What an Earl Wants Read online

  Not once did the subject off ashion come up, except for Miss Pippen whispering to Miss Stanbury that her shawl’s fringe had fallen into her soup. And they included Quincy in their little group as a matter of course.

  With a start, Quincy realized she had not been involved in an all-female conversation such as this since she was fourteen. Instead of boys and deportment, they discussed how to run households and stretch budgets.

  Shortly after they retired to the drawing room, Lady Fitzwater’s two other boarders, Lieutenant Wheeler and Reverend Gladstone, joined them. After the requisite introductions, the animated discussion resumed. This was no proper social call; no one left after twenty minutes. Just a small group of friends enjoying each other’s company.

  Quincy had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of intelligent conversation with people not related to her. She reveled in the moment, refusing to worry about her past or her uncertain future. She did not worry about doing or saying something too feminine for her male counterpart. She was even growing accustomed to wearing a dress and corset-slip instead of breeches and a coat.

  This was what she wanted for her future. These ladies dealt with merchants and solicitors, and remained ladies. So would she. No more subterfuge. Mr. Quincy was banished forevermore.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Lady Fitzwater caught her eye and gave her an approving nod. Quincy smiled back.

  “I say,” Lieutenant Wheeler said, “has anyone heard what happened with the Duke and Duchess of Warwick?”

  Quincy’s heart stopped, than started again at double-time. Everyone else in the room looked at the lieutenant with mild interest.

  Wheeler answered his own question. “He packed her off to Northumberland, exiled for the Season. Apparently His Grace found a note she’d written to a paramour.”

  “How uncouth,” exclaimed Miss Pippen. “She hasn’t even produced an heir yet!”

  The other ladies expressed shock and dismay, and applauded the duke’s action.

  Reverend Gladstone shook his head slowly. “A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband, but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones,” he intoned, quoting from Proverbs.

  Quincy squeezed her eyes shut in pain. She that maketh ashamed…

  Soon the conversation drifted to more general topics, and Quincy excused herself.

  Grandmère and Melinda had returned to their quarters just before Quincy arrived, and were hanging up their shawls.

  “Did you get to the kettle before it burned?” Melinda said.

  “What kettle?” Quincy said absently, gathering paper, ink, and a pen. She sat down at the table and began to write.

  “Jo, are you sure…”

  Quincy looked up, determined not to be swayed by her grandmother’s arguments regarding Sinclair’s offer.

  Grandmère waved her hand in dismissal. “Stubborn child.”

  The first note was to Sinclair, letting him know she would call upon him tomorrow morning. Since she had never formally accepted his proposal—for that matter, he hadn’t formally proposed—she didn’t need to break anything off, but she would tell him farewell in person. She bent the tip of the quill as she signed her name and had to sharpen it before continuing.

  The second note was to Mr. Hatchett, a solicitor recommended by Sam the butcher. “He don’t mind working for us common folks,” Sam had said.

  Feeling that she’d already imposed too much on Lady Fitzwater’s servants, Quincy put on her shawl and set out to see the crossing sweeper two streets over. After paying the boy a few coins to deliver her notes, she headed for Mr. Chadburn’s office, to have him liquidate her investments. It was time to set things irrevocably in motion.

  After passing a restless night and refusing breakfast, Quincy paced in her room. At last it was time to leave. Much to her surprise, Grandmère and Melinda quietly fell into step beside her as they left the house. Grandmère leaned on her cane in her right hand. With her left, she gave Quincy’s hand a squeeze.

  “Lady Sinclair is in the drawing room,” Harper informed them a few minutes later. “I am sure my lady will be pleased to see you.” While he led the group upstairs, Quincy slipped away to the library.

  She stood with her hands over her fluttering stomach. “Like swallowing a live toad before breakfast,” she muttered, “nothing worse can happen all day.” She opened the library door.

