What an Earl Wants Page 26

  But the hot water was not as soothing as usual. What could Lady Sinclair have possibly discussed with Grandmère, Lady Fitzwater, and Melinda, and had a delightful time doing it?

  Quincy stepped out of the tub before the water cooled, something she rarely did when given the luxury of a bath, and dressed in fresh clothes. Melinda had packed several changes of linen, including freshly starched cravats, but she had not included spare spectacles. Drat.

  She looked with longing at the undoubtedly soft bed, wishing for nothing more than a few hours to stretch out and test its comfort. A crash from next door recalled her to her duties.

  “Sinclair! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Quincy marched over to the earl, who was sprawled on the floor near the knocked-over bedside table.

  “Damn leg gave way,” he said, sitting up. His gravelly voice reached the upper register on the last syllable, reminding Quincy of the squire’s adolescent son. “What the devil are you grinning at?”

  “Glad to see you are feeling much more the thing,” Quincy said, pulling him to his feet. She didn’t think he’d appreciate her observation concerning his fluctuating voice, so she kept it to herself.

  The earl continued his silent brooding after climbing back into bed. She dosed him with the honey-whiskey-lemonade, saw that he ate another bowl of soup, and retreated to the sitting room to work.

  She returned only when Jill brought the tea tray at four. Sinclair refused when Quincy offered him a cup. He stared into the middle distance, slowly rubbing his right thigh with the heel of his hand. His expression was foreign, yet somehow familiar.

  Papa. Quincy abruptly sat down. Papa had often worn that same expression when his weakening condition confined him to bed, when the simple act of dressing left him exhausted.

  “Were you trying to get out of bed, or returning to it when your leg gave way?”

  Sinclair’s gaze snapped into focus on her. “Returning.” His left eyebrow raised in a silent question.

  She sipped her tea and bit into a biscuit before she spoke again. “Sometimes Papa would overexert himself. Once he helped push a cart that was stuck in the mud near our cottage, and had to spend the next two days in bed to recover his strength. He spent his last few months as an invalid. He could not take care of us as he had before.” She took another sip. “But his infirmity did not change the way we felt about him.”

  Sinclair’s hand stilled. He stared at her. After a long silence, he held his hand out for a cup of tea.

  With the earl eating more and his fever broken, Quincy thought she might be able to go home to her own bed that night. She couldn’t actually sleep in the countess’s room—that had just been a place to freshen up. Besides, she very much wanted Melinda to tell her about their chat with Lady Sinclair.

  Almost as if he sensed her intention to depart, Sinclair’s sleep became restless. It was hard enough seeing him toss and turn, but when she heard him moan, it was more than she could bear. She took Sinclair’s hand in her own. The earl quieted immediately. So long as she was near, his sleep seemed peaceful.

  The household settled in for the night. Harper grumbled about having to stay on duty so late to open the door for Lady Sinclair when she returned. He had no choice, since Grimshaw’s snoring could be heard from his resting place behind the locked cellar door, and no one had been able to rouse him or find the spare key.

  Jill was occupied helping the new maid, Carrie, determine what duties she was still able to perform. Lady Sinclair had encountered Carrie earlier that evening, just after the maid was cast out of her former employer’s home when it was discovered the recently betrothed heir had been rehearsing his wedding night with Carrie. Her baby was due in four months.

  Thompson entered without knocking, carrying a quilt under one arm. “His lordship still won’t let you leave?”

  Quincy watched him build up the fire. “You haven’t collected on your wager yet.”

  “There’s no hurry.” He draped the quilt over Quincy’s lap, leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I admire a lass with bottom.” Quincy froze. “Yours is especially fine.” He touched the tip of her nose. “No bruise. That’s good. His lordship would never forgive himself if he’d hurt you.”

  “Thompson—”

  “If you need anything in the night, Mr. Quincy, I’ll be out in the hall. The new upstairs maid has right fine ankles.” With a rakish grin, he left.

