What an Earl Wants (35 page)

“Hmm. Perhaps some day we’ll all wear trousers.” The two ladies accepted glasses of champagne from Grimshaw, and stepped away to greet newcomers.

Quincy craned her neck to look up at Thompson. “Sinclair is really telling everyone how we met?”

Thompson started walking again. “You’ll still need to watch out for some of them high sticklers, like Lady Bigglesworth. They’d rather see a body starve than break some bloomin’ rule.”

“Of course. Trying to make it a charming, heartwarming story only solves part of the problem. There is still—”

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Warwick,” Harper announced.

“Speak o’ the devil,” Thompson muttered.

Serena glided into the ballroom accompanied by a handsome colonel in full regalia. Her hand resting on the arm of her cicisbeo, Serena scanned the room until she spotted Quincy.

Their gaze locked. Quincy stared back at the duchess from across the crowded room, all ambient sounds drowned out by the sudden pounding in her ears.

“Oi there,” Thompson said with a grunt, trying to uncurl Quincy’s fingers from his arm. “You’re cutting off me circulation.”

Quincy ignored him. Serena hadn’t moved.

Lady Bigglesworth sailed toward Serena, and they made a great show of kissing the air beside each other’s cheek. Before Lady Bigglesworth could lead her and the colonel to Lord Bigglesworth, Serena turned back to Quincy and mouthed the words “I warned you.” She then bent her head close to Lady Bigglesworth’s ear, deep in conversation.

“That’s it, stand tall, Miss Quincy,” Thompson said, patting Quincy’s hand.

She nodded and did as he suggested, and they continued walking. The butterflies in her stomach were fluttering in a frenzy, and Grandmère’s welcoming smile did nothing to ease them. From across the floor, she caught Lady Bigglesworth’s eye. The grand dame looked like she’d just sucked on a lemon, and abruptly turned away.

The cut direct did not feel like the slap in the face she’d expected. Probably because Serena was involved. “Did you see that?” Quincy asked Melinda.

“See what?”

Since Mel hadn’t taken her eyes off Sir Leland, Quincy grumbled, “Never mind,” and tried not to fidget. The insult had been aimed at her, thankfully, not at Sinclair or his mother.

The musicians finished their piece. Silence fell across the room as everyone directed their attention to the balcony, where Lady Sinclair stood.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight,” Lady Sinclair began. “Your generous donations will help feed and clothe and train unfortunate souls so that they may improve their lot in life. With your help, they can become productive members of the populace, no longer indigent. They can become workers rather than beggars.”

She paused, waiting for the burst of applause to quiet down. “I could not have done this without the aid of the Honorable Miss Josephine Quincy. Though we may have met under unusual circumstances,” there was a small titter of laughter, “Miss Quincy has had a profound impact on my life. That is why the charity shall henceforth be known as the Jo Quincy Foundation for the Homeless.” She gestured, and all eyes turned to Quincy.

Registering the polite applause, Quincy swallowed a lump in her throat. Lady Sinclair had never mentioned the name for the charity before. This was beyond anything she’d expected.

Then it hit her. Her secret had been publicly revealed, and the world had not come to an end. She scanned the faces turned toward her, people still clapping hands, applauding her and Lady Sinclair. No one seemed scandalized by her outré life as Mr. Quincy. Well, no one but Lady Bigglesworth, and since Quincy had never before met anyone so eager to be outraged, she hardly counted. The people she respected, those whose opinion mattered to her, did not look at her any differently.

Lady Sinclair blew Quincy a kiss, then turned to the orchestra leader. “Maestro, if you please.” The musicians struck up a waltz.

Couples moved on to the dance floor, including Lord Coddington escorting Lady Sinclair. Their progress was impeded by the many people wishing to talk to her. So much for the ostracism Quincy had feared.

She had been wrong. Was it possible for her to have the happy ending, after all?

Suddenly Sinclair stood before Quincy. He bowed and reached for her hand. She curtsied, and Sinclair led her to the dance floor, the space crowded with other couples.

“Not nervous, are you?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze while still maintaining the proper distance between them.

“Not when I’m with you.” The truth of the statement surprised her. She had barely learned the steps of the waltz two days ago, at Lady Sinclair’s insistence, and had only danced with her sister. With over a hundred other people in the room, the cream of the ton, the potential for disaster boggled the mind.

