What an Earl Wants Read online

  Sinclair nuzzled her neck and held her close until her shuddering stopped, breathing slowed, and fingers unclenched.

  Her eyes drifted open. “Oh. My.”

  He couldn’t hold back a satisfied grin. His normally un-flappable Quincy looked so…flapped. Loose-limbed and breathless, her face and other parts of her flushed from exertion as well as from his beard stubble. There was a spot or two on her neck that might prove to be a bruise, but she hadn’t objected while he made them, marking her as his. In fact, she’d held his head in place.

  Her gaze slowly focused on him, a look of wonder in her eyes. “I never knew that was possible.”

  “Only with me, Quincy,” he whispered. “No one but me.” He leaned down to claim her kiss-swollen lips.

  The room spun again, but this time it was because Quincy had rolled them over. “My turn now.” Her eyes glittered with a feral light as she swooped in for a kiss, her hand snaking down his belly, her touch leaving flames in its wake.

  He was going to die. He carded his fingers through her silky hair, holding her close while letting her hands roam across his body, before she finally closed in on the most needy part of him. His hips raised off the bed of their own accord, thrusting into her hand. Just as he thought he would explode, she let go. He sucked in deep breaths as she slid her hands between his legs, up, down, over, around, across his torso, as though cataloguing every texture and contour of his body. He stopped breathing when her hand skimmed over the scar above his right knee.

  “Hurt?” She stared into his eyes, all worry and concern, no trace of self-consciousness.

  He could only shake his head, and urge her hand to continue its exploration. He’d never experienced such craving to be touched like this before, the need to feel her, to have her feel him, so intense that his vision blurred. But there was nothing wrong with his other senses whatsodamnever. He stroked down her back, caressing the soft skin over a spine of steel.

  One question had been nagging at him, and finally pushed to the fore of his thoughts. Most of Quincy’s tender ministrations repeated what he had done to her. But not all. “You seem to know what you’re doing. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I just wondered how…”

  “Raised in the country,” she replied, her voice muffled against his neck.

  “Farm. Yes. That still doesn’t explain—”

  Quincy sat up, her hand roaming over him in lazy circles. “I was playing with a litter of kittens up in the barn loft one day when a groom came in to play with the dairy maid.”

  “You peeked.” He couldn’t help but grin.

  “She would sneak us cream for strawberries in the summer. I thought he was hurting her.”

  “So you were going to defend her? Taking care of people even at the tender age of…what?”

  “Ten.”

  He chuckled.

  “Before I could climb down the ladder, though, they became, shall we say, vocal. They were quite specific. I realized she was enjoying what he did to her. And vice versa.”

  “So you filed this knowledge away.”

  “Until today.” She bent down to kiss him, and he stopped worrying about how she knew what to do, was just damn grateful she was doing it. She trailed kisses down his jaw and throat, returning to the sensitive spot she’d discovered where his neck joined his shoulder, and bit him.

  He heard raspy moans, realized they came from himself. She reacted to his every sigh and groan, adjusting her grip, her touch, the pressure, the speed, driving him mad, seeking out other sensitive areas, torturing him with her clever hands. He wished she’d hurry up, wished this would last forever.

  She slid her hand back to his groin. She leaned over to claim his mouth in a kiss, and thrust her tongue against his at the same instant she gripped his erection.

  His hips bucked twice, three times. Then everything went black.

  Seconds or hours later, he opened his eyes. Quincy stared down at him, her worried frown easing as his vision cleared. She snuggled against his side, her arm draped across his waist. He pulled her closer, stroked her shoulder with his thumb.

  “Well. That’s never happened before.” He coughed to clear his throat.

  “Really?” Quincy gave him such a smug, self-satisfied look, probably the same way he had looked at her earlier. She moved her hand, and he felt the rapidly cooling evidence of their activity slick across his belly.

  “Of course that has happened, but not…Never mind.” He closed his eyes. Seeing the walls waver was just too disconcerting. This way he could concentrate on the woman beside him, drink in her scent, memorize every detail.

  His woman.

  His eminently practical woman, who saw the goose bumps rise on his naked body before he even realized he was cold, and left his embrace to do something about it. A moment later she rested one knee on the cot, naked herself except for her open shirt hanging off one shoulder. It was the most erotic sight he’d ever seen.

  She reached for him, a cloth in her hand. Halfway there, she paused, gave him a sidelong glance from beneath her lashes, and bit her bottom lip. He nodded, though he wasn’t certain she’d been seeking permission. She reached for him again, her hands steady now, and wiped him clean. Quintessential Quincy, never let a little detail like uncertainty or inexperience keep her from acting as though she knew perfectly well what she was doing. He felt himself stirring again. She was being quite thorough.

  Her unskilled but enthusiastic efforts were far more arousing than the most practiced courtesan, and with blinding clarity he realized why.

  He hadn’t loved any of the women he’d been with before.

  That innocuous, four-letter word made all the difference.

  He loved Quincy.

  She was a walking contradiction—a beautiful woman’s body hidden by masculine clothes; the heart of a warrior, the soul of a romantic, ruled by a pragmatic mind—and he loved every aspect, every inch.

  He snagged her wrist as she pulled back, and kissed her palm. He had to blink. Must be some dust in his eye.

  Must have dust in her eye, too, because she blinked several times, then gathered up the blanket that had been kicked to the floor in their exertions and covered him. “We should probably get back to the manor house as quickly as possible,” she said, smoothing the blanket over his chest, tucking it under his chin.

  He heard the regret in her words, and briefly panicked that she felt guilty about what they had done. But she licked her lips as she touched him, and he knew she regretted only that the moment had to end.

