What an Earl Wants (34 page)

Amidst the nervous laughter and shocked titterings, they took their leave. Once in the coach, Melinda burst into laughter. “Did you see her face?”

“Did you see
his
? Poor man.” Quincy gave in and joined her sister.

“Thank you for the use of your cane, Dominique.”

“My pleasure, Margaret.”

“I missed something again, didn’t I?”

S
eparation would be the death of him. Since bringing Quincy back to London, Sinclair had been allowed to see her only during morning calls, for twenty minutes at a time, and never alone. The Trio made certain of that. Wait for the ball, they said. He should live so long.

He saw Quincy every night, though. His dreams were vivid, intense, and had him sloshing the ewer of cold water over his head in the morning. Only a few days to go.

And then what? She’d already rejected his proposal twice.
Nothing has changed
, she’d said. So what the hell was he to do? He needed to think.

Sinclair went for a long walks. Purportedly to strengthen his leg, but mostly because he couldn’t bear to be in his library without Quincy. He was going mad. She was everywhere, yet not there at all. He couldn’t even visit with her in the salon while she helped his mother—one of Mama’s conditions for abetting his subterfuge. It was easier just to leave the house entirely.

His leg was improving, though still weaker than before his illness. He pictured Quincy massaging liniment on his thigh, and then moving her hands elsewhere…

“…Is back in town?”

Sinclair snapped his attention back to the present, and realized Palmer had fallen into step with him on the sidewalk just outside Brooks’s. “Beg pardon?”

“I said, did you know that Serena is back in town?”

Sinclair froze. “Thought the duke killed her.”

“
Hoped
he’d killed her, you mean.” Palmer grew serious. “You know she’ll cause trouble.”

Sinclair nodded, and cursed the day he’d met Serena. He followed Palmer inside the club. Neither spoke until after the waiter brought their drinks.

“My estimation of Miss Quincy’s character rose considerably after she had the good sense to reject your suit, but are you certain she is worth pursuing?”

Sinclair pictured Quincy when he’d seen her at the cottage, trapped upside-down on the ladder, splattered with paint, dirt smudges on her face. He grinned. “A bothersome wench, to be sure, but”—he held his hand to his heart—“I can’t imagine living without her.”

Palmer nodded, chuckling. “It’s hopeless, then.” He raised his glass for a toast. “To the lovely Josephine, and may you have many happy years together.”

They drank. “Now, what do we do about Serena? A frontal assault is out of the question.”

Palmer refilled their glasses. “Can’t just throttle her, either. Warwick might take exception.”

Sinclair sat up straight. The solution he’d been seeking was simplicity itself. Make something change. “We’ll attack from the flank.”

“Eh?”

“We’ll need your wife’s help, as well as my mother and Lady Fitzwater.” Sinclair explained his idea, and they spent the next hour planning their strategy.

That night, Sinclair dreamt he was waltzing with Quincy at the charity ball. She was soft and warm in his arms, light on her feet, her faint but intoxicating scent of lemon wafting about them. His angel, the love of his life, her smile so sweet and meant just for him that his heart swelled until it felt too large to fit within his chest.

Everyone important in his life was present—his mother, her grandmother, sister, their friends. All were watching them dance together, graceful, in perfect harmony.

Until his leg gave way.

Quincy slipped from his grasp as he collapsed in an ungainly heap at her feet. Everyone laughed. Pointed at him. Laughing, taunting, jeering. They called him cripple. His leg was on fire, the pain making his eyes water, nausea washing over him. But worse than that—Quincy kept waltzing, with another partner who appeared from nowhere. The faceless man danced away with her in his arms. She didn’t even look back.

Sinclair sat bolt upright in bed, panting, sweat trickling down his face. He ran a hand through his hair. “Just a dream,” he muttered. “Just a dream.” He slid out of bed to splash his face with water. Back under the sheets, his pulse gradually slowed but the images from the dream refused to fade. The clock struck two. He lay there the rest of the night, wide awake, his leg throbbing, the dream playing in his mind over and over.

“I can’t believe we’re going to a ball, Jo!” Melinda fidgeted while Quincy did up the buttons on her dress for the charity ball—their first ball ever.

“Me too.” No fairy godmother required; it had been her own doing. Hers, and Sinclair’s, and his mother’s. Emotionally exhausted by vacillating between the elation of getting to dance with Sinclair tonight, and the agony of knowing that tomorrow she would return to her cottage, never to see him again, she had settled for trying to enjoy each moment as it came.

