What an Earl Wants Page 14

  Sinclair chuckled. “I remember what you said about not wanting me to ruin the theater for you. Will this suffice, do you think?”

  “Perfect.” After the steps were let down and she stood on the sidewalk, she stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from throwing her arms around the earl. “Very practical, too. We can satisfy my curiosity about the performing arts, and look about for your wife.” Some sweet to go with the bitter.

  “Just as I planned.”

  Quincy followed Sinclair in, eyeing the throng of brightly dressed ladies with their escorts littering the lobby. A glance at the low-cut gowns that threatened to spill feminine charms gave Quincy new appreciation for her own multilayered clothing. Seeing several gentlemen wearing coats similar to hers, she realized Melissa had unerringly patterned her clothes after the ton’s more conservative styles.

  Relaxing in the knowledge that she didn’t look out of place, and confident in her masculine mannerisms and disguise, Quincy resolved to enjoy the evening to the fullest. She paid close attention to everyone Sinclair stopped to greet or who stopped him, particularly the females.

  Some were pretty, most were prettily behaved, and a few showed enough obvious wealth to cancel out any losses caused by Sinclair’s previous secretary. But none seemed quite right. None of them deserved to be Sinclair’s countess.

  Quincy almost stumbled as the enormity of that last thought struck her. How could she come to that ridiculous conclusion? Her employer had asked for her help with an important project. She couldn’t let him down.

  At last they reached Sinclair’s box.

  “Mama, I did not know you were coming tonight!”

  “Obviously.” Lady Sinclair smiled at them, not quite hiding her surprise at seeing Quincy. A silver-haired gentleman sat beside her, and two other couples filled the remaining chairs in the box.

  Quincy glanced about, realizing there was no place left to sit. They’d have to leave. She held her chin high, determined not to reveal her disappointment.

  “Sinclair, well met!” called out a voice.

  The earl turned toward the entrance. “Leland, what marvelous timing. I was just trying to figure out how to seat all of us, and now you can save me the trouble. Or do you have a box full of guests, too?”

  “Not at all, come right along. Evening, Lady Sinclair, ladies, gentlemen.” He sketched a brief bow and hurried out as the curtain lifted on the beginning of the farce on stage.

  Sinclair left without another word. Quincy glanced back at Lady Sinclair, who gave her a small, private smile. She bowed toward her and ran after Sinclair and his one-eyed friend.

  Sir Leland did have other guests, as it turned out. She exchanged greetings with Lord Palmer, and was introduced to Lord Alfred, a quiet redhead. Alfred immediately returned his attention to the stage, but Leland and Palmer both shot her sidelong glances throughout the evening, making her stomach flutter. Had she or Sinclair said or done something to give them away at lunch the other day, after all?

  The farce on stage was a farce within itself. Actors stumbled over their lines, tripped over stage props, and bumped into each other. After several tedious minutes, Quincy shifted her attention to the audience, especially those seated in the boxes across the way.

  “See anyone who catches your fancy?” Sinclair whispered in her ear.

  Gooseflesh raised all over her. “For me or for you?” she whispered back, feeling bold in the semi-darkness.

  Sinclair laughed heartily. Fortunately, so did the rest of the audience just then. “See the blond miss in pink directly across from us?”

  “The one who keeps patting her curls?”

  “Yes. She’s Lady Louisa. What do you think?”

  “Vain.”

  “Probably right. How about the brunette three boxes over to the right? That’s Miss Mary.”

  Quincy squinted. “Seated between the two giants?”

  “Her parents.”

  “Mousy. Once away from those behemoths, she will probably overcompensate. Not a good bet.”

  “That leaves Miss Prescott. Ah, there she is, two boxes over to the left.”

  “Very equitable of you, selecting a blonde, a brunette and a redhead.”

  “I thought it only appropriate. Miss Prescott has you to thank for being included on the list, by the way. A wall-flower, you know.” He paused, waiting for the crowd’s burst of laughter to die down. “Well, do you think she’ll do?”

