What an Earl Wants Read online

  He chuckled. “I can imagine, after so many years of wearing shirts and cravats and coats.”

  “And waistcoats.”

  “And waistcoats.” They stopped beneath an elm, its leaves still just tiny buds reaching for the sun. Sinclair studied her again, wishing he could trace with his finger the lace edging on her bodice, dip down inside…Voices floated from the steps as other couples followed their lead to stroll in the garden. “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

  The suggestive look on her face said she wanted to kiss him just as badly. “I think the Trio would frown on that. They’ve been schooling me on ladylike behavior, and I’m fairly certain kissing in public is something in which a lady does not indulge.”

  Sinclair raised her hand to his lips. “I would never sully your reputation. I can restrain myself, let me see…three weeks. Yes, three weeks and four days. We can have the banns read starting this Sunday, then hold the ceremony at St. George’s. Or would you prefer a more intimate setting, at Brentwood Hall, perhaps?”

  Her eyes sparkled with tenuous joy. “You’re sure you still—”

  “Hallo there,” Lord Palmer said from behind them. “Sinclair, Miss…Quincy. Getting better acquainted, I see.”

  Sinclair grimaced in mock anger, then faced his friend. “Do join us, Palmer,” he said. “Miss Quincy was just telling me about Chelmsford. I must visit it some day.”

  “How quaint.” Palmer turned toward Quincy, a glint in his eye Sinclair had not seen since before Waterloo. “When do you expect your cousin Joseph to return, Miss…Quincy?”

  “I really could not say, Lord Palmer.”

  Sinclair’s gaze darted between Quincy and Palmer, a sense of dread invading his stomach.

  “Pity,” Palmer said. “He was quite intriguing, wouldn’t you say, Sinclair?”

  “You seem awfully interested in him,” Quincy interjected.

  Palmer lowered his voice. “You should know I am always interested in matters that concern my friends, Miss Quincy.”

  Sinclair draped his arm across Quincy’s shoulders and drew her close. “There is nothing to be concerned about, Palmer. Mr. Quincy is gone. He stayed only as long as he was needed.”

  “I see.” Palmer looked unconvinced.

  “Do you?” Sinclair lightly caressed Quincy’s upper arm, a gesture calculated to be reassuring and possessive.

  Palmer looked as though he wanted to say more, but held back as another couple strolled past. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sinclair. Good day, Miss Quincy.” He executed a stiff bow and walked back into the house.

  Sinclair followed his friend’s progress, then turned back to Quincy. Her head was bowed, hands covering her face. His stomach clenched. “Quincy, darling, what is it?”

  “I knew it was too good to be true.” She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and slowly shook her head.

  His throat tightened at the raw pain in her voice. “You’re not making sense.” He’d never had much luck understanding females, but he thought he’d understood Quincy.

  Her chin came up. She blinked back the tears. “What do you think you were doing?” She pointed at the terrace door, where Palmer had just stepped indoors. “You as much as told him that we—Ooh!” She swatted at his outstretched hand and stalked down the path.

  Sinclair fell into stride beside her. “I let him know Mr. Quincy was none of his concern.”

  “By letting him think that we—”

  “But we soon will be, my dearest Josephine. In three weeks, four days.” Quincy stopped in mid-stride. “And since when have you concerned yourself with what others think?” he added.

  Quincy spun to face him. Startled by her sudden movement, he stepped backward, and stumbled on an uneven section of the path. A flash of concern replaced her anguish. “Where is your walking stick?”

  “I have no need for it.” He longed to wrap his arms around her. Conscious of their surroundings, he instead traced her pearls, warm and smooth, like her skin, with one fingertip. “There is nothing to fear from Palmer. As my friend, he will keep his speculations to himself.”

  She shook her head again. “It does matter to me what other people think—about you, your mother, your friends.” Despite her feminine finery, he had never seen her look so wretched. “Don’t you see? You’ll be dragged through the gossip columns within a week. We can’t marry.”

  Her words hit harder than if she’d planted him a facer. “We…what?” Before Sinclair could hear her explanation, Lady Fitzwater stepped out onto the terrace.