  Quincy realized her jaw was hanging open. She snapped it shut. Impending doom suddenly felt more…pending. She still had to leave, but perhaps the scandal could be avoided, after all.

  She struggled in vain to find a comfortable sleeping position in the chair, then gave in and sat up with a sigh of disgust. Sinclair’s sleep was disturbed if she left for the cot in the closet, so what might happen if she dragged the cot out into his room? She did not want to spend another night sitting up.

  But she was so tired. She didn’t have the strength to move the cot. She could ask Thompson to move it, or she could simply stretch out on the floor. No, her feet were already chilled from the draft down there.

  She didn’t dare risk sitting beside Sinclair like last night. Her luck just wouldn’t hold; someone was bound to walk in and see. She stared longingly at his bed. It was quite large. In fact, he took up less than a third of it, as he lay on his side with his knees drawn up. The foot of the bed was not used at all. She could sit down there, lean against the bedpost, and stretch out her legs. Just for a few minutes.

  Sinclair did not stir as she settled at the foot of his bed, the quilt over her lap. Ah, much better. She yawned and tried to rub the grit from her eyes. She would sit there just for a few minutes, to restore the circulation to her limbs. Just a few minutes…

  Something was different. Not wrong, but different. Sinclair lay still, listening, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light cast by the dying fire. There it was again, a shift on the bed not created by himself. “Quincy?” he whispered. The chair beside his bed was vacant. He slid out from under the covers, stood up, and looked around the room.

  There was a large lump on his bed. Peering closer, Sinclair recognized Quincy’s inert form, sprawled across the end of the mattress. He gave a soft chuckle, which turned into coughing. When he could breathe again, he picked up the blanket off the floor and draped it over Quincy. If he had started to shiver after being out of bed such a brief time, surely she must be half frozen.

  He watched her sleep for a moment. She had tirelessly stayed by his side for how many days now? When he was far from at his best. Making him drink that foul tea, bathing his brow, murmuring soothing nonsense when he was sick to death of coughing. Calming his mother’s fears. What had he done to deserve such devotion from a woman as wonderful as Quincy?

  As soon as he recovered from this blasted illness, he would have the banns read. They would be married within a month. He would be able to tuck her in properly every night—at his side. They would finish what they had begun in the shepherd’s hut, spend a lifetime exploring each other, and hide from no one.

  He pulled the blanket higher on Quincy, trailed his fingers across her cheek, kissed her forehead, then climbed back into bed.

  Lady Sinclair returned from the card party just before midnight. She seemed not at all surprised it was the butler who opened the door for her instead of the usual footman. It had been a topsy-turvy day for the servants, indeed.

  Despite her son’s protestations, she still checked on him before seeking her chambers each night. His condition was improving steadily, as Quincy had assured her it would. This late, Sinclair would certainly be asleep and never know of what he termed his mother’s coddling.

  Thompson opened the door for her, then she stepped into the darkened chamber and shut the door against the light from the hall. “Benjamin?” she called softly. There was no answer.

  Sinclair rolled onto his back and moaned. He pulled the covers closer to his chin and shifted his feet.

  Lady Sinclair moved to cover him with the blanket bun
ched at the foot of the bed, but jumped back when an arm shot out from under it. Lady Sinclair covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her surprise. She watched as Quincy flung an arm out and trapped Sinclair’s roving feet. Sinclair slid farther down in the bed, as though seeking warmth, until his feet brushed up against her midriff. Quincy wrapped one arm around his feet, over the blankets, and was still.

  Even in the dim light from the fire, there was no way to mistake the smile that curved Sinclair’s mouth.

  Lady Sinclair tiptoed from the room, a satisfied expression upon her features.

  Quincy awoke to the muted sound of voices outside in the hall. Morning sunlight leaked through the curtains. She yawned and stretched, reveling in the feel of the soft down mattress beneath her and the warm quilt covering her.

