What an Earl Wants (21 page)

“Of course, my lord,” Bentley said. The butler stepped aside as Quincy slipped past, not meeting anyone’s eye.

Damn. Self-assured Quincy, feeling guilty? Sinclair hurried after her, cursing the limp that slowed him down. “Wait,” he called when she started up the stairs two at a time.

“Yes, my lord?” In a gesture befitting a duchess, Quincy stopped with her hand on the rail and turned only slightly.

“It has occurred to me—” Sinclair waited until he reached the riser where Quincy stood, then realized he was too winded to speak. Besides, the servants in the downstairs hall could overhear. He rested his hand on Quincy’s shoulder until they reached the landing. “It has occurred to me that I have yet to thank you for what you did. Last night.”

More gasping for air, and after only one flight. Could he have caught a chill from his brief soaking? Impossible. He’d better start making trips to Henry Angelo’s more often. “I would have reached the hut on my own eventually and waited out the storm, but I…I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” Quincy’s right eyebrow raised. Damn, this wasn’t going at all the way he planned. “And I’m sorry for any, ah, discomfort I may have caused you last night.”

Quincy’s lips twitched. “You’re welcome, my lord.” She folded her arms over her chest, and at last he understood. Not guilty, just self-conscious about missing a vital piece of wardrobe.

Servants approached, carrying buckets of hot water. With one last glance, they each entered their respective room.

Quincy locked the door after the departing maid, stripped, and reluctantly slipped into the tub. Her muscles still ached, but she didn’t want to wash. Didn’t want to wash away the feel, the scent of Sinclair from her body.

Carpe diem.
She’d seized the day all right, and made memories to last a lifetime. She’d warned Sinclair she was forward. He hadn’t seemed to mind. As Grandmère said, he was a man of the world. By Juno, what the man could do with his hands, that mouth! Long, strong fingers, soft lips, rough stubble…He evoked sensations she’d never experienced before, had never even dreamed were possible.

Ah, her dreams. Sometime last night, she and Sinclair had changed positions, changed roles. Instead of her holding him, he had cradled her. He caressed her, reactions rippling through her, a prelude to what was to come when they awoke. Her dreams would have more substance from now on. Blessing, or curse? Time would tell.

She dipped the washcloth in the water and lathered the soap. A small consolation—it was the same spicy scented soap that Sinclair used. She inhaled deeply and began to wash. Water dripped between her breasts. She had a sudden memory of Sinclair touching her there this morning, kissing, licking.

She’d always known the practical purpose for the female bosom, but had no idea it could also produce so much pleasure. Overhearing the groom and dairy maid all those years ago had not prepared her for the reality, the intensity.

She rested her head against the edge of the tub, letting warm water slide over her skin.

Years ago Grandmère had taken her aside for a private conversation, telling her what to expect of her growing body, what it meant to be a woman. How babies were made, how to prevent them. Consequences, and how to avoid them.

Nothing she’d done with Sinclair this morning would have consequences. Nothing was irreversible. Just memories that would have to last her a lifetime, because her time with Sinclair was growing short. Days, at the most. Today, in fact, might be her last with him.

As soon as she made her report about Johnson’s embezzlement, he could let her go.

Perhaps he wouldn’t do that. Perhaps he’d grown fond enough of her company to keep her on. Keep her near, while he returned to the task of selecting his wife. Select a woman of breeding and stature and wealth, a wife who would not cause a scandal. Quincy grabbed the washcloth, began scrubbing furiously.

Keep her near, while he married, and held another woman in his arms at night.

Quincy jumped out of the bath.

She quickly dressed, but was missing an important item. How could she replace her binding cloth? Ripping the bed sheet would cause speculation. Do without? No, no, her figure was slight but not nonexistent, even with all her other layers of fabric. Would a cravat be long enough?

A scratch on the door interrupted her pacing. She opened the door a crack and peered around the edge. Sinclair stood in the hall.

“I believe you dropped this, Mr. Quincy,” he said, handing her a folded length of cloth. He looked both ways down the hall, then ducked inside, kissed her on the cheek, and was gone.

She leaned against the closed door, holding the cloth to her face. It smelled of Sinclair. It was almost identical in size and shape to the one she’d ripped in half last night, though the edges were not hemmed. A man of the world, and a smart one, too. She used the cloth to dry her eyes.

As soon as she was dressed decently, she opened the door for servants to remove the tub. Wilford knocked while she was tying her cravat.

“Lord Sinclair wishes you to join him in the breakfast parlor when you’re ready, sir.”

Startled since she hadn’t heard his approach, she tugged the ruined knot loose. “Thank you, Wilford.” She pulled the ends together and tried again.