Mel’s buttons done up, Quincy spun around so her sister could do hers in return. Since it was also likely their last ball, she was determined that Mel should enjoy the evening to the fullest.

She straightened her gown and peered in the mirror. Melinda and Jill had made another beautiful creation for her, this one in light green silk with emerald ribbons. It brought out the green in her eyes, the red highlights in her auburn hair. It made the best of her figure, such as it was. Her foolish, feminine side hoped Sinclair liked it. The dress, too. Perfect for dancing, it had full skirts that swirled around her ankles, revealing a peek at her silk stockings—one of the few luxurious purchases she’d allowed herself.

In less than an hour she’d get to dance with Sinclair. She’d dreamt about it countless times, and at last it was about to happen for real. They would be in public, with hundreds of other attendees, but she didn’t care. Sinclair. Holding her in his arms again.

It would be torture, having only this night, this one chance to dance with him. She had agreed to come back to help Lady Sinclair, and now that obligation was almost fulfilled. Tomorrow she would begin preparations for moving to the cottage.

But tonight…

“If you can drag yourself away from your reflection for a moment, would you help me with my hair, please?”

“Of course, Mel.” Quincy put aside her ruminations and returned to practical matters. Once Mel was satisfied with her own chignon, she turned to Quincy’s hair.

Quincy was about to embark on her first major public appearance as a female with a secret past that wasn’t so secret. She checked that Sinclair’s white glove, her good luck charm, was tucked in her reticule. Tonight she’d need all the luck she could get.

Soon they were both ready, and with Grandmère, met Sir Leland and Lady Fitzwater in the hall, and the five set off in the Fitzwater carriage. To distract herself from worrying about making a fool of herself at the ball, Quincy decided to play matchmaker. She made certain that Mel was squeezed between herself and Sir Leland for the ride, with Leland on the far left so that Mel was not on his blind side. Quincy took up more than her share of the bench, making Mel sit even closer to Leland.

“No need to be nervous, my dear,” Lady Fitzwater said, patting Quincy’s knee. “Your beau has everything well in hand.”

“My what? And what is well in hand?”

Melinda rested her hand on Quincy’s lap, where Quincy had unconsciously been shredding a handkerchief. Quincy tucked the shreds into her reticule.

“About the duchess, of course.”

Quincy’s stomach flipped again. “What about the duchess?”

“Sinclair didn’t tell you? Naughty boy.” Lady Fitzwater clucked her tongue.

“Fitzy, I’ll handle this.” Grandmère leaned forward. “While you had your final fittings today, we—that is, Lady Sinclair, Lady Palmer, Fitzy and I—spread a little gossip on our morning calls.”

“Gossip?”

“Not gossip, really,” Lady Fitzwater said. “Just the tale of how you and Sinclair met.”

“How we met?” Not caring that she sounded like a parrot, Quincy fell back against the cushions, feeling faint.

“It’s all part of his plan to thwart Serena,” Melinda said.

The coach pulled up just then, preventing Quincy from extracting any further details. She exited the coach first and waited on the sidewalk for the others to join her. Music floated on the night air, as the musicians inside the town house tuned their instruments.

Without consulting her, Sinclair had put a plan in motion to thwart Serena, which involved spreading word of how she and Sinclair had actually met. Compared to this, the first time she’d appeared in public wearing breeches and chopped-off hair had been a snap. And just as life-altering.

Thompson and Grimshaw stepped outside and assisted Grandmère indoors and up the stairs. Much as Quincy wanted to turn back and go home, she hurried after them.

In the hall, Jack and a new one-armed footman were taking wraps from arriving guests. Harper spotted her amidst the mass of bodies, and abandoned his post by the ballroom door.

“Miss Quincy, may I say what a pleasure it is to see you again.” He bowed deeply.

Quincy saw a flash of gold. “Harper, you old dog!” Ignoring everyone else in the foyer, she wrapped the butler in a hug, and ended it by grabbing his left hand and staring at the gold ring. “This was the reason for your holiday? And where is Mrs. Hamm—, er, Mrs. Harper?”

“Right behind you, dearie.”