  “Do? I can’t tell. I haven’t even met the chit yet.”

  “You were certainly quick to dismiss the other two without meeting them!”

  “That was different.”

  “Hush!” Sir Leland glared at them.

  Quincy lowered her voice, and Sinclair bent closer to her ear. “They had obvious flaws. I’ll have to meet Miss Prescott to determine hers.”

  His lips brushed her ear when he spoke. “You mean determine if she has flaws, don’t you?”

  Quincy blinked. “Yes, of course that’s what I meant.” Miss Prescott would probably make an ideal countess, as would the other two she’d dismissed so quickly. Admirable countesses, in fact. But for some other earl.

  Another woman near Miss Prescott caught Quincy’s attention. She seemed familiar, but in the poor light Quincy couldn’t place where she knew her from. “Who is the raven-haired lady in the box next to Miss Prescott? She keeps trying to catch your eye.”

  Sinclair stiffened. “Lady Serena, now Duchess of Warwick. Pay her no attention. God knows I try not to.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from touching his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “The ‘shameless little wench’?”

  Sinclair looked shocked, then relaxed. “The very same.”

  They settled back as the curtain rose on Much Ado About Nothing. The actors performed well, allowing her to enjoy the Bard’s work. Being able to share smiles with Sinclair at the funny bits made it even better.

  At the conclusion, Sinclair and Quincy parted company with the other gentlemen in the box and threaded their way through the crowd in the lobby. Still chuckling from the performance on stage, they made slow progress, and frequently halted altogether as acquaintances greeted the earl. Quincy stayed close behind him, almost grabbing his coattails as the surging crowd threatened to separate them.

  “Lord Sinclair, we meet again,” a female voice declared. Sinclair stopped so abruptly, Quincy bumped her nose against his back. He stood ramrod straight, exuding all the haughtiness of an old title.

  “Good evening, Duchess,” he said, his voice cold.

  A chance to see the shameless wench up close! The foolish woman who spurned Sinclair’s proposal.

  Rubbing her sore nose, Quincy peeked over his shoulder…and stifled a shriek. She quickly ducked her head, her heart pounding.

  Blast! Of all the cursed times to run into someone who knew her as Josephine Quincy. Since no hole opened up in the floor to swallow her, she bent her knees, the better to stay hidden behind Sinclair. The surging crowd, which had annoyed her earlier, was a godsend as the press of bodies shielded her from discovery.

  Quincy forced herself to breathe. The “shameless wench” might now be Serena, the Duchess of Warwick, but Quincy had known her as Rena, an earl’s daughter who wouldn’t deign to play with the offspring of a mere baron. A bothersome child, she had delighted in bearing tales to their elders when Quincy and neighboring boys rode the parson’s horse without permission, or picked green apples from the squire’s orchard.

  Why should it surprise her that little Rena had grown up and married an old duke, then invited an earl to her bed? Hadn’t Quincy caught Rena, at the age of five, showing her silk drawers to Tommy Simpson, age six, after he agreed to give her a shiny penny?

  As soon as the duchess was distracted by another gentleman, Sinclair plowed into the crowd and out of the theater, with Quincy in tow.

  Several silent minutes passed in the carriage. Her heartbeat had almost returned to normal when Sinclair finally spoke. “Have you found a Bath c
hair for your grandmother yet?”

  Ah, they were ignoring the encounter with the duchess. Suited Quincy just fine. Serena had already caused her enough anxiety. “Friday I found a used one that was reasonably priced. She can get around the flat just fine, and out onto the landing. She misses being able to go farther afield, though.”

  “Perhaps if you moved to a ground-floor flat?”

  If only…“I tried to find one to start with when we came to town last year, but the rents were higher. We all agreed moving now isn’t worth dipping into the money we’ve saved for our cottage. A few more weeks, and this will just be a memory.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” The earl was quiet the rest of the trip home. He stared out the window until Elliott stopped the coach in front of Quincy’s building. “I’ll arrange some way for you to meet Miss Prescott, and any others we may add to the list.”

