What an Earl Wants Read online

  Hmph.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Quincy?” Miss Ogilvie whispered.

  Quincy hadn’t realized she’d made a sound. “Perfectly, Miss Ogilvie. And yourself?”

  “Yes, thank you. Very kind of you to join us. I, ah, I usually end up sitting by myself.” Miss Ogilvie blushed.

  “My, um, pleasure. Cake?” Quincy passed the plate of cakes. Miss Ogilvie took the plate, and Quincy took a sip of tea. The clock ticked. Another minute gone.

  It had been so long since Quincy had made or received a social call. Had forgotten how mind-numbingly boring they could be. How long did these things last? Grandmère or Mel would know. Over the last few years, Quincy had learned a great deal about impersonating a Mister. But as Lady Sinclair chatted with Lord Graham, Quincy realized with regret that she’d forgotten much of what she had been taught about being a Miss.

  As Sinclair glanced at her over the rim of his teacup, she reminded herself she had made peace with her self-imposed station in life a long time ago. Sinclair put down his cup and gave his attention back to Lady Cecilia.

  Odd, though, that it had never caused her a twinge like this before.

  The last time she’d sat sipping tea across from a handsome young man, there had been a different twinge. That man had been a suitor, someone she’d known since childhood, had considered a friend. Until he’d come to retract his marriage proposal.

  The polite chatter faded to the background as Quincy recalled Nigel, in his fine tailcoat, explaining how he’d realized they just wouldn’t suit. It wasn’t even her short hair or even her trousers he’d objected to so much, but her business activities. He wanted a wife who could sew and cook, and the only stock Quincy could manage came not in a cooking pot but on paper.

  Quincy shoved away the memory. She had made peace with that a long time ago, too. In fact, she should be grateful to Nigel. He’d taught her a valuable lesson, one she would never forget. In taking on a man’s role, she had made herself unsuitable to be a man’s wife. Ever.

  The fact that marriage was impossible for her was a small price to pay, she reminded herself, for being able to save her sister’s life. Quincy pasted a smile on her face and glanced at Miss Ogilvie, who smiled back. Quincy’s face began to ache.

  Lady Cecilia laughed at something her father said, and glanced from beneath her eyelashes to check Sinclair’s reaction. Sinclair bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile.

  “They make a charming couple, do you not agree?” Miss Ogilvie whispered, her nose almost in Quincy’s ear.

  Quincy mimicked Sinclair’s bared-teeth grimace. “Charming.”

  Sinclair replied to a question from Lady Cecilia, and the hussy placed her hand on the earl’s knee. He dropped his walking stick, and in leaning to reach it, slid his knee out from beneath her hand. Strategic retreat, no confrontation. Impressive.

  “May I confess something to you, Mr. Quincy?” Miss Ogilvie’s nose was almost in Quincy’s ear again, reminding her of an overgrown puppy. Without waiting for a response, Miss Ogilvie continued. “I have hopes of finding a match for myself. I cannot remain Lady Cecilia’s companion forever, perhaps not even to the end of this Season. She is quite intent on becoming betrothed. Soon.”

  Quincy had been only half listening, absorbed in trying not to stare at Sinclair’s interactions with Lady Hussy. Miss Ogilvie earned her full attention, though, when Quincy realized it was not just the companion’s full skirts that were encroaching on her half of the settee, and on her person. Miss Ogilvie had placed her hand on Quincy’s knee.

  Quincy choked on her tea.

  Sinclair glanced over. Raised his eyebrows in silent question.

  “Miss Ogilvie, I—I cannot tell you how flattered I am,” Quincy said, setting her cup down and reaching to extricate the woman’s hand. Too bad she didn’t have a walking stick of her own to drop. “But I must confess I am in no position to be anyone’s suitor.” She moved the hand, only to have it turn and grasp hers, so that, through threadbare gloves, they held hands.

  Quincy felt her cravat constrict, her cheeks flush. Sinclair was still watching.

  Miss Ogilvie squeezed her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with a little, shall we say, companionship, until circumstances change? I quite fancy you, Mr. Quincy.”

  Quincy tried to breathe, but the air kept getting stuck in her throat.

