What an Earl Wants Page 6

  His face burned with shame. He considered, then rejected, the idea of crawling under the carriage. Feigning unconsciousness was not an option, either. He sat up straight, shoulders back, daring anyone else to laugh.

  Harper opened the town house door, gasped, and gestured for more footmen to come assist. Elliott cursed, whether at the horses or the groom, Sinclair couldn’t tell. The groom at the horses’ heads became animated again, apologizing profusely as he offered assistance to his lordship.

  His lordship, in the street. On his ass.

  Where was lightning when it was needed? Just one bolt, and he’d never make a fool of himself again. Damn leg. Perhaps he should feel grateful for the burning in his cheeks, because it distracted from the painful throbbing in his leg. And backside.

  The heat of embarrassment began to fade, swept away by the chill breeze. Time to get up. He shifted, but his legs refused to cooperate. He was stuck. That he had fallen was bad enough. With renewed shame, he now realized he was too weak to get up out of the street under his own power.

  It required two footmen to raise Sinclair to his feet again. Which two, he couldn’t tell, because he couldn’t look them in the eye. Bloody hell. Hadn’t he left this damned weak-as-a-kitten stage behind months ago? Apparently not long enough, for they lifted him up with the disgusting ease of much practice.

  Once Sinclair stopped swaying, Harper shooed away the footmen as he handed Sinclair his walking stick. The butler stayed two steps behind as Sinclair slowly, laboriously, limped into the town house. Not out of deference, Sinclair realized with a grimace, but to catch him.

  “Would you like a tray sent to your room, my lord?”

  Sinclair made it up the front steps and into the hall without further assistance. Turned and handed his hat, gloves and greatcoat to Harper without losing his balance. He loosened his cravat as he looked up at the stairs. Ten thousand steps, at least, between here and his bedchamber, and Broderick lying in wait with a tisane.

  “No tray, thank you. I’m not going to my bedchamber.” He needed some place quiet in which to lick his wounds, a peaceful haven away from hovering servants and mothers. He knew the perfect spot.

  Quincy looked up from her account books, surprised by Sinclair’s entrance. Usually he went straight up to his bed chamber upon returning from Henry Angelo’s.

  “Don’t mind me,” Sinclair said, collapsing onto the sofa with a muffled groan. He stretched out flat, his feet hanging over the sofa arm.

  Quincy pushed aside her abacus and tried to keep the worry out of her voice. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Just don’t let Broderick know I’m here.” He flung one arm over his eyes and settled into a more comfortable position.

  Quincy relaxed, realizing Sinclair’s odd behavior meant nothing more than avoiding being fussed over by his valet. “Rough exercise session?”

  “Not with Angelo,” came the terse reply.

  Quincy blinked. She waited for Sinclair to elucidate, but he remained silent. “Do you need a beefsteak, or perhaps a hot brick?”

  Sinclair’s lips twitched in what might be a smile. “Thank you for your concern, Quincy, but I just need some quiet. Go back to work.”

  Quincy obediently moved balls across the wires on the abacus, glancing at Sinclair from the corner of her eye. Within a few minutes his arm dropped to his side, though his eyes remained closed and his breathing was deep and steady.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and Harper entered. He drew breath to speak, but before he could utter a sound, Quincy cut him off.

  “His lordship asked to be left alone,” she informed him, quietly but with more force than she’d intended. If she couldn’t ease Sinclair’s discomfort, at least she could make sure his rest was undisturbed.

  The butler glanced at Sinclair, nodded at Quincy, and withdrew, closing the door.

  Quincy returned her attention to her work. But the numbers on the page weren’t nearly as fascinating as the figure on the sofa. She gave up the pretext of adding. Almost without volition, she soon found herself standing next to him.

  She watched Sinclair sleep, transfixed by the rise and fall of his chest and the little tuft of dark hair visible at the open collar of his shirt. He’d stuffed his cravat into his waistcoat pocket, the tail of it just peeping out. The hair framing his face was still damp with perspiration, curling against his razor stubble as it dried. Wouldn’t do to let him catch a chill. She picked up the knitted throw from the wing chair. This wasn’t fussing over him, was it?

