What an Earl Wants Read online

  Sinclair chuckled. “Impertinent pup.”

  Chapter 9

  D inner was as bad as Sinclair feared. The food was fine, but the company was tedious. Lady Stanhope seated him between two simpering misses. No one within earshot was worth conversing with, unless he wanted to join in a discussion of fashion. He grit his teeth, his grimace mistaken for a smile by the ladies and his hosts. At least Mama appeared content, conversing with the elderly viscount seated next to her.

  How he wished he had Quincy nearby to banter with and trade barbs. Had she ever been able to attend supper parties or balls? Certainly her company would be more interesting. He tried to picture her in a gown instead of trousers. Didn’t work. Those legs shouldn’t be hidden by skirts. Trousers, pulled taut across her shapely backside, now that he could picture all too clearly.

  Finally the meal was over, the receiving line dealt with, and the dancing begun. Sinclair prowled the edge of the room, debating whose dance card to sign.

  Miss Mary Marsden, perhaps. The little brunette was being completely ignored by the fawning bucks swarming around her beautiful older sister. Lady Louisa, definitely. A stunning blonde in her first Season, she wasn’t full of herself yet.

  Miss Prescott, too. Supremely self-conscious, she nearly fainted when Sinclair approached where she sat with the chaperones. Her freckles, which matched her riot of red curls, stood out in relief on her pale cheeks when she stood before him, her wide green eyes nearly level with his own. “You—you wish to d-dance with me, my lord?”

  “I’m not too late to sign your card for a waltz, am I?” he said, raising her hand and dropping a kiss in the air just above her fingers.

  “N-not at all, my lord.” She flashed him a simple, genuine smile, the first he’d seen all night. Perhaps Quincy’s plan had merit after all.

  Sinclair scanned the room again as a Scottish reel started, reminding himself he was only committing to a few minutes of dancing, not a lifetime. Not yet, anyway.

  Town was still thin of company this early in the Season, and Lady Stanhope’s entertainment was the better for not being so crowded. He managed to sign some eligible lady’s card for every waltz of the evening, and nothing more. Quincy’s strategy was little more than common sense. Another of her many talents—pointing out the obvious that he had missed.

  Leading Lady Louisa onto the dance floor, he drew several startled glances. Twitchell had to jab his wife in the ribs before she closed her mouth in surprise. Lady Louisa seemed not to notice. She was likely still in the schoolroom last fall, and missed his ignominious return to Society when he had walked with crutches.

  He acquitted himself quite well, he thought with a touch of pride. He performed his duty during each of the waltzes, even taking his mother out on the floor once despite her laughing protests, and hovered near the gaming rooms or on the balcony in between, resting his leg. He tried to converse with his partners, he really did, but he had little patience when it came to discussing bonnet styles or the weather. At least Miss Prescott was interested in other topics, though she directed all her comments at his cravat.

  The last waltz over, he made to leave, his conscience clear just as Quincy promised. He said his farewells to his hosts and headed for the door, where Mama was already waiting. The crowd surged and swirled like ocean currents, and pushed him into a woman with a thick coil of hair as black as a raven’s wing. “Terribly sorry, my lady—” He felt the color drain from his face. “Lady Serena,” he finished.

  “Lord Sinclair, what a delightful surprise,” she said, holding on to his arm longer than necessary to steady herself. She patted one of her curls into place. “I’m the Dutchess of Warwick, now.”

  “Of course.” Sinclair stared into her deceitful blue eyes, resisting the impulse to wring her delicate neck. “How is your husband the duke?”

  “Not so well, I am afraid.” Her full lower lip protruded and she batted her kohl-rimmed lashes. “He tires easily these days, and often retires for the night at sunset. And he is such a sound sleeper, too.”

  Sinclair blinked at her blatant invitation. “Sorry to hear that. Do give His Grace my regards.”

  “I thought you had removed to the country,” Serena said, taking his arm again when he tried to move away. “I must say, you seem to have made a remarkable recovery since I saw you last.” She let her gaze travel down the length of his body and back up to his eyes.