“Allow me, sir,” Wilford said. He stepped behind her, reached around and tied the cravat neatly and efficiently in a simple knot, without touching her at all.

She watched his face in the mirror while he worked, easily visible since his tucked chin was still an inch above her head. Finished, he nodded at his handiwork. Just before he turned away, he winked at her in the mirror, then left the room.

It was over so quickly, and his expression never altered. Had she only imagined it?

Her hands fluttered to the knot at her throat that he’d just tied for her. Of course. Her Adam’s apple, or lack thereof. She smacked her forehead. Blast.

She’d never appeared in public without a properly tied cravat, but had merely considered it part of her costume, not part of a disguise. In the future, she would be more diligent about her cravat, in private as well as public. She headed to the door.

A footman knew her secret now. Her step faltered. If Wilford told anyone, her cravat and rolled-up stocking would be pointless.

“Wilford?” she called out. “Thank you for your, ah, assistance.”

The footman came back to the room. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Quincy.” He placed emphasis on the “mister.” His gaze bored into hers. “Lord Sinclair has always been a right one to work for, even when he’s not present. The staff has heard how it was you who found him after his mishap. We’re all beholden to you.” Wilford raised his eyebrows.

Quincy nodded. Message received and understood.

“This way, sir.”

She followed Wilford downstairs to the breakfast parlor, her heart rate gradually returning to normal.

A footman topped off the coffee in Sinclair’s cup, then silently withdrew from the room. Sinclair took a deep drink.

“One hundred proofcoffee?” she asked, sitting down. Another footman appeared and set a heaping plate in front of her. She let him pour a cup of coffee for her, then he left, too.

Sinclair flashed a faint smile and drained his cup. “Eat up. We’re leaving as soon as you’ve filled your belly.”

“Leaving?” No, their time alone, just the two of them, couldn’t end so soon. “But you—”

“Promised your grandmother, and I always keep my promises. You did find all you needed to in the account books and talking to merchants yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but shouldn’t you rest? Neither of us slept well last night.” Jumping Jupiter, did she actually just say that out loud?

“Your grandmother—”

“Will understand.” Grandmère had practically
ordered
her to be with Sinclair. “No one keeps all their promises, especially when they’re ill.”

“I am not ill. And I keep all my promises. I’m taking you back to your grandmother, where you’ll be safe.” He tossed his napkin beside his untouched plate before limping from the room.

Safe from what? Or whom? Quincy shut her mouth on the useless words she’d been about to utter, and wolfed down her meal. Sinclair would never admit to needing a day of rest, especially if it meant breaking his word. No man liked to be bested by a horse. And no man she had ever met would willingly admit to feeling poorly, at least none with less than fifty years in his dish. Sinclair even disliked any reference to his lingering war wound.

She wrapped a couple scones in a napkin and dropped them in her pocket. Leaving this late, they had no chance of reaching London before dark, and if they stopped for meals, they wouldn’t arrive until after midnight. She grabbed her books and spectacles from the library, collected her packed bag from Wilford, and hurried out to the stables.

A cloud seemed to hover over Sinclair during the entire journey. He responded to her conversational sallies with little more than grunts or a nod of his head. When he did speak, his voice was more husky than when he’d called her darling this morning.

Her body protested the bone-jarring ride and lack of sleep the night before, but she did not complain. If Sinclair could doggedly ride on through the misting rain, as miserable as he must feel, than so could she. Her rising suspicions about his state of health were confirmed when he headed straight to his own town house, and not to take her home to Grandmère as he’d promised.

He bumped against her as they dismounted, and she reached to steady him. The action allowed her to look closely at his face in the light from the gas lamps. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright from fever.

She reached a hand toward his forehead, but saw a groom watching them. She swerved and brushed a fleck of mud from his shoulder instead. “May I recommend an early night, my lord?”

They started toward the house. “Of course. Go home, Quincy.”

“I meant for you, not me.”

He snorted. “Been gone three days. Got things to check on.” He climbed three steps to the back door, took a deep breath, and doubled over with a coughing fit.

She waited for it to pass, helped him upright, and pressed her palm to his forehead. “Sinclair, you’re burning up with fever. Go to bed.”

He shook his head and swayed against her. “Things to do.”

She grabbed him by his elbows and stared into his bloodshot eyes. “Go to bed now, or I’ll hoist you over my shoulder and carry you there myself.”

He blinked at her, then gave a bark of laughter that ended in another coughing fit. “That would make an interesting picture for Mama and the maids, wouldn’t it?” He sighed. “All right, you win. Bed sounds wonderful.” He gave her a sidelong glance as he opened the door. “Going to come up and help me with my…boots…again?”

