What an Earl Wants Page 17

  A mail coach passed them, three boys riding on top whistling and cheering as the coach left them in a cloud of dust. Not long after, the coach reached a mail stop and Sinclair whistled at the boys as they overtook the coach. They galloped for several minutes. For the first time that day, they were alone on the road, with no traffic visible in either direction. Sinclair slowed the horses down to a walk.

  “So your grandmother is Lady Bradwell,” Sinclair said without preamble.

  Quincy almost fell out of the saddle. Clarence whickered in protest as she pulled on the reins, righting herself. She’d been hoping Sinclair hadn’t paid attention yesterday. Drat the man.

  “That would make Baron Bradwell your previous employer, as well as…?”

  “Father.”

  Sinclair nudged his horse to the other side of the road, away from a muddy rut. She couldn’t read his expression.

  Quincy followed suit. How bad could this be? He already knew her biggest secret, and had kept her on anyway. He wouldn’t use this latest information as grounds to terminate her employment, would he? They were getting along so well. She hadn’t discovered the full extent of Johnson’s thievery yet, and Sinclair had promised she could stay on at least until then.

  And she was making progress on her main goal. Even with moving, they still had funds saved toward their cottage. Every day in Sinclair’s employ meant the chance to set more money aside. She had to get Mel out of the city before winter came again.

  Practical considerations aside, she liked working for Sinclair. Liked Sinclair.

  “So Baron Bradwell, the man who signed your reference, was your father.”

  They rode side by side now. She nodded.

  “A glowing reference, by the way.” Sinclair looked at her sideways.

  “He did say those things about my skills. I just wrote them down for him.” She tried to keep her tone light, but heard the defensive note creeping in.

  “After he died?”

  Quincy shrugged.

  “And his signature?”

  “I never said it was not a forgery.”

  Sinclair tilted his head to one side. “True.”

  She took his wry grin as a good sign. When he pointed out a clump of tulips blooming beside the stone wall bordering the road, she tried to relax and enjoy the ride again. She didn’t realize how far they’d traveled or how much time had passed until her stomach growled.

  Luckily Sinclair soon reined in his mare under a chestnut tree on the edge of a pasture. “Let’s see what Cook packed, shall we?” He swung one leg over and jumped down, staggering slightly on his bad leg. He tied the reins to a low branch and rummaged in one saddle bag.

  Again mimicking his actions, Quincy swung one leg over and jumped down. She bent her knees to lessen the jarring impact with the ground, but instead of straightening up, they continued to bend until she knelt in the grass. Somewhere along the road, jelly had replaced her leg muscles.

  “It’s best if you walk around a bit,” Sinclair said, his back to her. He must have heard her muffled groan as she stood up. “Perhaps we should take you to Gentleman Jackson’s after all,” he said, still not looking at her while he pulled sandwiches and a flask from his saddle bag. “Toughen you up a bit more.” He held out a sandwich, his warm brown eyes sparkling with laughter.

  “I know Grandmère would not approve of that,” she said, taking the sandwich.

  “I didn’t think she’d approve of this.” They sat on the low rock wall in the sun-dappled shade beneath the tree, shoulder to shoulder, and unwrapped their lunch.

  “She had no choice. Since she agreed that I was the one who had to inspect the books at Brentwood, she couldn’t very well not let me go and do just that.” Quincy took a bite. “Besides, I reminded her that you’re a gentleman, and I’d be safe with you.”

  Sinclair chewed and swallowed. “Of course.”

  She thought his agreement was reluctant, but she must be mistaken. Of course she was safe with Sinclair.

  While they ate, Quincy stared across the pasture at a cottage with a copse of woods behind it. The house was in dire need of fresh paint and new thatch on the roof, but it was ringed by daffodils, blue bells, and a few early tulips. A rose trellis climbed up one side.

  It looked much like the cottage they used to live in, before Papa died. Like the cottage she intended to have again, someday soon. Three women worked in the kitchen garden beside it, hoeing, pulling weeds, and from the way one wore a kerchief over her face, spreading fertilizer. Quincy never thought she’d miss getting dirt under her nails.

  “Something wrong?” Sinclair asked, handing her the flask.

  She took a swallow and gave it back. “Just thinking. I need to bring Mel back to the countryside, someplace like this. Last year I didn’t know the pollution in London would affect her so badly.” She took another bite of her sandwich. “This is the first spring we haven’t had a garden to plant. Mel and I used to be up to our elbows in dirt this time of year, like them.” She pointed at the women in the garden.

  Sinclair chuckled. “And with your grandmother directing every step, I imagine.”

  “Oh, no, she worked right beside us. She’s very particular about what she cooks, and it starts with how it’s grown. She has never trusted English shopkeepers.”

  He took a drink. “Does she distrust English secretaries?”