  “Do you fancy me?” Miss Ogilvie let go of Quincy’s hand, to trail her fingers up Quincy’s thigh.

  Quincy choked, again. On air. No tea required.

  “You’ll have to excuse the dear boy, Miss Ogilvie,” Sinclair said. He’d stood and crossed to their settee, proffering the plate of cakes. “He’s dreadfully shy.”

  “Oh. Thank you, my lord.” Miss Ogilvie took another cake, and Sinclair sat back down.

  As the companion bent her head to take a bite of cake, Quincy finally managed to meet Sinclair’s impassive gaze.

  He winked at her.

  Quincy smiled back, and saw amusement reflected in Sinclair’s eyes. They shared a silent moment, acknowledging the absurdity of the whole situation. She wanted to laugh out loud, especially when she realized Lord Graham was trying the same hand maneuver on Lady Sinclair.

  With a flick of her gaze she drew Sinclair’s attention to his mother. Lady Sinclair seemed to appreciate Lord Graham’s hand on her knee even less than Sinclair had enjoyed Lady Hussy’s.

  Quincy saw Sinclair’s jaw tighten. He rose, plate of cakes in hand, and thrust it in front of Lord Graham. The gentleman fell back against the cushions, hands now on his own lap. He looked up with a guilty start.

  “No th-thank you, my lord,” Lord Graham said.

  “You’re right,” Sinclair said, so softly Quincy barely heard him. “You have had enough.” He stood over Lord Graham.

  Lord Graham cleared his throat. Lady Sinclair dusted crumbs from her skirt. Quincy and Miss Ogilvie were finally in accord—neither dared breathe.

  Lady Hussy jumped up. “Papa, I am terribly sorry, but I just recalled another appointment. We wouldn’t want to disappoint, um, Aunt Meredith.”

  Sinclair stepped back.

  “Who? Oh, er, yes, Aunt Meredith.” Lord Graham stood, also brushing crumbs from his lap. “No, wouldn’t want to disappoint the old gel.” He bowed over Lady Sinclair’s hand. “Beg your forgiveness, but we must be off.”

  Lady Sinclair gave a regal nod.

  Lord Graham gave an awkward bow in Sinclair’s direction, then held out his arm for his daughter. The two headed for the door, not even looking back to see if Miss Ogilvie followed. She did, but only after a last searing glance at Quincy.

  Harper opened the door and escorted the guests from the room.

  “Mama?” Sinclair cupped her cheek.

  Quincy examined the pattern in the carpet, biting her bottom lip in debate. Should she get up and leave, too?

  Lady Sinclair held still for a moment, then grasped her son’s hand, her voice bright. “Wasn’t that a refreshing change, Benjamin?”

  Sinclair helped his mother rise from her chair. “I’ve never found encroaching mushrooms to be particularly refreshing.”

  Lady Sinclair gave a quiet chuckle. “Mr. Quincy?”

  She jumped to her feet. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Thank you for your help. It would have been rather awkward without your presence.”

  Quincy hoped the skepticism she felt wasn’t visible in her expression. “My pleasure.”

  Sinclair’s mouth tightened and he dropped his gaze, but Quincy thought he was hiding amusement.

  “I’ll let you lads get back to work then, shall I?” Lady Sinclair gave her son a final pat on the arm, and left the room.

  Quincy headed back to the library, Sinclair in step beside her. Though neither spoke, the silence did not feel awkward or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. The realization surprised her enough to make her steps falter.

  “Easy, lad,” Sinclair said, grasping her elbow to steady her.

 
Quincy stared at him in surprise, from the informal address as much as from the contact of his hand around her arm.

  Sinclair tilted his head to one side, brows raised, smiling at her. It was a genuine smile, that lit up his warm brown eyes and showed nearly perfect white teeth behind full but utterly masculine lips. A smile that made her insides melt like chocolate.

  She swallowed. Sinclair gestured for her to precede him across the hall, and the moment passed.

  “You acquitted yourself…adequately, Mr. Quincy,” Sinclair said as he sat on the sofa in the library, while Quincy settled in the big leather chair at the desk. “But your social skills…frankly, they lack polish.”