  Sinclair stood near the wall, searching the book titles on the shelves. She stole a moment to study his profile. Strong jaw, well-formed figure, big enough to inspire confidence without being intimidating. Breathtakingly handsome. He wanted her to be his wife. He wanted to be her husband. She wanted to run into his arms and never leave. Quincy sighed. Why on earth shouldn’t she marry him?

  She that maketh ashamed…

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said, stepping into the room.

  “Good morning, Jo.” Sinclair’s voice was soft and rich, meant for her ears alone. His gaze took in every inch of her before coming to rest on her face.

  Her pulse raced. Staring back at Sinclair, she could not form a coherent sentence if her life depended on it.

  “My compliments on a well-executed plan,” Sinclair said, walking toward her, his limp pronounced. “I had not even devised a strategy yet, and I discovered yesterday that you’d already carried yours out. However did you get the note to the duke so quickly?”

  Before Quincy could answer, Sinclair closed the remaining distance between them, wrapped his arms around her waist, and claimed her lips in a mind-numbing kiss.

  Instinctively she brought her arms up around his neck, running her fingers through his silky hair, breathing in his delightful spice-and-liniment scent. She lingered in his embrace, savoring every sensation. The roughness of his chin, the softness of his lips, how his warm breath tickled her ear. She could taste as well as smell the cinnamon toast he’d had for breakfast.

  In his arms she felt safe and cherished, and the stirrings of something unfamiliar but wonderful. Happiness.

  At last Sinclair let go, his breathing ragged. “Three more weeks, my love,” he whispered, tucking back a tendril of her hair.

  That broke the spell. With trembling fingers, Quincy straightened her gown. She also reached up and adjusted Sinclair’s cravat and smoothed the lapels of his coat. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I keep telling you that we can’t…But you…Oh, blast.” She sat down, her limbs no longer able to support her weight.

  Sinclair joined her on the sofa. He took her hands in his, massaging her palms with his thumbs.

  She couldn’t do this. She had to do this, had to leave. She took a fortifying breath and stared into his warm brown eyes. “Your limp is worse.”

  Sinclair seemed as surprised by her remark as she was. “I stumbled in the dark last night. ’Tis nothing. You were trying to tell me something?” He let go to rest one hand on her knee, his fingers gently massaging.

  Quincy followed his lead, resting her hand on his thigh, just above his knee. She ran her fingers in lazy circles, caressing the strong muscles, then stopped when she realized she was perilously close to throwing him back against the sofa and kissing him until he begged for mercy.

  Mercy. There was precious little of that in Society. Needing space between her and Sinclair to get through this, she stood, twisting the strings of her reticule. “Serena may be gone, but the problem she presented is not.”

  “What makes you think that?” Sinclair tried to pull her back down beside him, but Quincy stepped farther away, putting a chair between them. She gripped the chair’s back, studying her white knuckles.

  “I was Mr. Quincy for a long time. There is a veritable army of people who knew him, many of whom know or suspect he was a sham. When I became him five years ago, I did so knowing that eventually I would be exposed. Ostracized. I resigned myself to the outcome because the benefits of what I could accomplish far outweighed the consequences. It was the only way I saw to fulfill my duty to my family. And only three of us could
be hurt.

  “But now…a lot more people could be hurt because of what I’ve done. People I care for deeply.” She forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze, his expression unreadable. She let go of the chair to rub her numb fingers.

  “I don’t think—”

  Quincy held her hand up, unwilling to risk him changing her mind. A muscle ticked beside his jaw. “You have worked so hard to be rid of the stares, to quiet the rumors. I know how much it bothered you, though you try not to let on. Hardly anyone speaks of the old scandal anymore. At last they’re letting your father and old Lord Twitchell rest in their graves. Not only has your mother come out of grieving, she even has a suitor.”

  “My mother—”

  His attempts at interrupting her were getting louder, even as her resolve weakened. “If I stay, when my past is exposed, everyone around me will be tarred with the same brush. There isn’t a war for you to join this time, even if your leg was strong. I can’t let the Sinclair family name be used for scandal fodder again. I won’t be the cause of more pain for you. And you’d only grow to resent me. Be ashamed of me.” She licked dry lips. “You can see why it’s best for everyone if I leave.”