  In the week she’d been working for the earl, she’d seen through his façade of toplofty lord. On Tuesday, she had listened to him complain about the dust gathering in the downstairs rooms and how long it took for someone, anyone, to answer the front door these days. The staff had functioned smoothly when his father was alive, and there had been little turnover since those days. What was the problem?

  On Wednesday, they’d shared a secret smile as they’d both been forced to fend off advances during another of his mother’s matchmaking teas. They relaxed as Lady Sinclair chatted with the debutante’s mother, hardly daring to make eye contact with each other again for fear of bursting into laughter.

  Thursday, she woke up breathless from a dream in which it was her hand upon Sinclair’s knee, and he wasn’t fending off her advance.

  At work, she tried to concentrate on the books, but couldn’t help overhear Lady Sinclair’s comment about a particular Miss probably bearing beautiful sons and daughters. Nor could she miss the cool tone in Sinclair’s voice as he agreed Mama was probably correct, but he would have no part in proving her theory.

  Friday, just as Quincy was leaving for the day, he came into the library for a glass of brandy before escorting his mother to a ball, which was in addition to squiring her to a card party and two soirees earlier in the week.

  “Forgotten how much I detest all this social folderol,” he had said, settling in the wing chair, his legs stretched out toward the fire.

  “It’s not so bad, is it?” Quincy marked her place in the ledger and closed the book. She’d never been to a ball, and unless a fairy godmother showed up, wasn’t likely to. Life had already proven hers was no fairy tale with a happy ending.

  “If I went at all, I used to pop in, say hello to the hosts, then head over to my club for the rest of the evening. Much better company.”

  “But your mother—”

  “Yes. Mama. Now I stay the entire evening.” He took another sip of brandy, staring at the flames. “She’s got more color in her cheeks now. Hell, more color in her wardrobe.” He glanced at Quincy sideways, silently acknowledging her part in his mother’s transformation.

  She nodded. “Good night, my lord.” She grabbed her gloves and hat, headed for the door.

  “’Night, Quincy.” He swallowed the last of his brandy. “Thank you.”

  She paused, hand on the doorknob, warmth spreading through her at his words. “Try to enjoy the ball.”

  He had saluted her with the empty glass.

  Quincy adjusted the knitted throw in her arms. If she was more at ease in Sinclair’s company, the reverse must be equally true. Here he was, napping on the sofa while she worked. And he no longer tried to conceal his limp in her presence. He still tried to hide it from his mother, though, and Lady Sinclair pretended not to know any different.

  Most telling was the fact that, more often than not, he forgot to address her as Mister. Quincy chose to take that as a sign that he would also forget about her employment being only temporary. Things were definitely moving in the right direction. She could never marry, but she could earn the money needed to save her sister’s life.

  Lady Sinclair expected her son to marry, and would accept any eligible woman of childbearing age as a daughter-in-law, but if she knew the extent of the financial damage Johnson had inflicted, she would insist on an heiress. Not even Sinclair knew how deeply Johnson had reached into his pockets, and Quincy wasn’t about to tell him until she had more proof.
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  Quincy settled the throw over him, at least resisting the urge to tuck it under his chin, and went back to her desk.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Quincy.” Sinclair had awakened from his nap and settled at his desk with one of his ever-present folios. “You make me think I’ll soon be begging on the street.”

  Quincy bit back a smile. “Sorry, Sincl—my lord. Would you prefer I address your neckcloth?”

  She’d have to watch her tongue more carefully. Impertinence was one thing, but being overly familiar would never do—even though he was becoming quite familiar, since she saw him at work every day, and he’d made more appearances in her blasted dreams. That he appeared in her dreams was only to be expected, since her new employer played a major role in her life. Nothing more to it than that.

  “Just answer me this,” Sinclair said. “Do I need to cancel my standing order for spirits from Monsieur Beauvais?”

  “Yes.”

  Sinclair slammed his glass down on his desk, his third brandy that afternoon.

