What an Earl Wants (13 page)

“Seeing the reality was something else entirely.” Sinclair leaned one elbow on the cart, no hint of judgment in his posture or expression.

She could get accustomed to being the center of Sinclair’s attention. “Nigel tried to adjust, to adapt, and I think he would have, in time, but he was so new on the job. I told him I had planned all along to go back to being a girl, but he worried he’d lose his position if word got out about what I’d done before we married. He’s the fourth son of a viscount, has to make his own way in the world. He couldn’t afford a scandalous wife.”

“Bastard.”

She couldn’t have heard him right. “This is why I drink tea instead of wine,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Even Grandmère and Mel don’t know about Nigel.” She gave him a playful jab to the shoulder. “It’s only fair that you confess something.”

His brow furrowed in a frown while he thought. He scanned the room, now shrouded in deep shadows, the sun having set while they ate. “Hiring you was the second most impulsive act of my life.”

She was stunned by the intense expression in his brown eyes, the honesty she saw there. She toyed with her napkin. “Which begs the question, what was the first?”

He hesitated long enough, she doubted he’d answer. “Buying my colors to join the army.”

She leaned toward him. “I’ve often wondered about that, since you did so
after
inheriting the title.”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t fight the gossips, so I ran off to fight Napoleon.” He tossed his napkin on the cart.

It seemed that was the extent of the confession he was willing to make. No, she wouldn’t let him get away with that, not after she’d spilled her guts about Nigel. She waved her hand in an “and so…” gesture, made encouraging noises.

Sinclair grimaced, but then relented. “Ancient history. There was a bit of a scandal after Papa’s death. Gossips said I killed his rival, the previous Lord Twitchell. With my bare hands.” He shot her a look that dared her to be frightened.

A shiver coursed through her, but it had nothing to do with fear. “When has gossip ever been accurate?”

Sinclair seemed pleased with her response. The mantel clock chimed the hour. He stood. “Carriage should be here any moment. Do you have a pair of white gloves?”

“No.” She stood also. They were close enough she had to tilt her head back to see him.

“Thought not. I’ll loan you one of mine.” He held his hand up to Quincy’s, touching his larger, calloused palm to her smaller hand. “They’ll be loose, but will serve propriety.”

Quincy raised her gaze from where their palms touched, up to his face. The air around them seemed to crackle, like just before a lightning storm. He curled his fingers over hers. His lips were parted, his head tilted toward hers. For one heart-stopping moment she thought he would bend down and kiss her. She could tug on his hand, pull him down to her. Or he could pull her off balance, make her fall into his arms. She couldn’t breathe.

They heard a knock on the door. They sprang apart, hands dropping to their sides.

“The carriage is ready, my lord,” Harper said.

Sinclair nodded, and the butler retreated. “Here,” he said, pulling a pair of white gloves out of his coat pocket. “You’d better put these on now.”

She felt the weight of his hand against the small of her back as he guided her toward the door. She couldn’t see his face, but felt sure her own was bright red. If they wanted to avoid scandal, letting the butler catch the earl kissing his secretary was not the way to go about it.

She tugged the gloves on, still warm from being in Sinclair’s pocket, and was almost breathing normally again by the time they stepped out into the hall.

Q
uincy followed Sinclair out to his waiting carriage and climbed into the dim interior. She fell back against the squabs next to Sinclair as Elliott started the horses. She ought to move to the empty seat. The evening was already cool, and she felt the warmth radiating from his body only a few inches from her own. She ought to move.

She stayed. Though having his bulk beside her held an element of risk, of the forbidden, it was just too pleasant to pass up. Couldn’t she just enjoy the moment, with no thought for what the future might hold?

She glanced out the window. Carriages drove past in the opposite direction, streetlamps alternately revealing and hiding the crests on the doors. Sinclair’s carriage door bore his family crest, too. Here she sat, beside an earl of the realm. What business did she have going with him?