  Quincy felt her back stiffen. “You didn’t hire me for my social skills.” Indeed, there had been scant opportunity to practice social niceties, since Quincy had been engaged in efforts to keep her family fed and sheltered. When most girls her age were learning to play hostess, Quincy was learning to correspond with her father’s business associates.

  “True.” Sinclair stroked his chin. “But if my mother has her way, and she usually does, you’ll get ample opportunity to practice those rusty skills.”

  “Why would Lady Sinclair care about my polish? Or lack thereof?”

  “She doesn’t.” Sinclair grinned and opened a folio. He must have felt her steady gaze boring into him, because he finally put down the papers. “You will simply be present any time we need to even the numbers. I agreed to let Mama parade debutantes before me in a scheme to help me choose a wife, but only if she were to leave off her mourning and face the tabbies. She has apparently decided it is finally time to do so.”

  Quincy could only reply with a soft “Oh.” She picked up a penknife and began to sharpen a quill. The knife slipped as the implications of his words sunk in. She pinched the tiny wound between her teeth. “You intend to marry?”

  Sinclair looked at her sharply. Must have heard the squeak in her voice. “Of course. As the eldest son and now the Earl of Sinclair, it is part of my duty.” He absently rubbed the heel of his hand over his right thigh. “I would probably have done so last year, if not for,” he glanced at his hand, “distractions.”

  So, Lord Sinclair did not consider himself to be in love with anyone. Why should that suddenly make her feel relieved?

  “And Mr. Quincy?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “You really need to work on schooling your expression next time a young miss makes an advance toward you.”

  “Next time?” Quincy’s cheeks burned. “There won’t be a next time. Miss Ogilvie was just, ah, fast.”

  “Oh, I’m certain there will be a next time. For some reason, the ladies seem to find you…irresistible.”

  Her cheeks felt positively aflame as Sinclair chuckled, though she couldn’t help a small smile of her own. “Lady. Singular. And Miss Ogilvie is, well, she’s nearly desperate. As soon as her companion makes a match, Miss Ogilvie will be cast aside, and Lady Hu—that is, Lady Cecilia is intent on making a match quite soon.”

  Sinclair leaned forward on the sofa to see behind the desk, his gaze sweeping Quincy from head to toe, making her blush even hotter. He tapped his chin with one finger, studying her. At last he nodded. “Irresistible.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook one finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. We shall see who is proven correct at Mama’s next matchmaking tea.”

  Next?

  Chapter 5

  S inclair stepped out of Henry Angelo’s, still breathing hard from his training session. The pleasant mood from exercising was quickly fading, as his body reminded him of all his aches. Soaked with perspiration, his clothes clung to him, suffocating him. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes, mixing with the big drops of cold rain blowing sideways in the stiff spring breeze.

  Precipitation was welcome at the moment—he imagined steam rising from his shirt collar as the droplets fell—though he’d be shivering by the time he reached home. Broderick would use it as an excuse to make him drink one of those foul-tasting tisanes his valet swore by. Sinclair grimaced, adjusted his grip on his walking stick, and started down the steps to the street.

  “Sorry ’bout that last flèche, old chap,” said a voice from behind. The tone conveyed the opposite meaning.

  Sinclair waited until he reached the secure footing of the sidewalk before turning to face the speaker, the son of his father’s rival. “No apology needed, Twitchell.” He forced facial muscles into a smile instead of cracking the man over his skull with the walking stick.

  “Thought you’d be more agile by now, though I s’pose you’re lucky to be on your feet at all.” Twitchell adjusted his hat.

  Sinclair managed a stiff nod, but was spared having to reply, as Twitchell’s coach pulled up and the twit wasted no time getting in out of the rain.

  The nasty business between their fathers had ended five years ago with both men dead, but Twitchell would likely carry a grudge against the Sinclair family into his own grave.

  Sinclair had no time or energy to spare for such foolishness. He continued alone toward home, struggling with each step. He’d been increasing the length of his fencing sessions by a few minutes each week, but since hiring Miss Quincy, he’d felt even more impatient to get back to his former self. Perhaps the extra hour today had been a tad too much.

  Perhaps he should set his next goal to be free of the limp by the time he had to let her go. Was that feasible? She would only be around a fortnight longer. A month at most. He nodded. Seemed a reasonable goal.