Fortunately the darkness hid her blush. She should go home, but couldn’t leave him. Not yet.

As they made their way to his bedchamber, she encouraged him to lean on her, perhaps a little more than necessary. She was becoming accustomed to his warmth and solid form against her, his arm a comforting weight across her shoulders. She liked it.

Perhaps too much.

Thompson was at his post, for once, and sprang forward when they neared. “Is aught amiss?”

“Nothing a few days in bed won’t cure,” Quincy replied. She ignored Sinclair’s snort. “I’m afraid you’ll have to pretend you’re a valet, Thompson.”

Sinclair stared at her. “You’re leaving me?”

Quincy gaped at the naked plea in Sinclair’s tone, and face. She resisted the urge to cup his cheek, draw him into her embrace, kiss him. Now that she knew what it was like to hold each other all night, give each other indescribable pleasure, she longed to hold him again, whatever length of time, whatever opportunity. But, knowing Thompson was watching, she kept her hands at her sides. “Grandmère, remember? I’ll be back in the morning.” She cleared her throat. “Good night, my lord. Thompson will see to your needs.”

The sound of Sinclair coughing followed her down the stairs.

He was home now, warm and dry. He would be fine.

G
randmère and Melinda had been busy in Quincy’s absence. Paintings hung on the walls, packing crates were gone. Several rugs and unfamiliar pieces of furniture graced their sitting room, kitchen, and bedrooms. A stain here, a nick there, what did it matter? Their home was more cozy than since they left the little cottage behind. Best of all was a bed, an actual bed with a down-filled mattress, mismatched sheets and all, awaiting her in her tiny, private room.

Since it was after nine, Mel and Grandmère were sound asleep. Sir Ambrose flipped his tail in greeting from his rug before the fire, but didn’t stir himself any further. Quincy flung herself on her soft new bed, not even bothering to undress, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

“How was your journey, dear?” Grandmère asked the next morning over tea and scones, after they’d finally roused Quincy by waving a rasher of bacon under her nose.

Meat for breakfast? Such spendthrift ways. Her employment may end any day. Every extra penny still needed to be saved toward their cottage. After Melinda explained it was a gift from Sam the butcher and his eldest son, who had continued their reading lessons with Melinda in Quincy’s absence, Quincy savored each bite.

“Our journey?” she said finally, sitting back with a full stomach and a second cup of tea. “It was very, um, educational.” Grandmère gave her a sharp look, but Quincy evaded her gaze, concentrating on buttering another scone. Her description of the estate was punctuated by sighs of pleasure from Melinda, and Sinclair’s unplanned dunking in the ditch was met by appropriate noises of concern. Omitting any mention of the overnight delay in their return to the house was not lying. Not exactly.

“Poor man probably has an abominable head cold by now,” Grandmère said, clucking her tongue. She hobbled over to the kitchen wardrobe. “If his throat is sore, see that he drinks warm lemonade with honey. And get him to drink willowbark tea. It will help him recover from the cold faster.”

“Oh, yes,” Melinda added fervently. “But be sure to sugar the tea, or he’ll object to it being too bitter. Assure him it’ll make him feel better. It did for me, anyway.” The two sisters shared a brief hug at the reminder of how ill Melinda had recently been.

Ignoring the rain, Quincy ran the short distance to Sinclair’s house, leaping over mud puddles and dodging the spray sent up by carriages passing in the street.

“Might I suggest a different plan than usual, Mr. Quincy?” Harper said, taking her hat, coat, and gloves.

She raised her eyebrows. Rough barking, reminiscent of seals she had heard on a long ago journey to the seaside, floated downstairs.

“Your presence may be more welcome in the earl’s chamber than in the library.”

“If not welcome by the earl, then certainly by Thompson, eh?” she said with a grin.

“The night did seem unusually long.” Harper’s butler mask was firmly in place, but his eyes twinkled.

Thompson met her in the doorway to Sinclair’s chamber, dark circles under his puffy eyes. “What the devil happened between you two while you were gone? Kept saying your name all night. I couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throttle you or k—”

“Kill me? I imagine he’d be of a mind to cause injury to almost anyone if he feels as poorly as I think he does.” She stepped past him but halted at the sight of Sinclair.

He lay sprawled on the bed, the bedclothes in a tangle around his waist. He sighed and was wracked by a coughing fit, then lay back with a groan.

“Good morning, Sinclair,” she said softly, stepping closer.