  Sinclair stood up, towering over her. “How dare you?”

  Quincy took an involuntary step back.

  Color flooded his cheeks, even as she felt the blood drain from her own. “How dare you presume to make such a decision for me? I’m the damn Earl of Sinclair, and I will marry whomever I choose.” He raised his arm, his finger stabbing the air before her. “I chose you. How can you think I’m incapable of deciding what’s best for me, for my family?”

  “It’s what I do,” she whispered. “You said so yourself.” She held her fists at her sides, her voice getting stronger. “I’ve always made these decisions for the people around me, always had to be the one with a clear head. In time you’ll see I’m right. This is for the best.” She spun on her heel, determined to get to the door before her tears fell.

  She heard footsteps, then a crash and grunt of pain behind her. Sinclair was sprawled on the floor, the tipped-over chair beside him, his face a mask of agony. He sat up, hands clutching his right thigh. “I can’t chase after you, Quincy.”

  She squeezed until her nails bit into her palm. “I don’t want you to.” She yanked the bell pull on her way out.

  In the hall, she closed her eyes and tried to regroup. She briefly debated going in search of her grandmother and sister. No, they’d ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. She should go home and pack, get her money from Chadburn, go buy her cottage.

  Grimshaw passed her, answering the summons. She was five steps from the door when Thompson crossed the hall. He started toward her, but stopped and stared for a suspended moment. Then he clicked his heels and dropped into a deep bow.

  Quincy nodded an acknowledgment and hurried out into the street before he could see her tears.

  Once back in her room, Quincy flung herself down on her bed and let the tears flow. When Sir Ambrose nudged her with his wet nose, she rolled onto her side and wrapped her arm around his soft, furry body, holding him close against her chest.

  She hated this weakness. It was unproductive. Messy. But from past experience she knew that giving in now was the only way she could hold the tears in check during the day until she was alone in her bed at night. She rummaged through the pile of clothes on the floor, searching for a handkerchief. She found a pair of white gloves instead. Borrowed from Sinclair the night he took her to the theater, never returned. They still carried his scent, a strangely pleasant combination of liniment, bay rum, and Sinclair. She clutched the gloves in her fist, crying even harder.

  She’d felt torn apart after her father’s death, but at least she had years of happy memories to sustain her. It was the same after her mother’s death—the intense grief gradually eased until she could think of the joyful times with her lost loved ones, instead of just the painful loss.

  But she didn’t have happy years with Sinclair. She’d had only moments of joy, few and brief, snatched here and there. Could they sustain her?

  They must. They were all she’d get.

  Gradually her sobs gave way to hiccups, and Sir Ambrose began to purr. At last she sat up. Her throat ached with spent emotion. She blew her nose, then held a damp cloth over her red-rimmed eyes. It was nearly time for her appointments. Yesterday she had instructed Mr. Chadburn to liquidate her investments. Now to see what real estate Mr. Hatchett had found for her. She smoothed and folded Sinclair’s gloves, tucked one inside her reticule, and went about her business.

  Grandmère and Melinda were putting away their mending when Quincy returned home late that afternoon. “We thought you would join us in Lady Sinclair’s salon,” Grandmère chided.

  “I…had other business to attend to.”

  “One of Sinclair’s footmen asked me to give you these,” Melinda said, handing her two coins. “Said you dropped them.”

  Quincy turned them over on her palm. Perhaps Thompson was a bit of a gentleman after all. She looked up in time to watch Melinda tying her bonnet ribbons under her chin. “Where are you going?”

  Mel blushed. “Leland asked me to walk in the park with him. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Quincy waved her off. “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I have to pack, anyway. Our new solicitor, Mr. Hatchett, has already found several cottages for me to look at. I’m leaving early in the morning.”

