine activities, he was going to make sure she enjoyed some of the masculine pursuits. Well, some of the more tame pursuits, at any rate. Like a carefree jaunt about the countryside on horseback. Away from her sister and grandmother, and his own mother.

All three women were much too bright to be fooled easily, and he feared letting something slip that would reveal he knew of Quincy’s little deception. Then everything would be over, and he’d come to enjoy her company far too much to let it end.

Sinclair knocked on Quincy’s door. No response. The beautiful day was wasting. No telling when the rain would return. And they only had today before they must head back to London. How much of their precious time together would she waste in sleep?

He tried the doorknob, expecting resistance. It opened easily. The foolish chit hadn’t even locked her door! It was beyond the bounds of propriety for him to enter, but better him than the footman. He locked the door behind him.

“Good morning,” he announced loudly. The figure on the bed didn’t stir.

The sun bathed her face in a warm glow, highlighting her delicately carved features, her adorably dainty nose. Her short hair was tousled from sleep, revealing a reddish-brown without its usual coat of pomade.

He hesitated a moment longer, then strode into the room and plopped down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing once. The ancient bed creaked in protest.

Quincy slept on, lying on her side, her arms wrapped around the pillow, the blankets slipped halfway down to her waist. He’d never before seen her with so few layers of clothing. The thin cotton nightshirt was barely decent, revealing freckles on her ribcage, the dusky edge of one nipple. The tantalizing hint made his mouth suddenly dry. He had often imagined her clothed in nothing but a ray of sunshine. His imagination was a poor thing.

Sinclair could do naught but gaze at her, for several minutes. No one seeing Quincy should be fooled for even an instant into thinking she was anything but a young woman. Striking, strong, yet achingly vulnerable. A lock of hair curled over her brow, crying out to be tucked back into place. If he were Prince Charming, he’d awaken Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. He caught himself reaching toward her, and flattened his palms to his thighs. He cleared his throat to clear his unruly thoughts.

“How can you sleep through a stunning day like this?”

“Go ’way, Mel,” Quincy said without opening her eyes, her voice slurred with sleep.

“I am not Mel, and I am most certainly not going away.”

One eyelid slowly raised to half-mast. A moment later both eyes flew wide open. The pillow muffled what sounded suspiciously like “Good Lord!”

“Now that I have your attention,” Sinclair said, folding his arms, “I wish to know when you intend to get up.”

Quincy continued to stare at him.

“Are you actually awake, or just dreaming with your eyes open? I am not leaving until I’m certain it’s the former.”

She suddenly scrambled back on the bed, tugging the blankets up to her chin. “I am quite awake, my lord.”

“Are you feeling all right? You look pale. You did not catch a chill from our soaking last night, did you?” He rested his palm on her forehead. It felt warm, but not unduly so. Without thinking, he brushed the lock of hair away from her face. The silky strands were even softer than he’d imagined. A shame she always wore it slicked back, though it did help her disguise.

“I feel fine, my lord. Just a little…surprised…to see my employer in my bedchamber. That is all.”

Sinclair realized he was gazing at her like a besotted fool, his hand cupping her cheek. He cleared his throat again and stood up. “Better me than Wilford, though, eh? Which it easily could have been, since you didn’t lock your door last night.”

Her eyes widened. “I meant to. Must have fallen asleep.”

He crossed to the window and flung open the drapes. “We have a lot of work waiting for us. Let’s cover as much territory as possible while the weather holds, shall we? I’ll meet you in the stables as soon as you’ve eaten.”

He closed the door on his way out and walked a few steps down the hall, then leaned against the wall. For the love of Juno! What had he been thinking, touching Quincy like that? It was one thing to kiss her at lunch, when they were both fully awake and dressed. But when she was still in bed, wearing nothing but a nightshirt?

A thought chilled him. What would
she
think of his caress? However unintentional, that’s what his touch upon her cheek had been, a caress. Would she consider it brotherly? He’d often awakened his younger brother, sat on his bed, ruffled his hair. That was the direction he could aim for—acting as her elder brother.