“What’s good about it?” he said, his voice a croak. He squinted and turned away as she drew one curtain aside, admitting enough light to see him better.

The red and purple bruise on his temple sharply contrasted against the pallor of his face. She pressed her palm against his forehead, ignoring the need to caress him. “Just as I thought,” she said brightly. “You are undoubtedly feeling miserable, my lord, but your fever is slight. Nothing serious.”

Sinclair snorted. “Of course it’s nothing serious. I’m fine.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

With a footman in the room, it was easier to keep her reaction in check at seeing his bare feet and legs. Her gaze lingered on the deep, puckered scars that started just above his right knee and disappeared under his twisted nightshirt. Raw scars that announced he’d been to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale. Scars that she had traced with her fingertips only yesterday. “I should amend that to say it is nothing serious
yet.
If you stay in bed for a few days, then curtail your activities for another week or so, you should be fine.”

“I’ve spent enough damn time bedridden.” He tried to stand up.

She pushed him back. “If, however, you prefer to be foolish and allow this cold to develop into pneumonia, I can describe in great detail the misery you will endure for weeks, if not months, to come.”

“What—” Sinclair broke off, caught in another coughing fit. “What makes you a bloody expert? Oh, that’s right, you’ve nursed two patients. One of them you put to bed with a shovel, didn’t you? That makes the odds just about even for me, doesn’t it?”

Quincy felt the blood drain from her face. She stumbled back a step. “There was nothing I could do about my father’s weak heart, and you know it.” Her voice rose with her anger, the words nearly choking her before they tumbled out, filled with all the frustration and fury of the last year. “If I can bring my sister through a bout with pneumonia in the dead of winter with little money for food or coal, let alone medicine, then with all of your wealth available I can certainly cure your sorry hide!”

Sinclair sat, frozen in place, staring at her feet. The fire crackled, the only sound in the deafening quiet.

Quincy averted her eyes to dig through her pockets, as much to search for the packet Grandmère had sent along as to hide the tears that threatened to spill. She unwrapped the oilcloth and handed a twist of paper to Thompson. At least her voice didn’t shake. “Please ask Irene to—No, she’s gone. Ask Jill to brew this, and make sure there’s sugar but not milk on the tea tray she brings up.”

“Yes, sir.” Thompson shut the door behind him.

“I’m sorry.” Sinclair’s rough voice was almost a whisper.

Unable to look at him, Quincy stared out the window, watching raindrops slide down the pane.

Sinclair reached up, engulfing her icy hand in his warm clasp. “You didn’t deserve that. My behavior is inexcusable.”

She looked down at their enjoined hands, warmth spreading through her. “Yes. Well.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose you deserved that either.”

“Oh, my poor, sweet poppet!”

They both started at Lady Sinclair’s entrance, their hands dropping to their sides.

“Has the doctor been sent for?” Quincy asked, taking a step away from the bed. She sniffed back tears and straightened her shoulders.

“Yes, he should be here soon, dear,” she said, gliding closer. “Whatever are you doing, trying to get out of bed?”

“My wits must have gone begging,” Sinclair muttered, lying down.

“If they have, there’s no need for you to go chasing after them.”

Assured that Lady Sinclair had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and feeling mostly in charity with Sinclair once more, Quincy couldn’t resist an I-told-you-so look as she tugged the covers up to his chin. He stuck his tongue out at her.

“What’s this I hear the lad decided to go swimming, eh?” Dr. Kimball said, striding into the room.

Quincy and Lady Sinclair left as Dr. Kimball began his examination. When Quincy headed for the stairs, Lady Sinclair invited her for a cup of tea in her sitting room.

They settled on the sofa, Quincy’s mind still on Sinclair, barely aware of his mother’s chatter.

“I haven’t thanked you yet for being with my son.”

Quincy sloshed her tea. “My lady?”

“You were the one who helped Benjamin after his fall, stayed with him through the night. Or did I misunderstand his ramblings?”

Oh dear heaven, what had the man said in his ramblings? To his
mother
? “I joined in the search when Lord Sinclair’s horse came back without him. I simply assisted him in finding shelter, and we waited out the storm in a shepherd’s hut. It was nothing.” She wished Lady Sinclair would look elsewhere. Her steady gaze was making Quincy’s cheeks flush. The little smile at the corner of her mouth reminded her uneasily of Grandmère.

“Belittle your actions if you wish, Mr. Quincy, but I know you went above and beyond the call of duty to make my son feel better, and I appreciate it.”

Quincy choked. Lady Sinclair patted her on the arm.

The housekeeper opened the door. “The doctor has finished and would like to speak with you before he leaves, my lady.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.” With one last beaming smile at Quincy, Lady Sinclair rose, and Quincy followed. They joined the doctor in the hall.