  Quincy chewed a little longer than necessary. “It was never a matter of trust, just…finances. Papa had some setbacks with his investments. One after another. After another.” Sinclair gestured for her to continue. “When we moved from the manor house to the cottage in Danbury, working for Papa was just another economy. Besides, I had often seen Mr. Stephens at work in Papa’s study, and there was nothing he did that I couldn’t do.”

  Sinclair turned to face her, straddling the rock wall. She swung her leg over the wall and mirrored his position. All of his attention was focused on her, as though she were the most fascinating, most important person on earth. His steady, attentive gaze was more intoxicating than wine. No wonder she was revealing too much of herself to him.

  “Josephine stayed at the manor, and Joseph moved into the cottage?” He retrieved an apple and folding knife from of his pocket.

  “Seemed the most logical way to make the change.” She was transfixed by his hands as he opened the knife, then sliced the fruit in one swift thrust.

  “And your family didn’t mind?”

  “Grandmère was furious at first, Papa was already blue-deviled, and Mel thought it high adventure.”

  “Is it an adventure?” He held out half of the apple.

  She took it, their fingers brushing. “It is now.”

  The only sound was a raven calling from the tree branches above, and the crunch of apple as they each bit into the juicy, tart fruit.

  “Why’d you leave the cottage?”

  Stupid male-biased laws. “Since Papa died with no heirs, the king’s men came and took everything away. We were all right through the spring, and in the summer we had the garden, but after the harvest was complete, we realized we wouldn’t make it through the winter with what we’d been able to set aside. London seemed to hold the most opportunity for work.”

  She might have rambled on, but Sinclair’s steady gaze had shifted to her mouth. Nonplussed, she watched, mesmerized, as he reached out and cupped her cheek in his calloused palm, so warm against her skin. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted in surprise. Her heart stuttered as he wiped a drop of apple juice from her bottom lip, then licked the drop from his thumb, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “I’m not your first, then.”

  First? A dozen images flashed through her mind, but she could form no coherent words.

  “Employer. Since your father.” He bit into his apple again. She couldn’t stop staring at his lips, his mouth, his jaw.

  He was still awaiting a reply. She gave a slight shake to her head and dragged her gaze back up to his eyes, which were crin
kled with humor at discomfiting her. “I worked for a few shopkeepers, helping with inventory, clerking, but nothing paid well enough or lasted very long. Until you.”

  She couldn’t even blame it on wine this time. How could one man get her to reveal so much of herself, in such a short time? Her role as Mr. Quincy required subterfuge and reticence, even with her own family. With Sinclair, she just melted. He breached all her defenses without a single volley fired.

  He inched closer on the rock wall, until their knees touched. Her heart sped faster when he rested one large, powerful hand atop her thigh. “You’re a resourceful woman, Miss Quincy.” His voice was rich and deep, a caress to her senses as much as his hand on her leg.

  He leaned forward, slowly enough that she could retreat if she wanted, closer until his breath mingled with hers, and brushed her lips with his. The touch was light and tender as a summer breeze, sweeping the breath from her lungs. She leaned into him, returning the kiss, tasting the apple they’d shared, tasting Sinclair, feeling enveloped by his warmth and scent and coiled strength.

  The stubble on his chin contrasted with the softness of his lips, gentle but firm. She felt his admiration and affection for her, so much conveyed with the simple touch of lips. She was awed by the wonder of it, wanted it to go on forever.

  He caressed her cheek, his fingers brushing back her hair. Her senses reeled, and she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, such a strong, broad shoulder, her other hand on his chest. A small part of her, the part not in shock at the pleasure of the kiss, was pleased to feel his heart pounding just as hard as hers. She could hear their beating hearts, feel his beneath her hand, through the layers of fabric, the heat and pounding.

  Sinclair pulled back. Quincy almost fell over at the loss of contact, but Sinclair reached a hand to steady her. She realized the pounding was the approaching mail coach. The boys on top hooted and hollered at them as the coach thundered past on the road.

  He adjusted her hat, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Another carriage approached from the opposite direction. The moment was over.

  “We should get going,” Sinclair said, standing up and dusting off his trousers. “It’s still another five hours at this pace, and we want to arrive before dark.”

  Quincy mutely nodded and tried to rise. Sinclair helped her up with a hand under her elbow, a knowing smile teasing his lips as she rose to her feet, a little shaky. Her eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t resist returning his smile. Letting his chest swell with pride at flustering her with just a kiss, well, who was she to deny him?

  They untied their horses. Quincy took a step back, preparing to jump up, but bumped into Sinclair, standing behind her.

  “Allow me.” He bent over and cupped his hands. Resting her hand on his shoulder, purely for balance, she placed her foot in his hands. Looking up at her through his lashes, he licked his lips. She shivered, but not from cold.

  With a grin, Sinclair tossed her into the saddle. A moment later she heard the creak of leather as Sinclair swung into his saddle, and they set off.