  Down mattress? Something pushed against her ribs. She peered over the top of the quilt. It wasn’t a dream—Sinclair’s feet were pressed against her ribs, through the blankets. She gave them a fond pat, in danger of becoming a caress, then slid off the foot of the bed before someone came in and saw the unorthodox sleeping arrangement. Sinclair mumbled something, rolled over onto his side, and resumed his stentorian breathing.

  He had slept through the entire night. That meant the crisis the previous night had indeed been the turning point in his illness, as she’d hoped. He would soon be well enough for her to leave. Her throat constricted, her eyes burned.

  Jill scratched on the door and entered just as Quincy finished folding her blanket.

  “Morning, Mr. Quincy,” the maid said softly, setting the breakfast tray on the table. “Have a good night?”

  “What?” Quincy stared at her with wide eyes.

  “I—I just wondered if the earl had a good night—if he’s getting better, that is.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, he’s much improved.” Quincy stepped over to the table and lifted the cover off the plate, inhaling deeply. So much improved, in fact, that last night was probably the last time she would ever sleep in the earl’s bed.

  She suddenly remembered waking up lying atop his chest in the hut. Thinking of what they had done, the pleasure they had given each other, her toes curled. How Sinclair had made her feel when he held her in his arms, cradled and protected. Cherished.

  She straightened her cravat and pushed those thoughts to the farthest reaches of her mind. Someday, years from now, she would allow herself to pull out the memory and relive it. Now it was too fresh, too painful, knowing it would never be repeated.

  Alone again, Quincy ate breakfast, then worked at her desk in the sitting room, with the door closed. She penned a few notes in Sinclair’s hand, declining more invitations for the upcoming week. Tradesmen’s bills she sorted and filed. She’d worry about the last wages owed Finlay and Matilda later. She found the name and address of Sinclair’s solicitor, and copied it onto a piece of paper she tucked into her pocket.

  Just before noon, she heard movement and voices in Sinclair’s bedchamber. If she was going to leave him, she should start getting used to not being near him. After waiting a suitable interval, and the outer door had opened and closed again, she knocked and entered. “Good morning, Sinclair.”

  He was just settling back in bed. “Few more minutes, and it will be afternoon.” He leaned against the stacked pillows, an odd little smile on his face as he tilted his head to one side and looked at her.

  His gaze was unnerving. After having been naked in each other’s arms a few days before, it wasn’t fair that he could still make her blush. “Would you prefer to have Thompson or Jack shave you after your bath?”

  He stroked the stubble darkening his cheeks and chin, that odd smile still playing about his mouth. “Are you trying to tell me in your own subtle way that I stink?”

  “Of course not.” She reached to push up her spectacles, then remembered she wasn’t wearing them. “Merely that I thought a bath might make you feel more yourself. And unless you intend to grow a beard, I thought you must wish to remove the whiskers.”

  He sat up straighter. “I would rather shave myself, thank you. I have already requested a bath be brought up.” He coughed, then squinted at her. “You’ve bruises under your eyes. Have you been here all night again?”

  “Which is why I thought I’d take the rest of today off. My cat hardly recognizes me anymore.” Sir Ambrose was the only warm male she’d be cuddling up with in the future. Might as well get started.

  Sinclair’s smile fell. He looked crestfallen, but she must be mistaken. Now that he wasn’t delirious with fever, it shouldn’t matter much to him whether she was present or not.

  “Give my compliments to your grandmother and sister.”

  Before she could reply, Jack knocked and entered, carrying the hip bath. Jill and Carrie were right behind with buckets of steaming water.

  Quincy gathered up her belongings from the adjoining suite. While she was packing the portmanteau, she heard Sinclair request Jack bring the top two folios from the stack on his desk downstairs. She covered her face with her hands. If he was asking for his folios again, he was truly on the road to recovery. Soon he wouldn’t need her at all. She sniffed and finished packing.

  Feeling the need for fresh air, she declined Elliott’s offer for a ride home in the carriage and started walking.

  Sinclair was a strong man. Within a fortnight, he would be back on his feet. Back to his exercise regimen, back to the social rounds.