In the intimacy of the dark carriage, Quincy struggled not to fidget. Finally she could stand the quiet no more. “Now can we discuss your special project?”

Sinclair scratched his jaw. “Tonight actually has two purposes. One, I wanted to offer you a treat. You’ve worked very hard, doubly so since your grandmother’s accident. And two…” He shifted his walking stick to his other hand.

“Yes?”

He moved his stick back to its original position. “As I said Monday, I want your help with a special project. I need someone to give me an intelligent, forthright opinion. Someone who doesn’t have anything at stake to color their view.”

“Sounds intriguing. Opinion on what?”

“Selecting my wife.”

Quincy drew a quick, deep breath. He wanted her to help him choose a wife? A simple intellectual exercise in logic. An intelligent, forthright opinion, he said. Simple. So why did her stomach suddenly twist into knots?

“I’ve shocked you speechless? You disappoint me, Quincy.”

She cleared her throat. “Not at all. I was just, ah, considering suitable candidates.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you.”

The carriage rolled on in the darkness.

“You still have not told me where we’re going.”

“That’s because I want it to be a surprise.” He sat back against the cushions and hummed a tune.

Quincy folded her hands in her lap to diminish the temptation to wrap them around his throat. When he started whistling, she grit her teeth. Her jaw ached by the time the carriage stopped again. She glanced out the window, and her mouth dropped open. “Drury Lane!” she exclaimed when she’d recovered. “Oh, Sinclair, this is marvelous! I take back all the horrible things I’ve been wishing on your head for the past half hour.”

Sinclair chuckled. “I remember what you said about not wanting me to ruin the theater for you. Will this suffice, do you think?”

“Perfect.” After the steps were let down and she stood on the sidewalk, she stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from throwing her arms around the earl. “Very practical, too. We can satisfy my curiosity about the performing arts,
and
look about for your wife.” Some sweet to go with the bitter.

“Just as I planned.”

Quincy followed Sinclair in, eyeing the throng of brightly dressed ladies with their escorts littering the lobby. A glance at the low-cut gowns that threatened to spill feminine charms gave Quincy new appreciation for her own multilayered clothing. Seeing several gentlemen wearing coats similar to hers, she realized Melissa had unerringly patterned her clothes after the ton’s more conservative styles.

Relaxing in the knowledge that she didn’t look out of place, and confident in her masculine mannerisms and disguise, Quincy resolved to enjoy the evening to the fullest. She paid close attention to everyone Sinclair stopped to greet or who stopped him, particularly the females.

Some were pretty, most were prettily behaved, and a few showed enough obvious wealth to cancel out any losses caused by Sinclair’s previous secretary. But none seemed quite right. None of them deserved to be Sinclair’s countess.

Quincy almost stumbled as the enormity of that last thought struck her. How could she come to that ridiculous conclusion? Her employer had asked for her help with an important project. She couldn’t let him down.

At last they reached Sinclair’s box.

“Mama, I did not know you were coming tonight!”

“Obviously.” Lady Sinclair smiled at them, not quite hiding her surprise at seeing Quincy. A silver-haired gentleman sat beside her, and two other couples filled the remaining chairs in the box.

Quincy glanced about, realizing there was no place left to sit. They’d have to leave. She held her chin high, determined not to reveal her disappointment.

“Sinclair, well met!” called out a voice.

The earl turned toward the entrance. “Leland, what marvelous timing. I was just trying to figure out how to seat all of us, and now you can save me the trouble. Or do you have a box full of guests, too?”

“Not at all, come right along. Evening, Lady Sinclair, ladies, gentlemen.” He sketched a brief bow and hurried out as the curtain lifted on the beginning of the farce on stage.

Sinclair left without another word. Quincy glanced back at Lady Sinclair, who gave her a small, private smile. She bowed toward her and ran after Sinclair and his one-eyed friend.