Then again, after that kiss yesterday, perhaps not.

All right, friends then. Friends who kissed. He wanted her to rely on him, confide in him. Trust him. The warmth he felt, the protectiveness, the desire for her company—all were the hallmark of friendship. Surely? It was unconventional for a man in his position to count a woman among his friends, but Quincy was far from conventional.

To be honest, though, after seeing her face relaxed in sleep, with the sweep of her long lashes and soft curve of her mouth, his feelings weren’t limited to friendship. He’d had a sudden image of her waking up beside him in
his
bed. And falling asleep in his arms at night, exhausted and sated after their lovemaking.

Wincing at his foolishness, Sinclair went downstairs and out to the stable.

How could he have ever thought her to be male? And having seen though her disguise, seen the feminine side she tried to hide, how could he ever look at her the same again?

Quincy gaped at the closed door. Yes, Sinclair had sat right down on the edge of her bed. He’d watched her sleep. For how long? He’d touched her. She’d leaned into his hand when he brushed hair away from her eyes, then let his fingers trail down her cheek, his touch gentle and confident. She’d been surprised by his caress, but not by how much she’d enjoyed it.

Did he think her wanton? It was one thing for him to have kissed her yesterday, out of doors, in a moment of camaraderie. But this morning, in such an intimate setting, was something else entirely. Perhaps he believed as Grandmère did, and was simply taking a moment of joy where and when he found it.

Touching her gave Sinclair joy?

He did seem to take any and every opportunity to touch her. Until yesterday, she had always accepted them as friendly, platonic gestures.

Did he see her as a woman, despite her role of Mr. Quincy? Her heart beat faster.

She wouldn’t find out sitting up here all day.

She slid out of bed and gasped in pain. Giant pincers grabbed her legs, mercilessly squeezing sore muscles. Stretching toward the ceiling and touching her toes a few times eased their grip enough for her to walk to the door and lock it before she dressed. Wilford might be stubborn enough to offer his assistance again. First the footman walking in, then Sinclair. She’d never again forget to lock the door.

Just as she was ready to head downstairs, a maid delivered her portmanteau and dry clothes. Quincy decided to save the clean clothes for after their ride, but did retrieve the list of local merchants she’d brought from town. She found her way downstairs to the dining room and stopped long enough to grab two scones and a cup of tea, which she drank on her way out the kitchen door.

“The farrier will re-shoe both our horses, but he won’t arrive until this afternoon,” Sinclair said when she arrived at the stable. “Think you can handle Beauregard?”

Quincy eyed the enormous black gelding with trepidation. Three stalls down, she saw one of the grooms elbow another, and they both snickered. Her chin went up. “Easily.” She vaulted into the saddle and walked Beauregard a few steps while Sinclair swung up on to a gray gelding he called Zoltan. Then they were off, Sinclair giving her a tour of his property on their way to town.

How did he manage to look so at ease in the saddle when her muscles were screaming in protest? She felt bounced like a sack of potatoes on Beauregard’s back, nothing like the gentle rhythm she’d established with Clarence.

It quickly became apparent Sinclair truly loved his land, as he greeted tenants by name, pointed out each landmark and told its history. He also knew most of the merchants by name, who greeted him in return. In short order, Quincy was able to confirm that all of Brentwood’s merchants were legitimate, and not party to Johnson’s thievery.

On the ride, they covered the south and west parts of Sinclair’s land, past the tenant cottages and fields being prepared for planting, back to the manor house for luncheon. Sinclair promised they’d go to the north and east after they ate, where there would be sheep pastures and excellent fishing spots.

“If we are to return when you promised my grandmother, I had better start looking over the account books instead of riding with you,” she said as Bentley ladled mulligatawny soup into her dish.

“But…Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Was she mistaken, or did Sinclair sound disappointed?