What an Earl Wants (28 page)

How should she tell him? “By the way, my lord, two of your footmen know my little secret”? That would never do. How about, “Sinclair, I—”

“Yes?”

Quincy whirled around toward the door, hand over her pounding heart. Sinclair leaned against the doorjamb, an odd expression on his face.

“Um.” She couldn’t squeeze any intelligible sounds from her throat. She took a deep breath to try again, but he closed the door and walked toward her. Was that a smile on his face? Another step closer. He reminded her of Sir Ambrose, stalking his dinner. Two steps closer. Is this how the mouse felt? “I need to—”

“To what?” he said softly. Another step.

Quincy stepped back and pushed her spectacles up. “To tell you—”

“Yes?” His odd smile broadened.

For every step he took forward, she took one back. Why couldn’t she seem to catch her breath? Surely he could hear her heart pounding.

“Tell you about—” She bumped into the bookcase at her back. Trapped in the corner. Now what? Why did he keep coming closer? She caught a whiff of the spicy masculine scent unique to Sinclair.

“Tell me later,” he whispered. With languid movements he reached up and lifted off her spectacles. “Do you know you have the most adorable habit of pushing these up when you’re nervous?” He tucked them in his pocket. “Why do I make you nervous?”

She blinked. “Wha—what are you doing?”

It was definitely a smile. “Just this.” He cupped her face in his hands, then caressed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. With a last look into her eyes, so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his, he leaned closer still and pressed his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

Heaven. His mouth was soft and warm, gently insistent, as he tasted and explored. Ever so much better than she had imagined, even better than she remembered. She raised her hands to his shoulders, to pull him closer, to press her body to his. Sinclair moaned in pleasure. Or had she made that sound?

“Something I’ve wanted to do for days now.” He left her mouth, to kiss a trail down the side of her neck, making a delicious shudder shimmy all the way down to her curling toes. She quivered when he flicked his tongue behind her ear.

“Oh, me too.”

The room began to spin. Sinclair caught her and tilted her face up to his, his strong arms supporting her back. Good thing, because her knees had turned to jelly.

She gave up her perusal of his lush mouth and raised her gaze to his eyes. The unfamiliar emotion revealed there was desire, confirmed by his body pressed against hers. Something she’d never thought to see from Sinclair again, certainly an emotion she’d never thought would be directed at her. She had barely registered it when he kissed her again, his large clever hands caressing her back, massaging his way from her neck to her hips, his touch decadent and sure.

He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in his secure embrace. She rested her face against his chest, absurdly pleased by his rapid pulse beneath her cheek. She wiggled her hands beneath his waistcoat to stroke his corded muscles, wishing she could get under his shirt, too.

“Chadburn told me what you did with the mining shares.”

She felt his voice as much as heard it, a rich rumble in his chest that transmitted itself all the way down to her toes.

“Told me about your investments, too.”

He had to bring that up? They could discuss it later. Just let her seize one more moment of joy, hold on to it a moment longer. This would have to sustain her for a lifetime. She squeezed him tighter.

He leaned back to slide his hand along her shoulder to her neck, and caressed her cheek with his thumb. She became lost in the way he looked at her, with affection and yearning. Never in her most foolish dreams had she imagined she would receive such a look from any man, let alone from someone she loved so much. Well, maybe in her
wildest
dreams…

After several long moments, Sinclair gathered her snugly in his embrace, resting his chin on top of her head. “The past few weeks have been tortuous. Can’t tell you the number of times I worried that I had said or done something to give you away, to give
us
away.” He chuckled again but abruptly leaned back in the embrace. “No one else knows, do they?”

Quincy took a deep breath, felt the floor beneath her feet once again. “Only two people. One is Thompson. He—”

“Thompson!” Sinclair dropped his arms. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw him hold you. How did he find out?”

Hmm. “Let us just say it was unintentional.” Her face grew hot under Sinclair’s narrow-eyed scrutiny. Well, he insisted. “You called me your angel, and held my hand to your heart. While Thompson was in the room.”

“I…?”
He had the grace to look sheepish.

“If it’s any comfort, he’d suspected something was amiss ever since he carried me out of the warehouse that first week I was here.” She thought it best not to mention his wager with Grimshaw just yet.

Sinclair turned serious. “You could have been killed that day.” His fingers cupping her head, he drew her closer, brushed his lips across hers, then trailed kisses along her jaw and nibbled on her earlobe. The tingling in her stomach grew and flared out to encompass her entire body. “You must allow me to reassure myself that you are whole and healthy.” His feral smile returned. He tugged on her hands, drawing her forward as he walked backward until he sat on the sofa, and pulled her down onto his lap.

“Your leg!” She tried to get up, but he wrapped his arms around her.