  “Excellent.” Quincy scooted forward on the bench while the tiger opened the door and let down the steps. Her knee brushed Sinclair’s. “Thank you for a pleasant evening, my lord.” She got up, headed for the door, when the horses snorted and the carriage rocked. The sudden motion made her lose her balance. Sinclair caught her about the waist, and instead of the floor or pavement, she landed on his lap. Breath left her lungs in a rush.

  His chest was warm and solid against her back, his arms snug around her waist. “Are you injured?” His voice, warm and deep, full of concern, whispered against her ear. Stubble on his jaw grazed her cheek.

  “No,” was all she could manage. She tilted her head back, resting it on his shoulder. Enveloped in his embrace, bathed in his scent, an enticing blend of bay rum, liniment and Sinclair, his face mere inches from her own, she was just able to make out his glittering eyes in the darkness.

  Injured, no, but she’d never be the same.

  She felt him shift beneath her. His leg! She must be causing him great pain. She struggled to get up, flailing in a tangle of their arms and legs before finding her balance again, his hands on her hips to help lift her to her feet, and she scrambled out of the coach to the pavement. She straightened her coat and pushed up her spectacles. The whole incident had lasted only a few seconds, but would be imprinted on her mind forever. “Thank you again, Sinclair. My first trip to the theater was quite memorable.”

  Sinclair waved. “Go on with you.”

  She waved and went up the stairs, preparing herself for a rash of questions about the evening from Mel and Grandmère, treasuring the feeling of being held in Sinclair’s arms, however unintentional the circumstances. Knowing it would never be repeated, regretting that’s the way it had to be. She had to be satisfied with the little bits of joy that came her way, because that’s all she would get.

  The carriage rocked into motion. Sinclair banged his head against the cushion. Twice. How could he be so stupid? Hadn’t he any control over rude male instincts that made him haul Quincy onto his lap?

  Tonight could have been a disaster in so many ways, so many times. It was probably a mistake to have taken her to the theater, though he’d meant well. After their private dinner, even running into Serena couldn’t erase all the fun from the evening. Though if he ever got his hands on Nigel, the cowardly bastard wouldn’t be long for this world.

  Sinclair had set out to give Quincy a taste of freedom, to give her a chance to lessen the weight of responsibilities she carried like a cloak, if only for a short time. Instead, she had made him feel differently—younger, more alive. Lighter in spirit than he had felt since before buying his commission five years ago, certainly better than he had felt since a French soldier sliced open his thigh with a bayonet near a tiny village called Waterloo.

  He enjoyed their time together—seeing the outrageous dandy costumes through Quincy’s unjaded eyes, bantering with her in the dark of the theater. He arranged his schedule so they spent more time in each other’s company than he ever had with Johnson or Broderick. In fact, the only other person he had ever spent this much time with, at least willingly, was Tony. His younger brother, now in his second year at Oxford, wasn’t due home for a visit for several weeks yet, at the end of Hilary Term.

  This was ridiculous. How could he want to spend so much time with his secretary? While Quincy was unquestionably of gentle birth, they were far from social equals. Not to mention the niggling detail of her masculine charade. No wonder his mother and friends had looked shocked this evening. How could he explain? He knew of several matrons known for their eccentric habit of taking their pugs everywhere with them. Instead of a pet pug, he dragged along his secretary?

  He might pawn off his behavior to others as eccentricity or a simple affectation, but not to himself. Being near Quincy was pleasant, but touching her in public, even in the most casual manner, could bring disaster. He delighted in the freedom of clapping her on the shoulder, and other incidental contacts which would never be allowed if she were dressed as Miss Quincy. But in the box, he had been shocked by the temptation to kiss her cheek when he’d whispered in her ear. The temptation to kiss her after dinner, and when she’d sat on his lap…

  If anyone discovered their deception, the world would come crashing down around their ears. And if anyone caught him kissing “Mister” Quincy, well…He’d just have to see to it that didn’t happen. No more touching.