  Quincy hurried on. “Not because you cannot afford it, but because Beauvais is accustomed to cheating you. There are at least three other merchants I would stop patronizing for the same reason. What they have done is nothing out of the ordinary. I would wager most of your friends are or would be in the same situation if they do not pay close attention to their accounts.”

  “That’s a relief. I don’t mind telling you, your long face these last couple days has—”

  “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Or less, actually. I’m still investigating. Let me just say that, should you decide on a wife soon, may I suggest she be someone who does not have extravagant tastes?”

  Sinclair’s face contorted with anger. Quincy started to move away, cursing her flippant remark. Before she could take a second step, Sinclair grabbed her shoulder to spin her back to face him. “Are you saying I’m dished up?”

  The sudden movement made them both stagger. Instead of grabbing at his hands, which now clutched her lapels, Quincy grasped Sinclair’s shoulders to steady him as much as herself. Beneath his shirt was warm, hard, unyielding bone and muscle. Surely he wouldn’t actually harm her. Her pulse hammered in her ears all the same. By sheer force of will she kept her voice level. “If you were dished up, I would have already given notice and begun searching for an employer with deeper pockets.”

  He stared into her eyes, his unblinking bloodshot gaze searching for a reason to believe her. Their noses were but inches apart. Quincy felt his brandy breath warm on her cheeks. The scent was intoxicating, though she hadn’t imbibed any of the drink. Perhaps it was just his nearness that was making her lightheaded. Heat from his body washed over her, from a pleasant warmth in her belly, rising in temperature to nearly burning her hands where they rested on his shoulders.

  This would not do, not at all.

  “You’re going to ruin the theater for me if you keep enacting such melodrama, my lord. And I wish you would advise me when you plan to indulge in more than a bottle by yourself, so I can absent myself. Your breath is wilting my cravat.”

  Sinclair blinked. He stepped back and smoothed her lapels with exaggerated care. “My most humble apologies, Mis…Mr. Quincy.” He tried to straighten her cravat but only made it worse. “It was not planned, I assure you,” he added softly as he stumbled from the room, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  Quincy leaned against the desk, hand over her pounding heart, trying to regain control of her breathing. His anger had been almost as startling as his touch, as he fumbled with her cravat, his fingers brushing her chin. Smoothing her lapels, his palms flat against her chest.

  “Would you care for a brandy, Mr. Quincy?” Harper closed the door behind him and poured two drinks. “I’ve ordered the carriage brought ’round for you, as his lordship requested.” The butler handed her one of the glasses, then sat on the sofa. “Drink up, lad. It’ll steady your nerves.” Quincy was vaguely surprised to see the butler making free with the earl’s finest brandy, but shrugged it off.

  She took a sip and coughed as it burned its way down her throat, then set the glass on the desk, her hand shaking too much to hold it steady.

  Harper swallowed his glassful in two gulps. “Lord knows we all need a drink when he gets like this. Damnable weather.” He got up to stare out the window at the pouring rain. “But you’ll get used to it, just as we all have.”

  “Are you saying the rain makes Sinclair drink too much?”

  “Well, it doesn’t help matters. He missed the step getting out of the carriage this morning. Landed on his bad leg. Broderick is tending to him now, but don’t be surprised if he’s not quite himself for a few more days. Takes him longer to recover when the weather is cold and wet.”

  Quincy mouthed a silent “Oh.”

  Harper let the curtain fall back as the carriage came into view, and handed Quincy her hat and gloves. “Don’t judge him too harshly, lad. He did insist the carriage take you home, and pick you up in the morning if it’s nasty out.” His expression relaxed, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “The way I see it, London streets are always nasty, don’t you think?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harper. You’re very kind.” She smiled at the older man. “And I will reserve judgment, as you suggest.” But the truth was, Quincy had already passed judgment on her new employer. Even with this afternoon’s outburst, she liked him quite fine.

  “Good morning, my lord. How are we feeling this morning?”

  “We have a devil of a head, you dolt. Lower your voice.” Sinclair opened one eye enough to see daylight peeking between his lashes. Too much. He flung an arm over his face. “Broderick, you idiot, close the curtains.”