“Never felt better.” He nuzzled her neck, his hands stroking her shoulders, sliding inside her coat, delving under her waistcoat. He fingered her cravat. “I can hardly wait to see you in a gown. After we’re married, you can—”

Quincy jerked back. “Married?”

Sinclair cradled her face in his hands. “It’s the only cure for what ails us. I predict our recuperation will take, oh, at least thirty or forty years.” He traced her lips with a fingertip. “Besides, we have to marry. You have hopelessly compromised me.”

His smiling, handsome upturned face was her undoing. She knew several reasons—logical reasons—why they could not, should not marry, but they all fled her mind. Just as she had so often longed to do, she kissed him full on the mouth.

“Good afternoon.”

They turned startled gazes on Lady Sinclair, who stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. Oh, bloody hell. Quincy struggled to get up, but Sinclair tightened his hold. She remained on his lap, her face flooding with heat, her heart beating double-time.

“Good afternoon, Mama,” he said. Quincy felt his racing pulse belie his calm voice.

Lady Sinclair closed the library door behind her. Her face and voice betrayed no emotion. “What have you to say for yourself, Benjamin?”

Quincy’s face grew even hotter, sitting on Sinclair’s lap in full view of his mother, especially since she could feel the reason he needed her to stay there. A true lady would faint right about now, wouldn’t she? She certainly felt lightheaded. That was the first step, right?

“You may wish us happy, Mama. We are to be married.”

“But—” Sinclair silenced Quincy with a squeeze.

“All I can say is, it is about time.” Lady Sinclair broke into a broad smile.

Quincy was too stunned to speak.

Sinclair looked from his mother to Quincy and back, slack-jawed.

“You chose an interesting method to seal your betrothal, Benjamin. A quick kiss would have sufficed.” She settled into the wing chair. “Have you set a date yet, Josephine?”

“You knew?” Sinclair nearly choked on the words. He cast an accusing glance at Quincy.

She shook her head, unable to form a sentence. Lady Sinclair had known? “How?”

“You have your grandmother’s features, my dear.”

Quincy thought back to her first interview with Lady Sinclair, the way she had studied Quincy’s face. A phrase came back to haunt her:
“You seem like someone who is comfortable with secrets.”

“Yes, my dear, almost from the beginning.” Lady Sinclair’s eyes sparkled with good humor. “Your grandparents cut quite a dash in society when I made my come-out. Such a romantic pair! All of us green girls wished to have a handsome man rescue us and fall prostrate at our feet with love, like Randolph did with Dominique.” Lady Sinclair gave a dramatic sigh. “And while Benjamin is not quite prostrate, I recognize a love match when I see one.” She shifted her gaze to her son. “I was beginning to worry, Benjamin. I never would have believed you could be so obtuse.”

It was Quincy’s turn to squeeze Sinclair into keeping silent.

Lady Sinclair sat up, her voice becoming very matter-of-fact. “We’ll need to find you a dressmaker, Jo. One who can keep a still tongue.” She snapped her fingers. “Of course! Jill is utterly wasted on cleaning and polishing. We’ll set her and your sister to sewing your wardrobe, at least the beginning of one. I am certain Melinda will not mind. I don’t imagine you have any gowns at all, do you?”

The room spun around her again. Events were proceeding entirely too quickly. She hadn’t even agreed to Sinclair’s proposal yet, though technically he hadn’t asked, he’d just assumed. As heartfelt declarations of love went, his hadn’t exactly been the stuff of which a girl dreamed. Not that she had harbored any such romantic fantasies. “No, my lady. I haven’t worn a dress since I was fourteen.” The last of her gowns had been made over to fit Melinda long ago. She hadn’t so much as a chemise to her name.

“And I’ll wager you’ve grown a bit since then.” Her eyes sparkled. “Say good-bye to your secretary, Benjamin, and give her back her spectacles. We have a hundred and one things to do, and the sooner we get started, the better.” She walked to the door, opened it, and asked Harper to send for Jill and the coach.

Sinclair dutifully retrieved Quincy’s spectacles from his pocket, perched them on her nose, and had just enough time to kiss her again before Lady Sinclair turned around.

“Come along, Jo.” She held her hand out. “I vow I have not had this much fun in ages.”

O
nce they were in the coach on the way to Lady Fitzwater’s home, Lady Sinclair related the bare essentials of the situation to Jill.

The maid’s wide-eyed glance darted between Lady Sinclair and Quincy, until Quincy felt like she’d grown a second head. She supposed she should get used to the staring.

Lady Sinclair led the way to the Quincy family quarters, Jill and Quincy obediently following. Grandmère and Melinda did not seem at all surprised when Lady Sinclair began issuing orders in her gentle voice, and no one but Quincy was startled when Lady Fitzwater made an appearance, personally bringing them a length of muslin.