  He thought back to the moment in Leland’s box at the theater, and he shivered just as he had when Quincy touched his arm in sympathy. She understood his pain and mortification at Serena’s hands, and it had nearly undone him.

  One night last winter, he and Leland had consumed so much brandy they passed beyond the realm of maudlin into another territory. They cried in each other’s arms—Leland mourning the loss of his left eye, Sinclair afraid he might never again walk without the aid of crutches. After the worst hangover of their lives, they had never mentioned the incident again.

  Since that one moment of weakness, he had not felt the desire to seek comfort from another human—until tonight.

  Until Quincy.

  Sinclair frowned. Bad enough his lips had brushed her ear whispering to her in the darkness of the theater. He’d almost crossed the line, when she literally fell into his lap. If she had turned her head just a little farther, brought that luscious mouth of hers just a fraction of an inch closer…Granted, he had saved Quincy from a tumble to the floor, so she hadn’t suspected him of any dastardly intentions. Until an armful, not to mention lapful, of Quincy had started to have an effect on other parts of his anatomy. Then she couldn’t get away from him fast enough, and he, base creature that he was, couldn’t resist assisting her up if it meant the chance to cup her derrière with his hands.

  He slammed his fist against his knee. He was supposed to be finding a wife, not fondling his secretary.

  This would never do. If Quincy thought she was in any danger from him, stubborn as she was, she would quit, regardless of the hardship it would cause her family. He couldn’t risk that. He had to see that her family was well-cared for. Had to keep Quincy close.

  Besides, another employer would certainly discover her secret just as he had, and the next gentleman might forget he was a gentleman. Especially if Quincy bent over to retrieve a pencil. Or fell into his lap.

  No, she was much safer right where she was. Close to him.

  “We should visit your estate at Brentwood as soon as possible,” Quincy informed him the next morning when Sinclair joined her in the library.

  At the thought of being alone with Quincy in the country, his pulse leaped. He imagined the two of them settling in front of the fire for a quiet game of chess, taking their meals alone, feeding her bites of apple puff…just the two of them. After a full day of showing her around his estate, he would teach her to play billiards, wrapping his arms around her to show her how to hold the cue stick just so. Or they could read aloud to each other, side by side on the sofa, so he could hear the breathless quality her voice took on whenever he was near. When they would say good night, she’d be just down the hall from him
, instead of across town.

  Just the two of them. Alone.

  He settled into his leather chair and propped his feet on the desk, carefully schooling his expression before peering at Quincy over the toes of his boots. “Why is that?”

  She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. “There’s an excellent chance Johnson did similar tricks with the books at Brentwood. Showing debits for paying people he didn’t actually hire, that sort of thing.”

  Sinclair crossed his ankles. “Agreed. What are my social commitments for the next few days? Anything to keep me from traveling while this fine weather holds?”

  Before Quincy could reply, Harper tapped on the door. “Lord Palmer and Sir Le—”

  “Sinclair old chap, so good to see you again,” Palmer announced, stepping around the butler. Leland shot Harper an apologetic glance as he entered the library.

  “You too, Palmer, but it’s only been a few hours since you last clapped eyes on me.” Sinclair nodded agreement when Harper gestured for a tea tray.

  “Hope we’re not disturbing anything,” Leland said, settling in the wingback chair.

  “I’ll come back in a little while, my lord,” Quincy said, edging toward the door.

  “Stay,” Sinclair said, waving her back into the room. “We won’t be long. You and I need to finish looking over those accounts. Do you have them ready yet?” Quincy shook her head and returned to her desk.

  “I told you we should not have come so early,” Leland said to Palmer.

  “Not at all,” Sinclair said, joining them by the fireplace. “Paperwork is like swallowing a live toad. Get it over with first thing in the morning, and nothing worse can happen all day. I assure you, I do not mind the interruption. Now then, what brings you two here?”