  The day continued warm and dry, the sky clear of all but a few puffy clouds. In midafternoon they stopped at the Three Soldiers Inn to water the horses and eat a hot meal. While Sinclair arranged for their horses’ care, she had a few moments to chat with the innkeeper, and asked about the inn’s name.

  Soon she and Sinclair were seated in the tap room, enjoying a hearty beef stew and crusty bread. “Did you know the head groom is blind?” she said between mouthfuls.

  Sinclair glanced up before taking a big bite, but said nothing.

  “The cook has a wooden leg. And the innkeeper’s arm isn’t broken, it’s paralyzed.”

  “Better eat up. We need to get going again.”

  Quincy ate another spoonful. “All three of them served in Belgium. That’s where they got hurt. Didn’t you serve in Belgium, too?”

  Sinclair grunted.

  “The inn was a gift to them, but they don’t know who their benefactor is. He still sends a solicitor over once a month to help them with the business. They were each down to their last shilling, but now they can take care of their families again.” Quincy gazed around the room as another group of travelers entered and were attended to by the innkeeper. “I wonder who would do such a thing, put men into business like this?”

  Sinclair drained his mug of ale. “Some great looby with more pounds than sense, no doubt.” His gaze skittered away from hers. “We need to go. Clouds are moving in. Here, pay the innkeeper and I’ll get our horses.”

  Within minutes they were on the road again. By late afternoon the clouds multiplied and filled the sky, scudding past on a quickening breeze.

  “Not to worry,” Sinclair said, following her stare at the ominous sky. “Brentwood Hall is just over that rise. Less than two miles to go.”

  A mile farther, Clarence began to limp. Quincy jumped down, holding her knees stiff so she didn’t sink to the ground. Her teeth rattled in her skull. “Which foot is it, Clarence?” she said, patting his neck. “Hoof, I mean.” He tilted his left rear hoof as though preparing to sleep. “Clever boy,” she said, squatting down to take a look.

  “What’s amiss?” Sinclair said, riding back to her and dismounting.

  “My kingdom for a nail,” she replied. Still squatting, she stared back down the road. “His shoe is back there somewhere.”

  “Blast. Well, it’s not far. We’ll just walk the rest of the way. Work some of your soreness out.” He grinned and helped pull her up again.

  Leading the horses, they had walked only a few yards when a thunderclap resounded nearby. Sinclair’s mare reared, pawing the air only inches from his shoulders. Clarence pinned his ears back, but kept all four hooves on the ground.

  Sinclair had just calmed the mare when the clouds opened up. He threw his head back and laughed. “You wanted a little adventure, didn’t you, Quincy?” he said, wiping raindrops from his eyes. He swung up into his saddle and held out his hand to her. “Hold tight to Clarence’s reins. I don’t fancy chasing after him in this downpour.”

  She took his hand, grasping his wrist as he gripped hers, and he swung her up. He let go before he nudged the mare and they set off. She nearly toppled off the horse’s backside before she reached with her free hand and grabbed on to Sinclair’s waist. Clarence didn’t need any instruction, and kept close enough to the mare that Quincy could hold his reins and still hold Sinclair with both hands.

  At first she just held on to his hips, for that is what Mr. Quincy would do. Then she realized there was no one about to witness their ride. She wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling much more secure, not to mention warm, enjoying the illicit feel of his legs resting against the inside of her thighs.

  Sinclair patted her clasped hands and threw a grin at her over his shoulder, approving her position.

  Cold rain continued to pelt down. The wind drove drops under her hat brim and down her collar, raising goose bumps in their wake. She clung even closer to Sinclair, drawing comfort from his warmth and solid bulk. All too soon he reined in before a large manor that appeared out of the mists.

  A butler opened the huge oak front door. “May I be of assistance, sir?” He squinted at them. “Good Lord, it’s you, my lord!” He stepped back and ushered them inside.

  “Have someone see to our horses, Bentley,” Sinclair said, shrugging out of his soaked coat. “This is Quincy, my new secretary. We’ll need the farrier for his gelding. How have you been, old chap?”

  “Quite fine, my lord. I am relieved to see you hale and hearty. We heard such rumors since you returned from France!” He gestured and servants came running. The hall became abuzz with bodies moving about, taking their soggy belongings.

  Quincy soon found herself standing before a roaring fire in the drawing room, a glass of brandy in her hand. Deprived of the warmth of Sinclair’s body next to hers, the fire was most welcome. Odd that she felt more chilled indoors than she had out in the wind and rain.

&
nbsp; “With any luck, this will blow through by morning, and we can inspect the property without getting soaked,” Sinclair said, standing next to her. He downed his brandy in one gulp and held his hands out to the flames. “I’m anxious to see the new seed drill I ordered last fall. There should be any number of changes since I was last here.”

  Drawn by the fire, the cold seeped from her bones and she no longer fought the urge to shiver. She set her full glass on the mantel beside his empty one. “How long has it been?”

  “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.