  “Yoo-hoo, Miss Quincy!” she trilled. “Please come in. There are several gentlemen begging to meet you! Sinclair, you naughty boy, you can’t keep her to yourself, you know!”

  “We’re not finished, Quincy.”

  “It’s bad form to keep our hostess waiting, my lord.” Quincy made her way to the terrace. Lady Fitzwater shook her head and gave him an unmistakable “tsk, tsk.”

  Sinclair watched the door close behind them, then sat on the nearest bench, his shoulders slumped, oblivious to the chattering couples walking in the garden. What did Quincy mean, they couldn’t marry? Whyever not?

  What was the terrible thing people would gossip about if they married? That she had leg-shackled herself to a cripple? It was one thing to kiss him, but another to shackle herself to a cripple. Like Serena. He’d had a moment of panic there, thinking she was repulsed by his scarred leg. But then good sense had returned. Quincy was nothing like Serena—her demand for his walking stick stemmed from concern, not repugnance. The same concern for fellow beings that was as much a part of Quincy as her wry sense of humor and wavy auburn hair.

  While Quincy cared for everyone else, she didn’t give a fig for what people thought of her.

  He sat up. People would look down on him for marrying her. That’s what she thought?

  Nigel. Her ex-fiancé had taught her a valuable lesson, she’d said. Thanks to that cowardly bastard, she still believed she was unsuitable to be anyone’s wife.

  Sinclair pounded his fist on his knee. He was a damn earl, by God. He could marry whomever he wanted, and he wanted Quincy.

  But how to convince the stubborn girl?

  Ah, that must be at the heart of the issue. She had only been a girl, Miss Quincy, for less than one day. She did not yet see herself the way he did, as an attractive young woman.

  Time. That was it. All he had to do was give her more time as Miss Quincy, let her interact with her peers in her new role.

  Mama’s upcoming soiree would be the perfect opportunity. The invitations had gone out weeks ago, but he knew several men whose nephews and younger brothers could be added at the last moment—young bucks who would fall over each other to win the favor of a new Incomparable like Miss Quincy. Their fawning adoration would be just the ticket to boost her confidence. Allay all her fears. In less than a month she would be his wife, just as he planned.

  Sinclair strolled back indoors, whistling.

  Quincy endured yet more introductions to faceless people by Lady Fitzwater, pasting a smile on her face as she rejoined her sister. She went through the social niceties by rote, her mind reviewing the recent events.

  She had been caught up in the whirl of her transformation to Miss Quincy, with all the requisite feminine accoutrements, though she still felt like an imposter. She had been living a masquerade for so many years, she did not feel like Miss Quincy, even wearing a dress.

  But the Trio’s delight in making the change had been infectious. Her concern about expenses had been allayed by Lady Sinclair, who insisted on paying for much of her new wardrobe and accessories, explaining it was money that Quincy deserved anyway from her investments on Sinclair’s behalf. She thought Lady Sinclair’s logic was fuzzy, but went along, not wanting to be a spoilsport.

  She had even begun to believe that perhaps she got the fairy-tale ending after all—the dashing hero, well, the limping hero, wanted to take her away from all her worries and live with
her happily ever after. Her sister would be saved, and Quincy would marry the man of her dreams.

  Until Palmer had brought her crashing back to reality.

  If even Sinclair’s best friend disapproved of their alliance, what would others think?

  Sinclair’s entire household knew Mr. Quincy, and servants’ gossip spread faster than fire in a powder keg. He and his mother would be the laughingstock of the ton once word got out he’d hired a female secretary. The new scandal would dredge up talk of the old one. He’d be shunned, given the cut direct. Lady Sinclair would become a recluse again. Sinclair would grow to resent it, resent her for causing it. They had already endured enough scandal. She wouldn’t be the cause of another.

  Sinclair was a reasonable man. As soon as they could steal a moment of privacy, she would explain her reasoning to him, make sure he understood. He would agree it was for the best that they break off their friendship.