  “Bentley was beside himself with worry about you yesterday.” She stroked one finger down his cheek.

  He heard the rasp of his beard, and thought of letting her shave him, sitting in his lap, dressed the same as she was now. “Perhaps you should help me get warm again before I have to put on damp clothes,” he said, trailing his fingers up her bare thigh.

  She laughed and swatted his hand away. “You’ll get warm by getting up and moving around.” She retrieved her clothes and began to dress. He openly watched her don her drawers and trousers, stared at her ink-stained fingers as they did up the buttons of her shirt, remembering the feel of those fingers on his flesh. Only when she reached for her waistcoat did she look back at him, a blush stealing across her cheeks when she realized his scrutiny. “Do you intend to ride back to the manor wrapped in the blanket?”

  He groaned, swung his legs over the side, and sat up. And then gripped the edge of the cot as the floor and ceiling threatened to swap places.

  Quincy was beside him in an instant, bracing his shoulders, keeping the earth on its axis.

  “I don’t understand,” he mumbled against her. He reached up to quiet the demented carpenter hammering at the inside of his forehead, and felt cloth wrapped around his brow.

  “Don’t,” she said, lowering his hand. “You’ll dislodge the bandage.” She murmured soothing nonsense as he waited for the laws of gravity to be reinstated. “You must have hit your head harder than we thought. Perh
aps I should take Clarence alone and bring back a doctor.”

  He risked opening one eye, saw that all the parts of the hut were where they should be, and opened the other eye as well. “Do you know the way back?” He started to shake his head, but stopped himself in time. “I’ll be fine. Just pretend to be Broderick for a few minutes.”

  “Can’t do that,” she said, stepping away to gather his clothes. “Broderick would take one look at these grubby, mud-stained garments, and expire on the spot.” She held out his drawers and a smile.

  It took far longer than usual for him to dress, and required much of his body to come into contact with much of hers in the process, repeatedly, but they were soon both decent. She tied his wrinkled, muddy cravat, and he returned the favor, savoring the last few moments of intimacy. Soon they’d have to return to their public roles of lord and employee, but in the meantime he took advantage of the solitude to thoroughly kiss her.

  She pulled back, her eyes sparkling, mouth reddened. Damn, he’d forgotten about the whisker burn. “I’ll go fetch Clarence,” she said, backing away.

  No, that was wrong. He should be taking care of her. “I will—”

  “Fall on your face. You’re still wobbly. Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.” She had almost reached the door when she darted back, kissed him, then dashed outside.

  Sinclair leaned against the wall by the door and let out a sigh. Overshadowing the pleasant lassitude from this morning’s activity was an overwhelming fatigue. Felt like he’d spent the night carousing and fighting, rather than taking a simple tumble from the saddle. The dip in the stream probably hadn’t helped.

  Footsteps nearing the door had him standing straight, shoulders back, before Quincy stepped inside. He headed to the hearth. Tea was too much to hope for as he poured from the kettle into a chipped mug. He forced down a swallow of water, but it didn’t ease the parched condition of his throat. The water felt gritty. He threw the rest of it on the ashes in the hearth with a sigh of disgust. “Let’s get back to the house and have a decent breakfast, shall we?”

  “One last thing.” Quincy straightened the bedclothes and tucked the length of soiled cloth in her pocket, leaving no trace of their passing the night in the hut. She draped his arm over her shoulders and helped him limp outside.

  The horse whickered. Sinclair mounted the gray gelding and held out a hand to Quincy.

  She looked different this morning. It wasn’t just because of their intimacy, or the lack of spectacles. It was as though her clothes didn’t fit as well. The linen…?

  The bandage around his forehead, the cloth she’d used to clean him, both were from the cloth she used to bind her breasts, to look the part of Mr. Quincy. He’d have to replace it as soon as they returned to the house.

  “Sinclair?”

  Her voice brought him back to his senses. “Just admiring the view.” He gave her a wolfish grin, which she returned with a shy smile. She gripped his hand and swung up behind him, grasping his shoulder to steady herself.

  “Settled?” He reached behind him, patting her back, until she leaned against him.

  “Ready.” Her warm breath in his ear made him sit up straight. Did she torture him, test his willpower, on purpose? He contented himself with tangling their fingers together, her hands clasped at his belly.

  It took over an hour to reach the house, riding around obstacles instead of jumping them. He’d wanted to show off the rest of his property to Quincy, but he barely managed to hold the reins, never mind the strain of talking. His head felt ready to explode, and his chest ached from the effort of breathing. That must have been some fall he took yesterday.

  The only bright spot was the close contact with Quincy. Her arms around his waist, her legs pressed against his, as they’d been during their ride to Brentwood the other day. Tangled up with his, as they’d been this morning, nothing between them….

  Dear Lord, how could he go back to just an occasional hand to her shoulder after this?

  Ah, but he didn’t have to. As soon as they were married, he could touch her as often, as intimately, as he wanted. He could show her the rest of his property, give her a tour of the house. Make love to her in each of its fifteen bedchambers.

  After they were married. He wouldn’t risk “consequences” until after they were properly, formally pledged to each other. He had resisted temptation this morning, but the need to make Quincy his in the most elemental way, to bury himself inside her, might overtake his good senses next time. He had to get her back to her family, before he did something they’d both regret.

  “My lord!” Bentley exclaimed when they at last rode up to the house.

  “Hot food, hot bath, and brandy, Bentley, in whatever order you can produce them,” Sinclair said as Quincy slid off Clarence.

  “And a doctor, my lord?”

  “What? Oh.” Sinclair swiped the bandage off his head and tucked it into a pocket. “No need. Just a bump.”

  “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.”