Sir Leland did have other guests, as it turned out. She exchanged greetings with Lord Palmer, and was introduced to Lord Alfred, a quiet redhead. Alfred immediately returned his attention to the stage, but Leland and Palmer both shot her sidelong glances throughout the evening, making her stomach flutter. Had she or Sinclair said or done something to give them away at lunch the other day, after all?

The farce on stage was a farce within itself. Actors stumbled over their lines, tripped over stage props, and bumped into each other. After several tedious minutes, Quincy shifted her attention to the audience, especially those seated in the boxes across the way.

“See anyone who catches your fancy?” Sinclair whispered in her ear.

Gooseflesh raised all over her. “For me or for you?” she whispered back, feeling bold in the semi-darkness.

Sinclair laughed heartily. Fortunately, so did the rest of the audience just then. “See the blond miss in pink directly across from us?”

“The one who keeps patting her curls?”

“Yes. She’s Lady Louisa. What do you think?”

“Vain.”

“Probably right. How about the brunette three boxes over to the right? That’s Miss Mary.”

Quincy squinted. “Seated between the two giants?”

“Her parents.”

“Mousy. Once away from those behemoths, she will probably overcompensate. Not a good bet.”

“That leaves Miss Prescott. Ah, there she is, two boxes over to the left.”

“Very equitable of you, selecting a blonde, a brunette and a redhead.”

“I thought it only appropriate. Miss Prescott has you to thank for being included on the list, by the way. A wall-flower, you know.” He paused, waiting for the crowd’s burst of laughter to die down. “Well, do you think she’ll do?”

“Do? I can’t tell. I haven’t even met the chit yet.”

“You were certainly quick to dismiss the other two without meeting them!”

“That was different.”

“Hush!” Sir Leland glared at them.

Quincy lowered her voice, and Sinclair bent closer to her ear. “They had obvious flaws. I’ll have to meet Miss Prescott to determine hers.”

His lips brushed her ear when he spoke. “You mean determine
if
she has flaws, don’t you?”

Quincy blinked. “Yes, of course that’s what I meant.” Miss Prescott would probably make an ideal countess, as would the other two she’d dismissed so quickly. Admirable countesses, in fact. But for some other earl.

Another woman near Miss Prescott caught Quincy’s attention. She seemed familiar, but in the poor light Quincy couldn’t place where she knew her from. “Who is the raven-haired lady in the box next to Miss Prescott? She keeps trying to catch your eye.”

Sinclair stiffened. “Lady Serena, now Duchess of Warwick. Pay her no attention. God knows I try not to.”

She couldn’t stop herself from touching his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “The ‘shameless little wench’?”

Sinclair looked shocked, then relaxed. “The very same.”

They settled back as the curtain rose on
Much Ado About Nothing.
The actors performed well, allowing her to enjoy the Bard’s work. Being able to share smiles with Sinclair at the funny bits made it even better.

At the conclusion, Sinclair and Quincy parted company with the other gentlemen in the box and threaded their way through the crowd in the lobby. Still chuckling from the performance on stage, they made slow progress, and frequently halted altogether as acquaintances greeted the earl. Quincy stayed close behind him, almost grabbing his coattails as the surging crowd threatened to separate them.

“Lord Sinclair, we meet again,” a female voice declared. Sinclair stopped so abruptly, Quincy bumped her nose against his back. He stood ramrod straight, exuding all the haughtiness of an old title.

“Good evening, Duchess,” he said, his voice cold.

A chance to see the shameless wench up close! The foolish woman who spurned Sinclair’s proposal.

Rubbing her sore nose, Quincy peeked over his shoulder…and stifled a shriek. She quickly ducked her head, her heart pounding.

Blast! Of all the cursed times to run into someone who knew her as Josephine Quincy. Since no hole opened up in the floor to swallow her, she bent her knees, the better to stay hidden behind Sinclair. The surging crowd, which had annoyed her earlier, was a godsend as the press of bodies shielded her from discovery.

