What an Earl Wants (5 page)

Lady Sinclair gave a regal nod.

Lord Graham gave an awkward bow in Sinclair’s direction, then held out his arm for his daughter. The two headed for the door, not even looking back to see if Miss Ogilvie followed. She did, but only after a last searing glance at Quincy.

Harper opened the door and escorted the guests from the room.

“Mama?” Sinclair cupped her cheek.

Quincy examined the pattern in the carpet, biting her bottom lip in debate. Should she get up and leave, too?

Lady Sinclair held still for a moment, then grasped her son’s hand, her voice bright. “Wasn’t that a refreshing change, Benjamin?”

Sinclair helped his mother rise from her chair. “I’ve never found encroaching mushrooms to be particularly refreshing.”

Lady Sinclair gave a quiet chuckle. “Mr. Quincy?”

She jumped to her feet. “Yes, my lady?”

“Thank you for your help. It would have been rather awkward without your presence.”

Quincy hoped the skepticism she felt wasn’t visible in her expression. “My pleasure.”

Sinclair’s mouth tightened and he dropped his gaze, but Quincy thought he was hiding amusement.

“I’ll let you lads get back to work then, shall I?” Lady Sinclair gave her son a final pat on the arm, and left the room.

Quincy headed back to the library, Sinclair in step beside her. Though neither spoke, the silence did not feel awkward or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. The realization surprised her enough to make her steps falter.

“Easy, lad,” Sinclair said, grasping her elbow to steady her.

Quincy stared at him in surprise, from the informal address as much as from the contact of his hand around her arm.

Sinclair tilted his head to one side, brows raised, smiling at her. It was a genuine smile, that lit up his warm brown eyes and showed nearly perfect white teeth behind full but utterly masculine lips. A smile that made her insides melt like chocolate.

She swallowed. Sinclair gestured for her to precede him across the hall, and the moment passed.

“You acquitted yourself…adequately, Mr. Quincy,” Sinclair said as he sat on the sofa in the library, while Quincy settled in the big leather chair at the desk. “But your social skills…frankly, they lack polish.”

Quincy felt her back stiffen. “You didn’t hire me for my social skills.” Indeed, there had been scant opportunity to practice social niceties, since Quincy had been engaged in efforts to keep her family fed and sheltered. When most girls her age were learning to play hostess, Quincy was learning to correspond with her father’s business associates.

“True.” Sinclair stroked his chin. “But if my mother has her way, and she usually does, you’ll get ample opportunity to practice those rusty skills.”

“Why would Lady Sinclair care about my polish? Or lack thereof?”

“She doesn’t.” Sinclair grinned and opened a folio. He must have felt her steady gaze boring into him, because he finally put down the papers. “You will simply be present any time we need to even the numbers. I agreed to let Mama parade debutantes before me in a scheme to help me choose a wife, but only if she were to leave off her mourning and face the tabbies. She has apparently decided it is finally time to do so.”

Quincy could only reply with a soft “Oh.” She picked up a penknife and began to sharpen a quill. The knife slipped as the implications of his words sunk in. She pinched the tiny wound between her teeth. “You intend to marry?”

Sinclair looked at her sharply. Must have heard the squeak in her voice. “Of course. As the eldest son and now the Earl of Sinclair, it is part of my duty.” He absently rubbed the heel of his hand over his right thigh. “I would probably have done so last year, if not for,” he glanced at his hand, “distractions.”

So, Lord Sinclair did not consider himself to be in love with anyone. Why should that suddenly make her feel relieved?

“And Mr. Quincy?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“You really need to work on schooling your expression next time a young miss makes an advance toward you.”

“Next time?” Quincy’s cheeks burned. “There won’t be a next time. Miss Ogilvie was just, ah, fast.”

“Oh, I’m certain there will be a next time. For some reason, the ladies seem to find you…irresistible.”

Her cheeks felt positively aflame as Sinclair chuckled, though she couldn’t help a small smile of her own. “Lady. Singular. And Miss Ogilvie is, well, she’s nearly desperate. As soon as her companion makes a match, Miss Ogilvie will be cast aside, and Lady Hu—that is, Lady Cecilia is intent on making a match quite soon.”