  Thinking of the secretary, he pictured Miss Quincy poring over the ledger books at his desk, nibbling on the end of a pencil as she deciphered Johnson’s scrawl. From her perch in his big leather chair, she often crossed her ankles and swung her feet when she was deep in thought—an innocent, carefree gesture so delightfully in contrast to her usual no-nonsense attitude.

  He’d teased her once about the pencil-chewing, insinuating she must not get enough to eat. The bleak look in her eyes, though she’d quickly masked it, made him feel like an ass. Passing Mrs. Hammond in the hall that afternoon, he’d oh-so-casually mentioned that Mr. Quincy seemed to enjoy Cook’s offerings. Ever since, the housekeeper made regular appearances with food-laden trays, from scones in the morning, luncheons befitting the Queen, to afternoon tea and cakes.

  Watching Quincy eat with such enthusiasm—no missish picking at the food for her—Sinclair couldn’t help but eat heartily himself. His previous lack of appetite had been a matter of concern to everyone but himself, it seemed. Now Mrs. Hammond beamed at him when she cleared away the tray, the plates empty save for crumbs.

  He didn’t think Johnson had ever slipped a scone into his coat pocket to take home. He’d only seen Quincy do it once, but he was certain her pockets were often full of crumbs.

  Of course Sinclair had fed Johnson, too, but Johnson had taken his meals with the upper servants. Did Miss Quincy realize the uniqueness of the situation? Mrs. Hammond waited on Quincy as though she were, well, part of the family.

  His step faltered.

  Not only was Quincy most definitely not part of his family, she wouldn’t even be part of his staff for much longer. She was only going to work for him long enough to determine how much Johnson had embezzled, and get Lady Sinclair securely out of mourning and into Society. After that, Quincy would be gone. His stomach knotted.

  Though he might enjoy her company, Sinclair couldn’t have a female secretary indefinitely. He couldn’t risk the potential scandal. Thanks to Papa and the previous Lord Twitchell, Sinclair and his mother had already lived through enough scandal to last several lifetimes.

  A familiar carriage pulled up in the street, breaking Sinclair from his rumination. He hailed the driver. “Elliott?”

  “Cap’n. Mr. Harper saw the clouds and thought you might change yer mind about walking.” Thunder rumbled overhead and the skies opened up even more. Elliott calmed the horses as the groom let down the step.

  “Harper was correct. My complimen
ts on your timing, Elliott.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sinclair sank back into the cushions as the carriage rolled down the streets through the pouring rain. The ache in his leg had spread to the entire right side of his body, throbbing in counterpoint to the thunderclaps.

  Some days the protective nature of his men annoyed Sinclair, but today was not one of them. As a sergeant, Elliott had served in Sinclair’s regiment, as had half his stable staff. They took excellent care of his horses and equipage, and sometimes, himself personally. He’d lost track of the times Elliott had unexpectedly shown up when he’d tried to walk too far. “Just exercisin’ the beasts, Cap’n,” the coachman would say, leaving Sinclair at least the illusion of dignity.

  Sinclair fervently hoped that, with perseverance and some divine assistance, Elliott’s rescues would soon be unnecessary.

  By the time the carriage arrived at the town house, Sinclair was so stiff he could barely scoot forward on the bench. He cursed his weakness—he should have kept walking. He’d be cold by now, but he’d be able to move. The groom opened the door and let down the step, then dashed through the rain to hold the horses’ heads.

  Sinclair glanced out the door—no one about except a maid hurrying past on the sidewalk—grabbed his walking stick, and gingerly shifted his weight. At the same instant, thunder clapped overhead. The horses jolted forward, and the groom, watching the buxom maid instead of the horses, let go.

  Sinclair missed the step.

  He stumbled on the pavement, then caught himself on his weak right leg, a move jarring enough to make him see stars. Taxed beyond its limit, his leg promptly buckled. The first round of stars had just flickered out when another set appeared as Sinclair landed on his backside.

  The world paused to witness his humiliation.

  He heard a woman giggle. His vision cleared, and he saw the maid stopped in front of his door, laughing. His servants gaped at him. After an eternity passed, the maid held a hand to her mouth to hide her humor, ducked her head, and moved on.