“A week’s rest in bed should do the trick,” he said, handing Quincy a bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial. “Give him a dose of this tonic if his coughing gets worse, or laudanum if his leg bothers him. And send for me if his fever increases or does not go down in a day or two.” He bowed before Lady Sinclair and left.

“Quack,” Quincy muttered, reading the label on the tonic bottle. This would do nothing more for Sinclair than his favorite brandy would.

Sinclair was young and strong, she reminded herself. Even if he contracted the same illness Melinda had, he should recover much quicker than her sister. She gave the tonic bottle to Jill and took the tea tray from her, then knocked and entered Sinclair’s chamber. Lady Sinclair followed at her heels.

Sinclair was just settling back under the covers, being helped by Thompson and Jack. When finished, they stood on opposite sides of the bed, Jack tall and straight with his blue livery and new crutch, Thompson several inches taller than Jack but listing to one side.

Quincy poured a cup of willowbark tea and handed it to Sinclair. “I know it’s not the best-tasting, but it will help you feel better.”

He took a sip and contorted his features as though it was straight lemon juice. “You don’t seriously expect me to drink this vile concoction, this—”

“Hush, poppet, and drink up.” Lady Sinclair sat on the edge of the bed and brushed strands of hair from his eyes.

“Mama!”

“Sorry, dear.” She didn’t look the least repentant as she stood and winked at Quincy before exiting the room.

Quincy didn’t know quite what to make of Lady Sinclair. But this was no time to ponder mysteries. She ordered Thompson to go to bed before he collapsed. Then she set the twins scurrying, to request Grandmère’s chicken soup recipe for luncheon, collect sturdy linen handkerchiefs and a second chamber pot, and a dozen other things she remembered needing or wanting in the sickroom.

“Done?” she asked Sinclair a few minutes later when they were alone. He nodded meekly and held up his empty cup. “You drank it all?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Sinclair shrugged and slid down in the bed until the covers reached his chin.

“You should have another cup every two hours. I’ll remind Jill and Jack, in case you forget.”

“Where you going?” came Sinclair’s muffled, hoarse voice as she reached the door.

“Downstairs. I have a lot of work waiting for me, and you need to sleep.” If she stayed, she’d give in to the urge to sit on the bed and hold his hand. She forced herself to go.

She planned to catch up on the earl’s correspondence, then bring the account books up to date. She had done no more than break open all the seals when Harper knocked and entered the library.

“You are needed upstairs.” He cleared his throat at the alarmed expression on Quincy’s face. “I believe his lordship merely wants to give you instructions.”

She pushed aside the stack of mail and went upstairs. Yes, she answered Sinclair, she’d bring the account books up to date, and answer his correspondence. The urge to roll her eyes was stronger than the desire to hold his hand, but she resisted both.

She returned to the library, set to work, and just sanded the first letter when Sinclair sent for her again. After the third such request, with the message passed from Jack the upstairs footman, to Celia the tweeny, to Grimshaw the downstairs footman, and then to the butler, Quincy tossed her pen in the air and sighed. She wiped up the ink blots, then enlisted Harper’s aid in carrying the account books, correspondence, paper, pens, inkwell and abacus up to Sinclair’s sitting room.

“What’s going on in there?” Sinclair barked through the connecting doorway.

Harper and Jack helped her tug Sinclair’s writing desk from its place by the window to a spot against the far wall, where she could work at his desk and see through the doorway to Sinclair in bed—and where he could see her.

“In the interests of efficiency, I shall work from here for the next few days,” she announced, arranging her workspace. “Running between floors all day is Celia’s job, not mine.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Sinclair muttered.

“Yes. Now I shall go back to work, and you should go to sleep. If not for yourself, then to give
us
some rest.”

Harper gave Jack a stern glance when the footman’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but she noticed the butler’s shoulders twitched as he left the room.

An hour later, Quincy stretched and went to pour Sinclair another cup of willowbark tea. “You’ll get used to the taste after a while,” she told him, handing him the cup.

He raised one brow in disbelief, and squeezed his eyes shut as he sipped. “Open the drapes. It’s a dreary enough day without blocking out what little sun the clouds let through.”

She quickly did as he asked, her steps light with the hope his illness wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought. When she turned back, he held out his cup, upside down.

“’Tis best done quickly,” he said with a grimace.

She nodded agreement and went back to work.

Jill brought a luncheon tray at noon, laden with bread, cheese, ham, and chicken soup.

“You’re not having any soup?” Sinclair asked suspiciously.