  Melinda gave her a quick hug, then was out the door in a flurry of skirts and ribbons. Quincy watched the door close, then propped her elbows on the table.

  “You are certain this is what you want to do, miss?”

  Quincy massaged her temples. “This is what must be done.”

  Grandmère slowly nodded, looking every one of her sixty-three years.

  Sinclair sat on the floor after Quincy left, his anger with her overriding the pain in his leg, the humiliation of his fall. How could she dismiss him, dismiss their feelings? What gave her the right to make the decision for them both?

  He suffered through the embarrassment of Grimshaw calling for assistance to raise him from the floor. Still weak from his recent illness and accompanying inactivity, his leg had been taxed last night when he tripped over a bundle of laundry. His sudden movement just now, going after Quincy, had been too much.

  Thompson skidded into the room, halting beside Grimshaw. Without a word spoken aloud, the two footmen picked Sinclair up and made the awkward, agonizing trip up to Sinclair’s bedchamber. His useless leg refused to support any of his weight. Without any of the obsequious fussing he used to get from Broderick, Thompson helped Sinclair change into a dressing gown and retrieved the bottle of liniment from the bedside table.

  “I’ll do it myself,” Sinclair said, snatching the bottle.

  “Yes, my lord. Do you require anything else?”

  “No. Get out.” Sinclair flung his arm over his eyes. “Thompson?”

  The footman paused at the open door.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s been a trying day, my lord.” He left, shutting the door softly.

  Sinclair wallowed in his misery a few moments longer, then sat up and began to massage liniment into his leg. The task kept his hands busy, leaving his mind free to race.

  How could Quincy think he would ever be ashamed of her? He was damn proud of the way she had pulled her family through rough times. Proud of her ingenious strategy.

  Eventually I would be exposed… What did that signify? And if it ever happened, it would be a nine-days’ wonder at most, until the next bit of gossip came along. Being accused of killing his father’s rival was a scandal; having a female secretary was a flea bite in comparison.

  Even if your leg was strong… Sinclair stared at the spot on his thigh where Quincy had run her fingers. She had jerked her hand back when she realized she was touching his scarred leg. He ran his own fingers over the rough tissue.

  The scar had repulsed her.

 
He sat up ramrod straight. She had it backwards. She wasn’t concerned that he would become ashamed of her, but that she would become ashamed of him. Your leg is weak…She would grow to resent being leg-shackled to a cripple. He would cause her pain.

  He corked the liniment and put it away, retrieved the half-empty bottle of whiskey in its place, and poured a glass. He swallowed the contents in two gulps. Coughed.

  Yes, it was best for everyone if Quincy left now, before his emotions became involved. Before she became deeply involved in his life. Before he needed her.

  He grabbed the bottle to refill the glass but stopped, hauled back his arm, and hurled the empty glass against the stone fireplace. The glass shattered into a thousand satisfying pieces, showering the room with shards.

  He switched the bottle to his right hand, prepared to throw it, too. He stared at the golden fluid sloshing around inside. Quincy had done them both a favor. Better to back out now, while they could both walk away with their hearts and pride intact.

  Walk away. He snorted.

  He raised the bottle in a silent toast to his former almost-fiancée, and drank.

  He stayed in his bedchamber for three days.

  On the fourth morning, Sinclair limped downstairs only because Thompson, the incompetent fool, couldn’t find the last case of brandy. Harper was of no help either, continually closeted in meetings with Mrs. Hammond. Sinclair had unearthed the case in the wine cellar, instructed Thompson to bring the rest abovestairs, and was heading back to his room with a fresh bottle when his mother accosted him in the hall.

  “Benjamin,” came the command, “you will please join me in the dining room.”

  “No need to shout, Mama,” he whispered, holding his head.

  “I was not aware beards were in vogue,” she said as soon as they were seated.

  Sinclair ran his fingers over his stubble-covered chin and shrugged. “Ain’t had time to shave.”