What an Earl Wants
Page 37
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.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t—”
She shocked him into silence with a quick kiss on his mouth, and patted his leg. “Anything broken?”
He shook his head.
She turned both his palms over and eased his gloves off. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. The bleeding’s already stopped. Sometimes you can be so clumsy.”
Several people in the crowd gasped, but her comment had the desired effect on Sinclair. He sat up straighter, one corner of his mouth curved in a faint smile.
Heedless of her gown, Quincy rearranged herself until she was sitting cross-legged beside Sinclair, her full skirts in a puddle around her, still holding both of his hands in hers. “Your mother is a great hostess. Her ball will be talked about for weeks to come.”
Palmer dropped to the floor on the other side of Sinclair. “Her guests will be dining out on this story for the rest of the season,” he added as Lady Palmer joined them on the floor.
“Just this Season?” Melinda said, sitting next to Quincy. Sparing a glance for his best breeches, Leland shrugged and sat down, too.
“Let’s not be greedy,” Lady Sinclair said, as she and Fitzy sat down. “Another nine-days’ wonder will come along soon.”
“Perhaps we’re starting a new trend,” said Lady Danforth as her husband helped her down to the floor.
Surrounded by family and friends, Sinclair looked around in astonishment, watching the guests drop down with varying degrees of grace to sit on the floor, including, after a lengthy pause, Lord and Lady Bigglesworth. Even the colonel sat down cross-legged. All of the guests sat on the floor.
All except Serena, who was left standing, alone.
“If you can’t join us, we’ll join you,” Quincy said.
Sinclair’s breathing was almost back to normal. He cleared his throat and pitched his voice just loud enough for Quincy to hear him over the chattering crowd. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep my promise and give you the last waltz.”
Quincy leaned in close, her lips nearly brushing his ear, a tantalizing whiff of bay rum and essential Sinclair teasing her senses. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I love you, not your dancing ability.”
She wiggled closer to Sinclair, her voice at a normal pitch. “I think we can safely assume that everyone now knows I worked for you as Mr. Quincy.”
His brows raised. “You think?”
She pressed on, ignoring his sarcasm. “They seem to enjoy being in on it, rather than scandalized by it.” She glanced at the Bigglesworths. “Most of them, anyway.” She made sure Sinclair was looking her in the eye before she spoke again. “Listen carefully, because I don’t say this often. I was a fool.”
He didn’t contradict her.
“I should have trusted that you and your mother could handle whatever repercussions there might be.” She twined their fingers together. “Sinclair, will you marry me?”
The crowd fell silent.
For one heart-stopping second, Sinclair did nothing. Then he kissed her. He cradled her face in his powerful hands, his kiss demanding and accepting, tender and tantalizing, leaving her trembling when he whispered “Yes” against her lips.
The crowd cheered.
“That’s my Jo,” Grandmère said with a sniff. Lady Fitzwater handed her a handkerchief. “Never does anything by half.”
“About bloody time the Matchmaking Earl made a match for himself,” Leland announced.
Sinclair wrapped his arms around Quincy as the onlookers laughed. He should be ecstatic. After all, Quincy had just agreed to be his wife, or rather, asked him to be her husband. But one thing still bothered him. He tilted back in their embrace to see her face. “My leg is weak,” he said.
She looked puzzled. “And? So?”
As far as she was concerned, it didn’t signify.
With blinding clarity, Sinclair realized it really didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if he never walked without a limp. For all that, it didn’t matter if he never walked again.
Not when he had the woman he loved at his side. His throat clogged with emotion, he raised her hand to his lips.
“Besides,” Quincy said, leaning in close again, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “If we can’t waltz, I know you’ll make up for it later. Right after our wedding.”
Sinclair threw back his head and laughed. Heedless of the crowd, he pulled Quincy into his embrace. He had everything he wanted, right here in his arms.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my friends and critique partners, Betty, Jessica, Joey, and Maggie, whose unflagging encouragement and affectionate harassment kept me going.
None of this would have been possible without the loving support of my husband. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to finish and sell the @#$% book.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WHAT AN EARL WANTS. Copyright © 2005 by Shirley Bro-Karr. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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