  He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Thank you. You must excuse me. I’m late for another appointment.” He brushed her off without another word and strode for the door. Sending Mama home in the carriage, Sinclair didn’t stop walking until he reached his club.

  Lord Palmer and Sir Leland were already at his favorite table, with a young gentleman he didn’t recognize.

  “Ahoy there, Sinclair,” Palmer called. “Do join us. Have you met my wife’s nephew?”

  “Here, here,” Leland added, raising his empty glass. “You must help Alfred celebrate his birthday.”

  “Well, happy birthday, lad,” Sinclair said, sitting down.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Alfred passed the bottle to him, a glass appeared at Sinclair’s elbow, and he joined them in toasting Alfred’s new majority status. Drowning out the image of Serena’s face was a bonus.

  Quincy raised her head with a start. The candles had burned low while she dozed, her head pillowed on an account book. She heard a thump again, out in the hall. She tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. Sinclair leaned against the front door, holding his head.

  “Are you all right, my lord?” she said softly, stepping into the hall.

  He looked around and squinted at her in surprise. “Fine, fine,” he said in a stage whisper, and waved her off. He straightened and walked toward the stairs but took two steps to the side for every three steps forward.

  “Do you want me to get Harper or one of the footmen?”

  “No, don’t bother ’em. Brod’rick will—Oh.” He sat on the third stair, his chin in his hand, with such a crestfallen look Quincy wanted to laugh. Or cry.

  “Come, my lord, we can’t have one of the maids finding you here in the morning.” She tugged on his arm and he stood up.

  “Go on with you, Quincy. I can get myself to bed.” He waved her off again. The motion made him sway, and he fell backward.

  Quincy caught him with a grunt. “Oh no you don’t. If you fall and break your neck, I’m out of a job.” His lopsided grin confirmed that she’d hidden her concern with just the right tone of impertinence. She pulled one of his arms around her shoulders, wrapped her arm around his waist, and helped him maneuver up the stairs.

  She briefly wondered who was assigned front hall duty this time of night, for they should be the one allowed to help Sinclair, not her. Just then a feminine giggle reached her ears from the region of the back stairs, followed by a masculine grunt. Sinclair swayed. His body was pleasantly warm and solid against hers. Quincy gave silent thanks to the couple fooling around backstairs, wrapped her arm more firmly about Sinclair’s waist, and tried not to let on how much she was enjoying the situation.

  She left him leaning against the doorjamb in his room while she searched for a candle in the faint light from the fire. Before she could find one, she heard a crash behind her. Sinclair was holding the water pitcher, the washstand on its side, the basin in a dozen pieces on the floor.

  “Sit, before you fall and break something else,” she muttered, pushing him onto his bed.

  He clutched the ewer to his chest. “I wanna wash. Feel dirty.”

  “That’s not all you’re going to feel, come morning.” She pried off his left boot.

  “Did you know that shame—shameless little wench had the audac—gall to invite me to her bed after she called me a cripple?”

  Quincy dropped his boot with a thud. Her heart pounded. How dare someone hurt Sinclair? “Cripple?”

  Sinclair nodded vigorously. “Said so last fall after I asked her to ma-marry me. Now that I can
walk again, seems I’m not so un-unappealing compared to the dried-up old duke she ma-married.”

  Quincy closed her eyes. She wanted to gather him in her arms, cradle him to her, blot out his pain. She clenched her fists to keep from touching him. “Sounds like the shameless little wench got what she deserved.” She reached for the ewer, but Sinclair grasped it tighter.

  “Wash.”

  She sighed with mock exasperation. “All right, but I am not getting you a bath.” She found a cloth under the washstand, dipped it in the ewer, and wrung it out. Sinclair tipped his face up, eyes closed.