  “They are closed, my lord.”

  Sinclair moved his arm. “Then have them replaced with something more substantial. Tomorrow. Not today. I don’t want anyone in here today.” He sat up, slowly, so his head could keep up with his shoulders.

  Broderick plumped the pillows behind him and thrust a mug filled with a foul-smelling brew into his hand. “It will soon be summer, my lord, and the weather will be warm, and the incessant rain will stop.”

  “And then it will soon be winter, and we’ll go through it all over again. Bah.” He tasted the brew and grimaced, then drained the mug.

  “Ah, but by then you’ll be much better. Think how far you’ve come already!”

  Sinclair glared at the wall while Broderick pulled back the covers, raised his nightshirt, and massaged liniment on his thigh. He could barely tell which throbbed more, his head or his leg.

  Definitely his leg. From his hip to his ankle it was one long throbbing ache, deep in the bones, sometimes so intense it made his eyes water.

  When he’d come to his senses after Waterloo, in those first dark days when he’d prayed for an angel of mercy to ease his misery, laudanum kept the pain at bay, kept him sane. But soon he needed it even when he felt no pain, and he’d given it up before losing himself to the drug. The only thing left to deaden the pain was alcohol, and he’d developed quite a tolerance for it. Even his mother couldn’t tell when he drank more than usual.

  But his new secretary knew. Sinclair almost grinned. Quincy had as good as called him on the carpet for it. Impertinent chit. No, make that impertinent pup. He had to call her pup, even in his thoughts. He’d almost slipped up yesterday and called her Miss.

  At the memory of how roughly he’d treated her, he cringed. His behavior was inexcusable. Had she taken him in disgust because of it? Ordinarily he might not give a fig what his secretary thought, but Quincy was no ordinary secretary. “Broderick, are you through torturing me yet?”

  His valet reached for the jar of liniment again. “Not quite, my lord. Shall I order a light breakfast for you? Tea and toast, perhaps?”

  Sinclair held his stomach. “Gad, no. But do find out if Mr. Quincy came to work this morning.”

  Broderick stepped out into the hall to pass on the request. Sinclair heard the
raised voices of another squabble, and Broderick soon returned, his face flushed.

  “Really, my lord, Thompson’s behavior is unconscionable,” Broderick said, shutting the door and coming back into the room. He dribbled more liniment onto Sinclair’s leg and began working it in. “I don’t know why you tolerate him, even if he is an excellent match to Tanner.”

  “Two footmen having the same coloring and height is just a coincidence. Why do you care so much, Broderick? Thinking of setting up one of the maids as a flirt for yourself?”

  “My lord! I would never—” He broke off as the door opened.

  Sinclair grabbed for the sheet to cover his bare leg. Broderick brushed his hand aside and continued the massage.

  “You sent for me, my lord?”

  Sinclair forgot about the throbbing pain. Quincy stood in the doorway, staring at him, eyes wide, her face flushed to the roots of her hair. Sinclair felt a little heat rise in his own face. Blast Broderick and his conscientious care.

  Quincy pushed her spectacles up. “Why did you call me up here?”

  Broderick gasped. “You insolent whelp! How dare you—”

  “Enough, Broderick. Mr. Quincy is justifiably upset at being interrupted from important work. Aren’t you, Quincy?”

  “I am employed at your pleasure, my lord.”

  Her blush intensified, as though she, too, suddenly realized the innocent-sounding words could have other connotations.

  Sinclair cleared his throat. “I’m expecting a packet of papers to arrive this morning. When it’s delivered, would you send—”

  “It’s already here.” Quincy fled the room without a backward glance.

  Sinclair groaned and held his hand to his head. At least she was still speaking to him, and he’d detected no hint of anger. Just a very becoming blush. Later he’d apologize for the misunderstanding. Surely she didn’t think he’d intentionally sent for her, to come to his bedchamber?

  “I think you had better put some clothes on, my lord, if you don’t wish the boy to expire from embarrassment.”