Quincy forced herself to breathe. The “shameless wench” might now be Serena, the Duchess of Warwick, but Quincy had known her as Rena, an earl’s daughter who wouldn’t deign to play with the offspring of a mere baron. A bothersome child, she had delighted in bearing tales to their elders when Quincy and neighboring boys rode the parson’s horse without permission, or picked green apples from the squire’s orchard.

Why should it surprise her that little Rena had grown up and married an old duke, then invited an earl to her bed? Hadn’t Quincy caught Rena, at the age of five, showing her silk drawers to Tommy Simpson, age six, after he agreed to give her a shiny penny?

As soon as the duchess was distracted by another gentleman, Sinclair plowed into the crowd and out of the theater, with Quincy in tow.

Several silent minutes passed in the carriage. Her heartbeat had almost returned to normal when Sinclair finally spoke. “Have you found a Bath chair for your grandmother yet?”

Ah, they were ignoring the encounter with the duchess. Suited Quincy just fine. Serena had already caused her enough anxiety. “Friday I found a used one that was reasonably priced. She can get around the flat just fine, and out onto the landing. She misses being able to go farther afield, though.”

“Perhaps if you moved to a ground-floor flat?”

If only…“I tried to find one to start with when we came to town last year, but the rents were higher. We all agreed moving now isn’t worth dipping into the money we’ve saved for our cottage. A few more weeks, and this will just be a memory.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” The earl was quiet the rest of the trip home. He stared out the window until Elliott stopped the coach in front of Quincy’s building. “I’ll arrange some way for you to meet Miss Prescott, and any others we may add to the list.”

“Excellent.” Quincy scooted forward on the bench while the tiger opened the door and let down the steps. Her knee brushed Sinclair’s. “Thank you for a pleasant evening, my lord.” She got up, headed for the door, when the horses snorted and the carriage rocked. The sudden motion made her lose her balance. Sinclair caught her about the waist, and instead of the floor or pavement, she landed on his lap. Breath left her lungs in a rush.

His chest was warm and solid against her back, his arms snug around her waist. “Are you injured?” His voice, warm and deep, full of concern, whispered against her ear. Stubble on his jaw grazed her cheek.

“No,” was all she could manage. She tilted her head back, resting it on his shoulder. Enveloped in his embrace, bathed in his scent, an enticing blend of bay rum, liniment and Sinclair, his face mere inches from her own, she was just able to make out his glittering eyes in the darkness.

Injured, no, but she’d never be the same.

She felt him shift beneath her. His leg! She must be causing him great pain. She struggled to get up, flailing in a tangle of their arms and legs before finding her balance again, his hands on her hips to help lift her to her feet, and she scrambled out of the coach to the pavement. She straightened her coat and pushed up her spectacles. The whole incident had lasted only a few seconds, but would be imprinted on her mind forever. “Thank you again, Sinclair. My first trip to the theater was quite memorable.”

Sinclair waved. “Go on with you.”

She waved and went up the stairs, preparing herself for a rash of questions about the evening from Mel and Grandmère, treasuring the feeling of being held in Sinclair’s arms, however unintentional the circumstances. Knowing it would never be repeated, regretting that’s the way it had to be. She had to be satisfied with the little bits of joy that came her way, because that’s all she would get.

The carriage rocked into motion. Sinclair banged his head against the cushion. Twice. How could he be so stupid? Hadn’t he
any
control over rude male instincts that made him haul Quincy onto his lap?

Tonight could have been a disaster in so many ways, so many times. It was probably a mistake to have taken her to the theater, though he’d meant well. After their private dinner, even running into Serena couldn’t erase all the fun from the evening. Though if he ever got his hands on Nigel, the cowardly bastard wouldn’t be long for this world.

Sinclair had set out to give Quincy a taste of freedom, to give her a chance to lessen the weight of responsibilities she carried like a cloak, if only for a short time. Instead, she had made
him
feel differently—younger, more alive. Lighter in spirit than he had felt since before buying his commission five years ago, certainly better than he had felt since a French soldier sliced open his thigh with a bayonet near a tiny village called Waterloo.