  Quincy steeled herself as Sinclair came back indoors. She entered the conversational foray, looking for an opportunity to speak with him alone. Like lancing a boil, ’twas best done quickly.

  But no boil had ever hurt this much.

  Chapter 22

  S inclair paced in his library, watching the clock’s hands drag their way toward nine. It had been three days since Lady Fitzwater’s at-home. Three agonizing, tortuous days since he’d last seen Quincy. The managing trio of his mother, Lady Fitzwater, and Lady Bradwell had conspired to keep them apart.

  Jack, his one-legged footman, had kept Sinclair apprised of Quincy’s activities. While Jill had been sewing on Quincy’s gowns, Quincy had been suffering through shopping trips for feminine fripperies, and deportment lessons taught by the Trio.

  He did not envy her, having to learn all over again to curtsy rather than bow, and all manner of ladylike behaviors. Undoing five years’ worth of habits could not be an easy task.

  Quincy’s masculine mannerisms had served her well in the past, but they had almost been her undoing at Fitzwater’s three days ago. Two bucks had been affronted when she’d jumped into their discussion of the corn laws, and one young lady was insulted by Quincy’s disregard for her millinery confection. Quincy was far more appreciative of a sturdy wool coat than a flimsy bonnet that would droop in the lightest drizzle.

  Would that change, he wondered? Would her outward transition extend to changes on a deeper level? He tried to picture a simpering Quincy, but couldn’t. No, the person who’d badgered him into keeping her employed was too strong to be affected by mere clothing. She was still his Quincy. Though he could no longer admire her legs and derrière, outlined in her trousers, the low necklines currently in vogue offered some compensation. Perhaps she’d wear trousers when they were alone. That idea held interesting possibilities.

  After they were married, they’d set the ton on its collective ear with the way he planned to carry on, spending time in each other’s company. A great amount of time in each other’s company. No separate bedchambers for the earl and his countess. After the brief taste he’d had in the shepherd’s hut, he wanted to wake up with Quincy in his arms every morning, fall asleep with her every night.

  The clock struck nine, promptly followed by the sound of the knocker, heralding the arrival of the first guests to his mother’s soiree. Ten more minutes and he could join the group gathered in the drawing room. Join Quincy. His Jo.

  And join the men he’d added to his mother’s invitation list. Far outnumbering the husband hunters Mama had initially invited, they were eminently eligible bachelors, the best Town had to offer. Not only would Quincy be fawned over by the young bucks, she could meet other gentlemen, other potential suitors, and interact with them as Miss Quincy. With their reaction, she’d soon realize they would envy him, not look down on him, for having her as his bride. She’d come to her senses, they’d have the banns read, and be wed in three weeks. Just as he planned.

  He mentally rehearsed all he wanted to say to her, to be sincere but not overeager. To bite his tongue when she conversed with other gentlemen. To not let anything slip regarding their previous relationship. As far as the ton knew, they had just met a few days ago, and not for the world would he damage her reputation. Society had forced her to play a role to survive, and he’d be damned if she’d be punished for it.

  He wiped the eager grin from his face, replacing it with a polite smile, and entered the drawing room.

  Leland had accompanied his mother and the Quincys, and sat close to Melinda on the sofa, their heads bowed in deep conversation. Other groups clustered about the room, while his footmen passed trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The new maids had taken one look at the gentry and frozen. Fortunately he could count on Thompson and Grimshaw to carry out their duties without incident, especially since, for Thompson at least, it meant the chance to peer down a few bodices.

  “Sinclair, dear boy, how good of you to join us,” Lady Fitzwater called, just audible above the hubbub from the newly arrived crowd.

  Sinclair kissed his mother’s cheek, then the air above Lady Fitzwater’s knuckles. He scanned the room while greeting the ladies, trying not to be obvious about it.

  “She’s over there,” Lady Fitzwater said in a stage whisper, nodding toward the far side of the room. She winked at him as he excused himself to join Quincy’s group.