Sinclair leaned forward on the sofa to see behind the desk, his gaze sweeping Quincy from head to toe, making her blush even hotter. He tapped his chin with one finger, studying her. At last he nodded. “Irresistible.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook one finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. We shall see who is proven correct at Mama’s next matchmaking tea.”

Next?

S
inclair stepped out of Henry Angelo’s, still breathing hard from his training session. The pleasant mood from exercising was quickly fading, as his body reminded him of all his aches. Soaked with perspiration, his clothes clung to him, suffocating him. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes, mixing with the big drops of cold rain blowing sideways in the stiff spring breeze.

Precipitation was welcome at the moment—he imagined steam rising from his shirt collar as the droplets fell—though he’d be shivering by the time he reached home. Broderick would use it as an excuse to make him drink one of those foul-tasting tisanes his valet swore by. Sinclair grimaced, adjusted his grip on his walking stick, and started down the steps to the street.

“Sorry ’bout that last
flèche,
old chap,” said a voice from behind. The tone conveyed the opposite meaning.

Sinclair waited until he reached the secure footing of the sidewalk before turning to face the speaker, the son of his father’s rival. “No apology needed, Twitchell.” He forced facial muscles into a smile instead of cracking the man over his skull with the walking stick.

“Thought you’d be more agile by now, though I s’pose you’re lucky to be on your feet at all.” Twitchell adjusted his hat.

Sinclair managed a stiff nod, but was spared having to reply, as Twitchell’s coach pulled up and the twit wasted no time getting in out of the rain.

The nasty business between their fathers had ended five years ago with both men dead, but Twitchell would likely carry a grudge against the Sinclair family into his own grave.

Sinclair had no time or energy to spare for such foolishness. He continued alone toward home, struggling with each step. He’d been increasing the length of his fencing sessions by a few minutes each week, but since hiring Miss Quincy, he’d felt even more impatient to get back to his former self. Perhaps the extra hour today had been a tad too much.

Perhaps he should set his next goal to be free of the limp by the time he had to let her go. Was that feasible? She would only be around a fortnight longer. A month at most. He nodded. Seemed a reasonable goal.

Thinking of the secretary, he pictured Miss Quincy poring over the ledger books at his desk, nibbling on the end of a pencil as she deciphered Johnson’s scrawl. From her perch in his big leather chair, she often crossed her ankles and swung her feet when she was deep in thought—an innocent, carefree gesture so delightfully in contrast to her usual no-nonsense attitude.

He’d teased her once about the pencil-chewing, insinuating she must not get enough to eat. The bleak look in her eyes, though she’d quickly masked it, made him feel like an ass. Passing Mrs. Hammond in the hall that afternoon, he’d oh-so-casually mentioned that Mr. Quincy seemed to enjoy Cook’s offerings. Ever since, the housekeeper made regular appearances with food-laden trays, from scones in the morning, luncheons befitting the Queen, to afternoon tea and cakes.

Watching Quincy eat with such enthusiasm—no missish picking at the food for her—Sinclair couldn’t help but eat heartily himself. His previous lack of appetite had been a matter of concern to everyone but himself, it seemed. Now Mrs. Hammond beamed at him when she cleared away the tray, the plates empty save for crumbs.

He didn’t think Johnson had ever slipped a scone into his coat pocket to take home. He’d only seen Quincy do it once, but he was certain her pockets were often full of crumbs.

Of course Sinclair had fed Johnson, too, but Johnson had taken his meals with the upper servants. Did Miss Quincy realize the uniqueness of the situation? Mrs. Hammond waited on Quincy as though she were, well, part of the family.

His step faltered.

Not only was Quincy most definitely
not
part of his family, she wouldn’t even be part of his staff for much longer. She was only going to work for him long enough to determine how much Johnson had embezzled, and get Lady Sinclair securely out of mourning and into Society. After that, Quincy would be gone. His stomach knotted.

Though he might enjoy her company, Sinclair couldn’t have a female secretary indefinitely. He couldn’t risk the potential scandal. Thanks to Papa and the previous Lord Twitchell, Sinclair and his mother had already lived through enough scandal to last several lifetimes.

A familiar carriage pulled up in the street, breaking Sinclair from his rumination. He hailed the driver. “Elliott?”