Quincy spun around. The housekeeper looked years younger and her eyes twinkled. Quincy wrapped her in a hug, too. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. So much has changed, and so quickly! When Harper and I returned from our honeymoon, we found we have two new maids, and a scullery maid, all orphans, and—”

“Don’t forget the new footmen, Mrs. H.”

“Right you are, Mr. H. Two new footmen, foot
boys
, actually, and…”

As the housekeeper prattled on, Quincy felt suffused with warmth. She’d missed these friends dreadfully.

While she chatted, Grimshaw and Thompson helped Grandmère up the staircase to where Lady Sinclair formed the receiving line with Lord Coddington at her side. Lady Sinclair was resplendent in a yellow silk gown, her face lit up with a bright smile.

But where was Sinclair? Quincy’s stomach did another flip. She hurried up the stairs, trailing Melinda, who clung to Leland’s arm. Grandmère and Lady Fitzwater had already moved on to the ballroom.

“Ready for your debut, Jo?” Lady Sinclair pressed Quincy’s icy fingers between her warm hands.

The butterflies were back, in full force. She stood straighter. “Yes.”

“Everything will be fine, I promise you.” Lady Sinclair kissed her on the cheek. “Now, if I could just locate my son…”

The musicians finished tuning and began playing. Everyone but their little group drifted into the ballroom. With the hall almost empty, Quincy saw Sinclair approach from the far end. He looked magnificent in black evening clothes, an emerald stickpin winking in the candlelight from the folds of his cravat. The butterflies in her stomach evaporated. It was ridiculous, how good she felt just seeing him again. Soon she’d be in his arms.

But he was taking an awfully long time to arrive. The rose fog cleared, and she realized his movements were slow, his gait deliberate and painstaking. She went to meet him.

“You came down the back stairs, didn’t you?” she said as he raised her hand to his lips.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Sinclair said, lowering her hand but not releasing it.

“You only do that when you’re hurting, so no one will see.” She leaned around him, looking for telltale signs of dust on the seat of his trousers.

“It’s nothing.” Sinclair pulled her back. “I am fine.”

“You are not fine, you’re limping. Badly.” She touched his right thigh. “What happened?”

Sinclair pulled both her hands into one of his and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I’m gratified by your interest in my person, but it’s nothing, really.”

At her growl of exasperation, he relented. “I may have overdone my physical training in the last day or so. And had a minor accident involving a wet bar of soap. But I am fine.” He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek and lowered his voice. “Nothing will keep me from dancing with you tonight, my sweet, and holding you in my arms.”

“But your leg, you need to rest—”

“I will, tomorrow.” A devilish glint came into his eyes. “Consider that if you’d but marry me, I’d get a great deal of bed rest. Well, perhaps not rest, but we’d certainly spend plenty of time in bed.”

Shocked at his words, Quincy felt the blush to the tips of her toes, and a shudder of excitement. She blushed even hotter.

He gave her a knowing smile, the wretch. “Go join your grandmother before she sends out a search party, and I shall play the good host before Mama shoots me.” He kissed her hand once more and pushed her toward the ballroom.

Harper announced the group stepping through the doorway before her, then whispered an apology that he had already announced her when the rest of her party had entered, not realizing that she had, ahem, lollygagged with his lordship.

Thompson was waiting for her just inside. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Quincy,” he said, “I’ll show you to Lady Bradwell.”

She trailed Thompson through the crowd. The room was rapidly filling with people, most of whom she recognized from morning calls though she’d forgotten their names.

“Such a romantic tale,” she overheard one matron saying to another. Thompson stopped, mostly hidden by a potted palm, and held one finger to his lips. Quincy peered between the palm fronds, and recognized the speaker as Lady Barbour, one of Lady Sinclair’s friends.

“Most romantic,” Lady Barbour continued. “I wasn’t the least surprised, you know. Her grandparents met through unconventional means, too. It’s in the blood.”

“Oh, yes, blood will tell,” her companion replied. “I remember Randolph Quincy well.” She gave a dramatic sigh, and both ladies giggled.

Matrons giggling over her grandfather? The two ladies moved on, and after a moment, so did Thompson and Quincy. He stopped at the next palm, however, in time for Quincy to eavesdrop on Lady Danforth and a friend.

“…And so Sinclair went along with her charade. He couldn’t in good conscience let her family suffer.”

“But wearing trousers!”

“Oh, pish. I’ve thought of wearing them myself a time or two. They look to be quite comfortable for gardening or riding.”