  Quincy was surrounded. In a poor tactic, most likely to avoid attention, she’d sat in the corner farthest from the door. But how could she have thought to escape attention, dressed in a delectable light blue gown trimmed with sapphire ribbons, matching slippers, and her grandmother’s pearls caressing her throat? She had caught the attention of several young bucks who now clustered around her like the fawning subjects of a queen. Young ladies, not to be deprived of male company, had inserted themselves into the crowd of bodies. Quincy was trapped.

  Sinclair edged his way into the cluster, absently chatting with the empty-headed debutantes who should have stayed in the school room until they had absorbed knowledge of something, anything, beyond husband-hunting. He was generous and democratic in giving attention. He greeted the brazen Lady Louisa and quiet Miss Mary briefly enough that they could read no intent in his remarks, and exchanged pleasantries with shy Miss Prescott just long enough to have her look him in the eye instead of his neckcloth.

  Just as he was beginning to doubt he would ever reach Quincy’s chair, his mother came to the rescue. She seated herself at the pianoforte, adjusted her wedgewood blue skirts, and began to play for a young couple. The duet became a trio, then half a dozen more joined in. The group around Quincy broke up, to join the gathering around the pianoforte or greet newcomers. A silver-haired gentleman sat beside Mama on the bench, turning pages for her. Sinclair recognized him from the theater.

  Quincy met Sinclair halfway across the crowded room. “She seems to be enjoying herself,” she said with a nod toward the couple seated at the pianoforte.

  Grimshaw passed by, circulating a tray with glasses of champagne. Sinclair snagged two glasses and offered one to Quincy. “I’m beginning to wonder if this evening was planned for me or for her,” Sinclair said. “I don’t even know his name.”

  “Coddington, a widowed marquess with fifty thousand a year.”

  Sinclair raised one eyebrow, then lowered it. “Ah, yes. You know everything that goes on in this household.”

  Quincy shook her head. “I overheard a couple of tabbies less than five minutes ago. Lady Stanhope is quite jealous.”

  “I stand corrected.” Sinclair noticed two cubs hovering close by, silently pleading with Sinclair to introduce them. He should introduce them to Quincy. After all, the purpose of the evening was for her to interact. He held his arm out. “Care to take a turn about the room with me, Miss Quincy?” She took his proffered arm and they stepped away from the cubs. “Have you been introduced to many of the other guests?” he inquired. Have you seen how they think you’re fine as six-pence? “I believe they represent the best of those on the Marriage Mart. Both genders.�
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  Before she could reply, there was a great crash and a shrill scream as Thompson bumped into Lady Stanhope, and his tray of champagne glasses slid down her generous backside to the floor. The room fell silent except for Lady Stanhope’s gasping. Oblivious to the mess he’d made, Thompson gawked at Quincy.

  Sinclair pinned him with a stare. “Is something wrong, Thompson?”

  “It’s…But she’s…er, no, my lord. So sorry. Terribly clumsy of me.” He bent to pick up the shards of glass, stealing sideways glances at Quincy even as Grimshaw arrived with rags and a dustbin.

  Several ladies rushed forward to whisk Lady Stanhope to a private room, and the hum of conversation resumed. Sinclair started walking again, Quincy at his side, right where she belonged. It took a moment to realize she was leading him toward the French doors and the relative privacy of the balcony beyond. He missed their hours alone in the library, too. He quickened the pace.

  Outside, rain earlier in the day had washed the city, leaving behind the crisp, clean of air a spring night. The mellow tone of a lark was a counterpoint to the hum of conversation and music from the drawing room. Sinclair leaned closer to Quincy in the velvet darkness, inhaling her fresh scent, a hint of lemon. She stood before him, her hands resting on the stone railing, much of her shoulders and upper back left bare by her dress. Her shawl hung low, almost slipping from her elbows.

  Shielding her from the doorway with his own body, Sinclair gave in to temptation and reached with one finger to follow the lace edging on the top of her bodice, tracing a path from one shoulder, down and across her spine, up to her other shoulder. She stayed perfectly still for his touch, like a cat having its chin scratched. He could almost swear she purred.