Yet Quincy couldn’t spare a thought for anyone or anything else. She was too busy enjoying the experience of being held in Sinclair’s arms, staring into his warm brown eyes. His hand in the small of her back, guiding her, the heat of his touch tangible even through his gloves. Gliding without effort, nothing but them and the music. Heaven.

They circled the room once, twice, other couples calling out greetings as they passed.

All too soon the music ended, and Sinclair escorted her back to her grandmother. Her heart beat faster as he remained at her side. Tall, handsome, and if his chest puffed out any farther, in danger of popping buttons.

She wanted to talk to him, alone, but there was no chance. She was swarmed by curious well-wishers. Everyone wanted more details of Mr. Quincy and “his” employment with the earl, but were too polite to ask blunt questions. She redirected their attention to the Foundation. Melinda was no help, as she and Sir Leland headed to the dance floor, eyes only for each other.

Men kissed her hand, and several people—of both genders—actually winked at her. Lord and Lady Palmer stopped by—he was one of those who winked—before going off to dance. Sinclair stood at her side, his arm often going around her shoulders. She took comfort in his contact, though she felt herself blushing when he rubbed his thumb across her shoulder or stroked the bare skin below her sleeve.

Not everyone was charmed by the story of their meeting, however. The Bigglesworths were noticeably absent among the greeters, as was Serena. But enough people congratulated her on the Foundation that Quincy almost ceased worrying.

Since propriety dictated that she and Sinclair dance together only once more, and she was trying to be exceedingly proper, Quincy allowed her dance card to be filled in for every dance, save the last waltz. Being sought after in this fashion was a heady sensation, indeed. Men whom she’d previously conducted business with as Mr. Quincy now wanted to partner her in the quadrille and Scottish reel. And there were an embarrassing number of waltzes scheduled—something Lady Sinclair had planned without her knowledge—all of which were claimed.

Sinclair smiled indulgently as Quincy was led off on the arm of yet another curious admirer.

“Now there’s a sight I thought I’d never live to see,” Lady Bradwell said, drawing his attention.

“How’s that, madam?”

“My Jo, the belle of the ball.”

Lady Sinclair appeared with Lord Coddington, and now linked her arm through Sinclair’s. “She is, isn’t she?”

“Never expected anything less,” Lady Fitzwater joined in.

Sinclair nodded, his chest swelling even farther. He never expected anything less of Quincy, either.

Since his mother and Lady Fitzwater remained standing, Sinclair was forced to stand also. Once he lost sight of Quincy amidst the dancers, he glanced at the refreshment room, wishing he could indulge in something stronger than punch. His leg had ached nonstop since his spill in the ditch weeks ago, and it hadn’t improved with riding cross country to search for Quincy. This afternoon his new valet, a boy, really, had dropped the wet soap just in time for Sinclair to step on it. He’d ended up in a heap on the floor, the pain in his leg beating a tattoo in his brain.

For Quincy’s sake, he’d forgone even one glass of brandy. The pain wasn’t so bad that he’d had to scoot downstairs on his backside, as she thought, but without her to lean on he had gone up that way several times in the last few days.

The truly frustrating part was not the discomfort itself, but the weakness. He had worked so hard to strengthen the muscles, but it seemed to have all been undone by the stress of the last few weeks. Waltzing with Quincy had been wonderful, but if he couldn’t sit and rest, there was no way he’d be able to dance again later. As his mother and Lady Fitzwater showed no signs of sitting any time soon, he’d be lucky if he didn’t embarrass himself before the evening ended. Perhaps a subtle hint was in order.

“Ladies, if you’d like to sit and rest, I’d be happy to fetch you each a glass of punch.”

“Darling boy,” Lady Fitzwater said, promptly settling in a chair beside Lady Bradwell.

His mother couldn’t hide a quick glance at his leg, but she too sat down. “Thank you, Benjamin, but don’t you wish to stay with us? Thompson should be by in a moment with another tray.”

“With all these women to gawk at, no telling how long he’ll be,” Sinclair said, already stepping away from the Trio.

He saw a clear path to the refreshment room, only thirty feet away. If he didn’t have to dodge sideways, if he could walk straight forward, his limp was slight. What a time to need his walking stick.