  Quincy’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, his handsome features relaxed and vulnerable, painted with the soft gold light cast by the fire. She shook her head. He’s your employer, you silly twit! She stroked the cloth over one elegant cheekbone, down to his strong jaw, across his chin. Before she could touch his full lower lip, he toppled backward. Water sloshed over his chest and the ewer rolled off to the side. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a moment to collect herself.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” she grumbled, setting the ewer on the floor. “Probably catch your death from a chill.” With the experience from tending her invalid father, she wrestled Sinclair out of his coat and waistcoat and untied the cravat she had tied just hours before.

  Though the actions may have been the same as when she helped her father, her reaction to Sinclair’s body was quite different. Her hands had never shaken like this, nor had her pulse been this erratic. Beneath her concern for the man and his pain lurked something deeper, stronger, more intense, than she’d ever felt before. She firmly tamped it down.

  The bed sheets were dry, but Sinclair’s shirt was not. Her hands still shook, but she undid the buttons and rolled him out of that, too. If her hands lingered over his warm bare skin, drifted over the corded muscles of his arms as she did so, who would know? She tossed the garments over a chair.

  “Sure you don’t want Brod’rick’s job?”

  She jumped. She raised her guilty gaze from his broad, naked chest to his face, his eyes still closed. “Quite sure. I much prefer account books to drunken lords.”

  He chuckled. “A hit! Tell me, Quincy, do you ever fence?”

  “Only with words. Now give me your other foot.”

  Sinclair raised his left foot.

  “Your other foot. I’ve already pulled off that boot.”

  “Stocking.”

  Quincy groaned and rested his heel against her hip while she peeled the silk stocking down his leg. Sinclair wiggled his toes, tickling her ribs. “Stop that or I’ll—I’ll—” Laughing, she stepped back and let his foot drop to the floor.

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll leave right now and make you fend for yourself, you drunken lout.” Laughter softened her words.

  “All right, you win. For now.” He sat up. “At least pull off the other boot before you desert me.”

  She gripped the boot and tugged, but nothing happened.

  “It’s easier if you turn around.” He grinned in the semi-darkness.

  “Anything to get this over with.” She turned around, stepped over his leg so his boot was between her knees, and tugged. Sinclair planted his bare foot on her backside and shoved. Quincy staggered forward several steps, nearly losing her balance. “Of all the dirty, rotten, low-down tricks…” She tossed the boot at him.

  Sinclair batted it aside, laughing. “I re-rescin—take back my offer for you to replace Brod’rick.” He suddenly frowned and held his stomach. “Ooh. I think I’m going to—”

  Quincy yanked the chamber pot out from under the bed, but it wasn’t needed. Sinclair’s stomach gave a loud growl. His befuddled expression almost made her laugh. “You’re not sick. Just hungry. But the kitchen staff are asleep, so you’ll have to wait until morning.”

  Sinclair nodded and patted the bed, searching for the washcloth. Quincy retrieved it from where she’d draped it over the ewer and held it out to him. Sinclair tilted his face up, leaving his hands in his lap.

  Quincy hesitated a moment, then wiped his face with the cloth, trying to make it seem impersonal, failing miserably. Realizing she was turning it into a caress, she moved on to wash his hands. His large, powerful hands, pliant and accommodating, his fingers tangling with hers.

  “You being nice so I’ll give you a raise in pay?” he said after several moments of quiet.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she said brusquely. She wanted to touch him without the cloth, to do much more than hold his hand. She let it fall to the covers and tossed the cloth over her shoulder. “I’m only nice to you if I think I can gain from it. Now give me your right foot.”

  He raised his right leg. “How much you want?”

  She thought of a suitably ridiculous figure. “Oh, fifty pounds a quarter would be nice.” She peeled off his stocking.

  “Done. Add it to your next pay.”

  Quincy snorted. “I hope you don’t conduct much business in this condition.” She pulled back the covers. “If you want your trousers off, you are on your own.”

  “This is…fine,” Sinclair said, scooting over and lying on his side. He tucked up his legs so Quincy could cover him with the blankets, then stretched out again. “I feel much better now. Thank…you.” His eyes closed.

  “You’re welcome, Benjamin,” she whispered.

  He snored.

  Before she could stop herself, Quincy leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on his forehead.