  Back to selecting a wife.

  Quincy sighed and kicked a stone. Lady Sinclair was already preparing a gown for her son’s wedding, so he must have made his selection. She decided the most likely candidate would be the shy redhead, Miss Prescott. Lucky girl. The next time Sinclair fell ill, his wife would attend him in the sickroom, not Quincy.

  She should feel relief that it would be someone else’s duty to spend the night in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, deal with his surliness, demand that he drink willowbark tea.

  His wife would be the one to mop his brow, help him change into a fresh nightshirt, curl up on the bed beside him. His wife would be the one to tease and banter with him, sleep in his arms, run her fingers though the tight curls on his muscular chest and abdomen, stroke him until he groaned in ecstasy. His wife would be the one to kiss him, touch him, taste him.

  No! A wave of possessiveness slammed through Quincy. She wanted to be the one to do those things. Even when he was crotchety and coughing, she wanted to be near him. He was the man who rescued orphans and hired down-on-their-luck ex-soldiers, who saw the humorous side to a household in chaos, who put other people’s needs above his own.

  Having realized that her affection for Sinclair went far beyond fondness or friendship, there was only one thing to do. She took off her hat and banged her head against the nearest lamppost.

  Also realizing she was drawing attention from passersby, she put her hat back on and resumed walking.

  It was utterly selfish of her to feel this way, because Melinda’s needs were far more pressing than her own. Quincy needed to concentrate on her goal of buying a cottage and getting Mel out of the city, not mooning over an unattainable earl.

  But, oh, how she wished…She stopped and stared at a lamppost in stupefaction. How she wished Sinclair had selected herself as his wife.

  How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with Sinclair?

  Chapter 19

  S inclair select her for his wife? Impossible. Would never, could never happen.

  Even if, miracle of miracles, he returned her feelings, even if he lowered himself to consider the daughter of a mere baron, how could he overlook how unsuitable she’d made herself to be anyone’s wife? She sighed again and started to cross the street.

  “Watch where yer goin’, you son of a—”

  Quincy jumped back, just avoiding the wheels of a passing hackney, and landed on her rump in the mud.

  “Here now, Quincy!” a familiar voice bellowed. Quincy looked up and saw Sam the butcher in his cart, close behind the hackney. S
am handed his reins to the young woman seated beside him and climbed down. He reached out one beefy paw and yanked Quincy to her feet. “Not injured, are you, lad?”

  “Just my dignity,” she replied, retrieving her hand. She brushed at the mud, but gave up on the futile task and picked up her portmanteau.

  Sam clapped her on the shoulder, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Angie,” he said to the woman in the cart, “this here’s the smart lad I been telling you about. Mr. Quincy, this is Angie, apple of her Papa’s eye.” Angie blushed and nodded.

  Quincy bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…”

  “Missus,” Sam filled in. “Mrs. Mayhew. Going to give us a grandbabe by midsummer’s eve.” Sam’s barrel chest, already of formidable size, expanded another inch or two.

  Angie blushed again.

  “My felicitations, Mrs. Mayhew. I will have to get used to thinking of you as a grandfather, Sam,” Quincy said.

  Sam beamed. “Tell you what, Quincy, why don’t you join us for supper tonight? Make it a big celebration, what with Angie just coming home again. And bring your sister, Melinda. My oldest boy Patrick wouldn’t mind seeing her again, if’n you know what I mean.” He chuckled and nudged Quincy in the ribs, almost sending her into the street.

  “Thank you for the kind offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

  “Nothing of the sort. Come tonight and Angie will tell you all about the riots at the tin mine up at Birmingham. You can’t even read about them in the papers yet!” Sam leaned close and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “That’s why I made Angie come home, don’t you know. No telling what them miners might do, and we wouldn’t want them involving the foreman’s family, eh?”

  Riots at a mine? And not in the newspapers yet? “I’d be delighted to come, Sam, Mrs. Mayhew.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “But I’m afraid Melinda has a previous engagement.”