Twenty feet to go. A couple crossed in front of him, but they moved fast enough that he barely brushed the lady’s skirt without breaking stride.

Ten feet to go. Sweat broke out on his brow and made his shirt cling to his back. Just get the punch, make it back, and then he could rest for an hour or more, with no one the wiser. Except for his mother. And Quincy. And…Oh, hell, everyone knew. Once he sat down, it would take more strength to get up again than he possessed at the moment.

Five feet.

His vision dimmed.

Sinclair realized Serena had simply blocked the light as she suddenly stepped in front of him.

He was trying to behave like a gentleman tonight, so he resisted the urge to toss her out on her ear. “Good evening, your grace,” he said with the slightest of bows.

“I suppose you expect a donation to the charity from me.” Anger flashed in Serena’s eyes, and a hint of something else. Not remorse, though. But not capitulation, either.

“From you?” Sweat rolled down the small of his back, but he stood ramrod straight. He glanced at the jovial crowd swirling around them, and gave a sad shake of his head. “Even Bonaparte knew when to surrender.”

Serena’s bosom heaved with her sudden intake of breath, and sparks flashed from her eyes. She stepped aside and spun on her heel, presenting her back to him.

Instead of feeling insulted at the cut, Sinclair appreciated that she’d cleared the path, and continued to the refreshment room.

He downed one glass, again wishing the punch was made of stronger stuff. He refilled his glass and scooped up three others, two in either hand, and headed back to the Trio.

Thirty feet, and he could rest for an hour.

He didn’t even make it halfway.

Like a tide, the crowd swelled and surged around him. Just as they began to separate, Serena appeared at the edge of his vision, looking very pleased. Her posture seemed odd, and too late, he realized why.

She’d stuck her dainty foot out in front of him.

In agonizing detail, he watched himself fall. He tried to catch himself. Stepped awkwardly on his bad leg. Right knee buckled. Left foot slipped. Right knee slammed into the parquet floor. Forgetting the glasses in his hands, he reached out to keep his chin from slamming into the floor. Punch splattered, glass shards flew, ladies gasped.

The musicians kept playing.

Stars exploded behind his eyelids as Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of pain and nausea. He rolled onto his side and struggled to draw air into his lungs.

Palmer knelt beside him, his large hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. “Ben?”

The music stopped. Murmurings were more audible now. “Disgraceful, getting drunk at his own ball,” someone muttered. “No, no, his leg gave out,” someone else whispered back.

Sinclair risked opening his eyes, to reassure Palmer that he wasn’t dead, though speech was still beyond his capability at the moment. His breath came in gasps, his leg a lump of molten lead. Every nerve ending screamed.

The crowd moved back as Thompson and Grimshaw closed in with rags, broom, and dustbin, and quickly removed all evidence of Sinclair’s fall, save for Sinclair himself still sprawled on the floor.

Just like his nightmare.

He dimly registered Palmer trying to pull him to his feet, but rose no farther than sitting up. His leg refused to obey the simplest command. Stabs of pain accompanied each beat of his heart.

The crowd moved back, allowing him a glimpse of Quincy miles away, deep in conversation with the colonel who’d accompanied Serena. Serena stood a few feet off, smiling with triumphant satisfaction.

His worst nightmare come to life. Unable to stand or even speak, he watched helplessly as Quincy walked toward the French doors with the colonel, her back to Sinclair.

Would that the ground open up and swallow him. He closed his eyes against a fresh onslaught of pain that had nothing to do with his leg.

Quincy tried again to disengage her hand from the colonel’s arm, tired of his inane conversation. The newness of being the belle of the ball had worn off, and she wanted nothing more than to be back with Sinclair, counting the moments until they could dance together again. But the colonel seemed determined to drag her out the double doors.

A commotion behind them caught her attention. She turned to investigate, and her heart froze. Sinclair sat on the floor, swaying, his head hanging down. Palmer stood behind him, looking pained and helpless.

Wrenching free of the colonel, Quincy dashed across the dance floor to Sinclair and dropped to her knees beside him. She plucked Palmer’s handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around Sinclair’s bleeding hand.

At last Sinclair looked up at her, and her heart almost broke. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him, but knew he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture just now.