“I declare this is the most excitement I have had in years,” their landlady said, dropping the fabric on the table.

Quincy cast an accusing glance at her grandmother. “You told?”

“Of course she did not,” Lady Fitzwater interjected. “And you did nothing to give yourself away, either, dear girl.”

“Then how?”

“You have your grandmother’s—”

“Features,” Quincy finished.

“Especially the eyes,” Lady Sinclair said. “They change color from gray to green depending on your mood and what you’re wearing. Just like your grandmother. She was quite the matchmaker.”

Quincy glanced at her grandmother, who blushed and stared at her sewing.

The other women had Quincy turn this way and that as she stood on a stool in the center of the room, clad only in one of Melinda’s shifts. Designed for Melinda’s more curvaceous figure, the garment hung loose on Quincy and ended several inches too short. Under their assessing gaze, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared with longing at her familiar trousers and shirt, draped over the back of a chair. Her spectacles had been consigned to a dark cupboard, along with Papa’s boots and other items she would no longer need as Miss Quincy.

She felt like a marionette, with well-meaning tyrants controlling the strings.

The five women plotted and planned, measured and draped Quincy’s figure. Strips of lace were held up to her cheek, lengths of silk and muslin hung over her shoulders, all in an attempt to find the most flattering colors, the best styles for her figure. They discussed how to dress her short hair. Bonnets, reticules and shawls were brought out, on loan until she had a chance to purchase her own.

Outnumbered and outflanked, Quincy decided to surrender with grace.

It was a heady experience, being the center of attention, to have everyone seeing to her needs instead of the other way around. Whether she wanted them to or not.

For so many years, she had pushed away thoughts of having delicate things for herself, content with buying the occasional gewgaw for her sister or grandmother. Now she ran her hand over burgundy velvet, an azure silk fichu, a beaded reticule. Wool trousers were eminently practical, but there was something to be said for sarcenet.

“Are you sad?” Mel whispered as she draped a length of seafoam green cotton around Quincy. A frown creased her brow.

Mummified by the fabric, Quincy could only shake her head. “That was a sigh of contentment,” she whispered back.

“Good, because Grandmère’s been looking forward to this day for more than five years.”

So have I.
Quincy swallowed a lump in her throat. With a farewell glance at her trousers as they were buried under discarded fabrics, she jumped into the current discussion, arguing volubly against the pink chiffon in favor of the periwinkle blue sarcenet.

The debate soon veered to which modiste to visit first. Quincy wondered what Sinclair was doing while she became Miss Quincy. What would he think when he saw her dressed in a gown for the first time? Would she measure up to his expectations? Would he think of her the same way as when she wore men’s attire, have the same feelings for her?

“Is tomorrow too soon for an at-home, do you think?” Lady Fitzwater asked the room at large.

“Yes!” Quincy said.

“No!” Melinda, Grandmère, and Lady Sinclair said in unison. “We can have at least one afternoon gown finished by then, can’t we, Jill?” Melinda added.

“Yes, my lady.”

“But—”

“Hush,
ma chère,
” Grandmère said to Quincy. “You’ll ruin the fitting.”

Sinclair entered the front hall of Leland’s house, his stomach fluttering with anticipation. He had not seen Quincy—his dearly beloved Josephine—since yesterday afternoon. Mama had invited him this morning to Lady Fitzwater’s at-home, and promised a surprise. He had learned long ago to be wary of Mama’s “surprises.”

He tapped his foot as the footman slowly opened the drawing room door and announced him. His gaze swept the room. Melinda and a friend, an auburn-haired beauty in light green, chatted with Leland and Lord Palmer near the fireplace. Lady Fitzwater and Mama were in earnest conversation with Mrs. Quincy—no, he must think of her as Lady Bradwell.

He gave proper greetings to his mother and her co-conspirators, while stealing glances at the door. Surely Jo should arrive soon?

“Why don’t you go join the other youngsters?” Lady Sinclair suggested, her eyes sparkling. Lady Fitzwater beamed at him, and Lady Bradwell smiled into her teacup.

He nodded and walked away. Undoubtedly he was spoiling their plotting.

“Pull up a chair,” Leland called as Sinclair neared the small group.

“Dash it Sinclair, you’ve ruined our afternoon,” Palmer said with a smile. “We were so enjoying having the ladies to ourselves.”

Melinda and her companion blushed.

“May I say you look quite charming this afternoon, Miss Melinda?” He raised her hand and kissed the air just above her knuckles. She looked grown up with her long brown hair twisted into an elegant knot instead of the plaits he was used to seeing her wearing.

She glanced at Leland and her blush deepened. “Thank you, my lord.” Melinda’s companion plucked at the folds of her skirt, until Melinda elbowed her. “May I introduce you to my sister, Miss Josephine Quincy? She has been visiting friends in Chelmsford and only just returned to us.”