“Cap’n. Mr. Harper saw the clouds and thought you might change yer mind about walking.” Thunder rumbled overhead and the skies opened up even more. Elliott calmed the horses as the groom let down the step.

“Harper was correct. My compliments on your timing, Elliott.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sinclair sank back into the cushions as the carriage rolled down the streets through the pouring rain. The ache in his leg had spread to the entire right side of his body, throbbing in counterpoint to the thunderclaps.

Some days the protective nature of his men annoyed Sinclair, but today was not one of them. As a sergeant, Elliott had served in Sinclair’s regiment, as had half his stable staff. They took excellent care of his horses and equipage, and sometimes, himself personally. He’d lost track of the times Elliott had unexpectedly shown up when he’d tried to walk too far. “Just exercisin’ the beasts, Cap’n,” the coachman would say, leaving Sinclair at least the illusion of dignity.

Sinclair fervently hoped that, with perseverance and some divine assistance, Elliott’s rescues would soon be unnecessary.

By the time the carriage arrived at the town house, Sinclair was so stiff he could barely scoot forward on the bench. He cursed his weakness—he should have kept walking. He’d be cold by now, but he’d be able to move. The groom opened the door and let down the step, then dashed through the rain to hold the horses’ heads.

Sinclair glanced out the door—no one about except a maid hurrying past on the sidewalk—grabbed his walking stick, and gingerly shifted his weight. At the same instant, thunder clapped overhead. The horses jolted forward, and the groom, watching the buxom maid instead of the horses, let go.

Sinclair missed the step.

He stumbled on the pavement, then caught himself on his weak right leg, a move jarring enough to make him see stars. Taxed beyond its limit, his leg promptly buckled. The first round of stars had just flickered out when another set appeared as Sinclair landed on his backside.

The world paused to witness his humiliation.

He heard a woman giggle. His vision cleared, and he saw the maid stopped in front of his door, laughing. His servants gaped at him. After an eternity passed, the maid held a hand to her mouth to hide her humor, ducked her head, and moved on.

His face burned with shame. He considered, then rejected, the idea of crawling under the carriage. Feigning unconsciousness was not an option, either. He sat up straight, shoulders back, daring anyone else to laugh.

Harper opened the town house door, gasped, and gestured for more footmen to come assist. Elliott cursed, whether at the horses or the groom, Sinclair couldn’t tell. The groom at the horses’ heads became animated again, apologizing profusely as he offered assistance to his lordship.

His lordship, in the street. On his ass.

Where was lightning when it was needed? Just one bolt, and he’d never make a fool of himself again. Damn leg. Perhaps he should feel grateful for the burning in his cheeks, because it distracted from the painful throbbing in his leg. And backside.

The heat of embarrassment began to fade, swept away by the chill breeze. Time to get up. He shifted, but his legs refused to cooperate. He was stuck. That he had fallen was bad enough. With renewed shame, he now realized he was too weak to get up out of the street under his own power.

It required two footmen to raise Sinclair to his feet again. Which two, he couldn’t tell, because he couldn’t look them in the eye. Bloody hell. Hadn’t he left this damned weak-as-a-kitten stage behind months ago? Apparently not long enough, for they lifted him up with the disgusting ease of much practice.

Once Sinclair stopped swaying, Harper shooed away the footmen as he handed Sinclair his walking stick. The butler stayed two steps behind as Sinclair slowly, laboriously, limped into the town house. Not out of deference, Sinclair realized with a grimace, but to catch him.

“Would you like a tray sent to your room, my lord?”

Sinclair made it up the front steps and into the hall without further assistance. Turned and handed his hat, gloves and greatcoat to Harper without losing his balance. He loosened his cravat as he looked up at the stairs. Ten thousand steps, at least, between here and his bedchamber, and Broderick lying in wait with a tisane.

“No tray, thank you. I’m not going to my bedchamber.” He needed some place quiet in which to lick his wounds, a peaceful haven away from hovering servants and mothers. He knew the perfect spot.

Quincy looked up from her account books, surprised by Sinclair’s entrance. Usually he went straight up to his bed chamber upon returning from Henry Angelo’s.

“Don’t mind me,” Sinclair said, collapsing onto the sofa with a muffled groan. He stretched out flat, his feet hanging over the sofa arm.