  The clock struck three. She didn’t have the heart to wake the coachman, and she certainly wasn’t going to walk home at this hour. Hoping Melissa and Grandmère weren’t too worried, she grabbed a blanket from Broderick’s cot and curled up on the library sofa.

  Despite his aching head the next day, Sinclair agreed to accompany his mother on morning calls. Feigning interest in the hen party conversations, he wracked his brain to put the blurry images of last night in some semblance of order. He clearly recalled that Quincy had helped him to bed, but mixed in with the memories of her barbed comments were vague images of soft curves and gentle hands touching him. And he could swear Quincy had kissed him on the forehead, just as he was falling asleep.

  Had he touched her? A horrible thought froze his hand with the teacup halfway to his mouth. Had he gone too far?

  Thinking back, he realized he always seized every opportunity to touch her—in an avuncular, man-to-man, employer-to-employee way, of course—but he’d never crossed the line to inappropriate. His entire relationship with Quincy was inappropriate, a little voice whispered. He ignored it.

  Then he remembered her derrière. At his suggestion, she’d turned around to pull his boot off, and he’d planted his foot on her backside. Just to help. Nothing unusual in that. His bare foot, on her firm, round, oh-so-feminine derrière. And he’d enjoyed it. Immensely.

  Had he done anything else improper?

  “Damn!”

  “Benjamin!”

  “Beg pardon, Mama, ladies.” After an awkward pause, the chattering in Lady Bigglesworth’s front parlor resumed. Lady Fitzwater and Sir Leland arrived moments later, and Sinclair had to set aside his speculations and participate in the conversation.

  It seemed hours before they set home again. Once there, he headed directly for the library and took up a position on the sofa. Quincy greeted him politely, then went back to work, alternating between moving balls on the abacus and scratching in the account books. Sinclair pretended to read while he covertly observed her. She paid little attention to him, with no indication she felt uncomfortable in his presence.

  Sinclair heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t disgraced himself as a gentleman last night, fortunately. Unfortunately, he’d also been too drunk to fully appreciate the opportunity. He vaguely remembered the feel, but it had been too dark to see…

  Sinclair strolled over to the desk and reached for a pencil, startling Quincy. He leaned a little closer to his secretary than absolutely necessary, and watched the blush stain her
cheeks and disappear below her collar. She turned a delightful shade of pink as she smiled uncertainly at him.

  Dazzled by her smile, he accidentally dropped the pencil, and it rolled several feet away. “Would you please get that?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Quincy scooted sideways from him before standing up, then walked over to the pencil and bent over to pick it up. Giving in to an imp of mischief, Sinclair unabashedly paid close attention as Quincy’s coattails separated, revealing her subtly rounded, distinctly feminine, backside.

  He quickly raised his gaze when she turned around. Her blush deepened even further, but she gamely held out the pencil to him. He almost forgot to take it. Sinclair opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, and returned to the sofa.

  He watched her frown as she deciphered a poorly written bill of sale, her concentration focused on her work once more. He could have sat and watched her all day if Mama had not summoned him upstairs to consult on household matters.

  Later that afternoon, Harper tapped on his bedchamber door. “Come in,” Sinclair said, eyeing the butler’s reflection in the mirror as he tied a fresh cravat.

  Harper cleared his throat. “I don’t know quite how to say this, my lord. I have the highest respect for him, I assure you, but, ah…”

  “Spit it out, man,” Sinclair said, ripping off his wrinkled cravat and reaching for another.

  “Well. It being quarter day and all, Mr. Quincy paid the staff this morning, but, ah…”

  “Yes?” The ends of his cravat dangling, Sinclair faced the butler.

  “I’m afraid he overpaid everyone,” Harper finished in a rush.

  Sinclair cocked one eyebrow. “Overpaid?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Hammond and Matilda seemed surprised when they came from the library, as well.”

  “Thank you, Harper. I’ll look into the matter.” Sinclair returned to tying his cravat, and frowned at his reflection.

  An hour later he strode into the library. “I understand that yours is a generous nature, but I wish you would have asked my permission first.”