Sinclair’s heart stopped. He stared at the auburn-haired beauty. This was his Jo? Leland jabbed his toe into Sinclair’s calf, reminding him of the audience. “Charmed, Miss Quincy,” he managed to get out. He kissed her proffered hand before he dropped onto the chair.

This willowy apparition of feminine beauty was his Quincy? Wavy auburn hair framed her face and just brushed her creamy shoulders. She plucked at the folds of her skirt again and removed a gray hair that likely belonged to her cat, then reached two gloved fingers to push up spectacles that weren’t there, no longer hiding her eyes. They were green, and wide with apprehension.

Leland reached over and pushed Sinclair’s mouth shut. “Take care, old chap,” he said, laughing. “You’re drooling.”

“I believe you have an admirer, Miss Quincy,” Palmer said.

“You are too kind, Lord Palmer.” She stared at her folded hands in her lap.

Sinclair shook his head to clear it. “Not at all. I have heard many favorable things about you. From my secretary.”

“Oh, you mean our cousin, Joseph,” Melinda said, staring directly into Sinclair’s eyes.

“Fancy that,” Palmer said, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Cousins so similar in appearance. And named so similarly, too.”

The foursome darted glances at Palmer, then everyone but Leland averted their gaze.

“What do you—” Leland broke off as the footman announced three more callers, a mama and her two marriageable daughters. They headed for Sinclair’s group by the fireplace after cursory greetings to Lady Fitzwater.

More new arrivals were announced, including the other three boarders in the household, followed by a maid with a heavily laden tea tray. In the ensuing hubbub, Leland asked Melinda to take a turn about the room with him. With much blushing on her part and nervous adjusting of his eye patch on Leland’s part, they began to stroll the perimeter of the room.

“What an excellent notion,” Sinclair said, standing up. “Miss Quincy, would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll?” He held his hand out to her, then tucked her hand in his elbow as she stood beside him, and they stepped in unison.

Fortunately he knew the layout of the room by heart, because he could not tear his gaze from her. He still could not reconcile this feminine vision to the one who’d kept him company the previous few weeks—the no-nonsense secretary who’d summarily dealt with merchants accustomed to cheating an earl, rearranged his chaotic staff when no one else had the presence of mind to do so, and ordered him to bed when he became ill. The same vixen who had joined him in bed on more than one occasion.

“You’re quite a managing female,” he said softly.

Quincy finally met his gaze. “Was that an insult or a compliment, my lord?”

They stopped near the doors leading to the garden. Without the heels on her leather shoes, the top of Quincy’s head only reached to Sinclair’s cravat. She tilted her head back to look at him, her green eyes flashing.

The urge to kiss her was so strong, Sinclair tugged her out the door, down the steps, and into the garden. “Benjamin, not ‘my lord.’ I want to hear my name on your lips.” He brushed a lock of her hair from her face. “Say something so I’ll know it really is you.”

She leaned against him. “Would you like me to remove my gloves so you can see the ink stains on my fingers, Benjamin?”

He chuckled, and dropped his gaze from her face, traveling slowly past the strand of pearls encircling her neck, lingering on the light green fabric that clung to her breasts, finally to her hand clutching a reticule at her waist. She had not the generous curves of her younger sister, but was perfectly proportioned for his Quincy. “How is it no one else saw you for what you are?” He cupped her cheek in his bare hand, savoring the feel of her soft skin.

She closed her eyes, leaning in to his touch. “I learned long ago that people generally see what they expect to see, and nothing more.” She glanced at the terrace doors, and the growing crowd in the drawing room.

Sinclair followed her gaze. “Right, no need to draw an audience. We can be private later. Shall we continue our walk?” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, keeping his free hand over hers, and started down the path. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Quincy gave an un-ladylike snort. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since your mother took me away.”

“The longest hours of my life.”

“After your experiences in war, and your injury? And illness? I find that hard to believe.”

Sinclair stopped. “Believe me.”

He watched the pulse fluttering at her throat as she stared at him. For a long moment neither of them drew breath. Then she smiled and started walking again.

“How do you like your new costume?” he said as they passed a patch of tulips basking in the sunshine.

She looked up at him with a broad grin, the same bold and irreverent look he’d come to adore. “It’s rather drafty, actually.” She clutched the lace beside her shoulder, trying to cover more of her chest with it. “When I first saw my reflection, I thought there was a bit too much…me…on display. Grandmère said she’d been saving these pearls, had almost given up hope of me wearing them, but I think they only draw attention to the problem. Your mother and Lady Fitzwater assure me the neckline is quite proper, though I can’t help feeling a bit exposed.”

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?”