Quincy pushed aside her abacus and tried to keep the worry out of her voice. “Is anything wrong?”

“Just don’t let Broderick know I’m here.” He flung one arm over his eyes and settled into a more comfortable position.

Quincy relaxed, realizing Sinclair’s odd behavior meant nothing more than avoiding being fussed over by his valet. “Rough exercise session?”

“Not with Angelo,” came the terse reply.

Quincy blinked. She waited for Sinclair to elucidate, but he remained silent. “Do you need a beefsteak, or perhaps a hot brick?”

Sinclair’s lips twitched in what might be a smile. “Thank you for your concern, Quincy, but I just need some quiet. Go back to work.”

Quincy obediently moved balls across the wires on the abacus, glancing at Sinclair from the corner of her eye. Within a few minutes his arm dropped to his side, though his eyes remained closed and his breathing was deep and steady.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Harper entered. He drew breath to speak, but before he could utter a sound, Quincy cut him off.

“His lordship asked to be left alone,” she informed him, quietly but with more force than she’d intended. If she couldn’t ease Sinclair’s discomfort, at least she could make sure his rest was undisturbed.

The butler glanced at Sinclair, nodded at Quincy, and withdrew, closing the door.

Quincy returned her attention to her work. But the numbers on the page weren’t nearly as fascinating as the figure on the sofa. She gave up the pretext of adding. Almost without volition, she soon found herself standing next to him.

She watched Sinclair sleep, transfixed by the rise and fall of his chest and the little tuft of dark hair visible at the open collar of his shirt. He’d stuffed his cravat into his waistcoat pocket, the tail of it just peeping out. The hair framing his face was still damp with perspiration, curling against his razor stubble as it dried. Wouldn’t do to let him catch a chill. She picked up the knitted throw from the wing chair. This wasn’t fussing over him, was it?

In the week she’d been working for the earl, she’d seen through his façade of toplofty lord. On Tuesday, she had listened to him complain about the dust gathering in the downstairs rooms and how long it took for someone, anyone, to answer the front door these days. The staff had functioned smoothly when his father was alive, and there had been little turnover since those days. What was the problem?

On Wednesday, they’d shared a secret smile as they’d both been forced to fend off advances during another of his mother’s matchmaking teas. They relaxed as Lady Sinclair chatted with the debutante’s mother, hardly daring to make eye contact with each other again for fear of bursting into laughter.

Thursday, she woke up breathless from a dream in which it was
her
hand upon Sinclair’s knee, and he wasn’t fending off her advance.

At work, she tried to concentrate on the books, but couldn’t help overhear Lady Sinclair’s comment about a particular Miss probably bearing beautiful sons and daughters. Nor could she miss the cool tone in Sinclair’s voice as he agreed Mama was probably correct, but he would have no part in proving her theory.

Friday, just as Quincy was leaving for the day, he came into the library for a glass of brandy before escorting his mother to a ball, which was in addition to squiring her to a card party and two soirees earlier in the week.

“Forgotten how much I detest all this social folderol,” he had said, settling in the wing chair, his legs stretched out toward the fire.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” Quincy marked her place in the ledger and closed the book. She’d never been to a ball, and unless a fairy godmother showed up, wasn’t likely to. Life had already proven hers was no fairy tale with a happy ending.

“If I went at all, I used to pop in, say hello to the hosts, then head over to my club for the rest of the evening. Much better company.”

“But your mother—”

“Yes. Mama. Now I stay the entire evening.” He took another sip of brandy, staring at the flames. “She’s got more color in her cheeks now. Hell, more color in her wardrobe.” He glanced at Quincy sideways, silently acknowledging her part in his mother’s transformation.

She nodded. “Good night, my lord.” She grabbed her gloves and hat, headed for the door.

“’Night, Quincy.” He swallowed the last of his brandy. “Thank you.”

She paused, hand on the doorknob, warmth spreading through her at his words. “Try to enjoy the ball.”

He had saluted her with the empty glass.

Quincy adjusted the knitted throw in her arms. If she was more at ease in Sinclair’s company, the reverse must be equally true. Here he was, napping on the sofa while she worked. And he no longer tried to conceal his limp in her presence. He still tried to hide it from his mother, though, and Lady Sinclair pretended not to know any different.