duty.” He absently rubbed the heel of his hand over his right thigh. “I would probably have done so last year, if not for,” he glanced at his hand, “distractions.”
So, Lord Sinclair did not consider himself to be in love with anyone. Why should that suddenly make her feel relieved?
“And Mr. Quincy?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You really need to work on schooling your expression next time a young miss makes an advance toward you.”
“Next time?” Quincy’s cheeks burned. “There won’t be a next time. Miss Ogilvie was just, ah, fast.”
“Oh, I’m certain there will be a next time. For some reason, the ladies seem to find you…irresistible.”
Her cheeks felt positively aflame as Sinclair chuckled, though she couldn’t help a small smile of her own. “Lady. Singular. And Miss Ogilvie is, well, she’s nearly desperate. As soon as her companion makes a match, Miss Ogilvie will be cast aside, and Lady Hu—that is, Lady Cecilia is intent on making a match quite soon.”
Sinclair leaned forward on the sofa to see behind the desk, his gaze sweeping Quincy from head to toe, making her blush even hotter. He tapped his chin with one finger, studying her. At last he nodded. “Irresistible.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook one finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. We shall see who is proven correct at Mama’s next matchmaking tea.”
Next?
Chapter 5
S inclair stepped out of Henry Angelo’s, still breathing hard from his training session. The pleasant mood from exercising was quickly fading, as his body reminded him of all his aches. Soaked with perspiration, his clothes clung to him, suffocating him. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes, mixing with the big drops of cold rain blowing sideways in the stiff spring breeze.
Precipitation was welcome at the moment—he imagined steam rising from his shirt collar as the droplets fell—though he’d be shivering by the time he reached home. Broderick would use it as an excuse to make him drink one of those foul-tasting tisanes his valet swore by. Sinclair grimaced, adjusted his grip on his walking stick, and started down the steps to the street.
“Sorry ’bout that last flèche, old chap,” said a voice from behind. The tone conveyed the opposite meaning.
Sinclair waited until he reached the secure footing of the sidewalk before turning to face the speaker, the son of his father’s rival. “No apology needed, Twitchell.” He forced facial muscles into a smile instead of cracking the man over his skull with the walking stick.
“Thought you’d be more agile by now, though I s’pose you’re lucky to be on your feet at all.” Twitchell adjusted his hat.
Sinclair managed a stiff nod, but was spared having to reply, as Twitchell’s coach pulled up and the twit wasted no time getting in out of the rain.
The nasty business between their fathers had ended five years ago with both men dead, but Twitchell would likely carry a grudge against the Sinclair family into his own grave.
Sinclair had no time or energy to spare for such foolishness. He continued alone toward home, struggling with each step. He’d been increasing the length of his fencing sessions by a few minutes each week, but since hiring Miss Quincy, he’d felt even more impatient to get back to his former self. Perhaps the extra hour today had been a tad too much.
Perhaps he should set his next goal to be free of the limp by the time he had to let her go. Was that feasible? She would only be around a fortnight longer. A month at most. He nodded. Seemed a reasonable goal.
Thinking of the secretary, he pictured Miss Quincy poring over the ledger books at his desk, nibbling on the end of a pencil as she deciphered Johnson’s scrawl. From her perch in his big leather chair, she often crossed her ankles and swung her feet when she was deep in thought—an innocent, carefree gesture so delightfully in contrast to her usual no-nonsense attitude.
He’d teased her
So, Lord Sinclair did not consider himself to be in love with anyone. Why should that suddenly make her feel relieved?
“And Mr. Quincy?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You really need to work on schooling your expression next time a young miss makes an advance toward you.”
“Next time?” Quincy’s cheeks burned. “There won’t be a next time. Miss Ogilvie was just, ah, fast.”
“Oh, I’m certain there will be a next time. For some reason, the ladies seem to find you…irresistible.”
Her cheeks felt positively aflame as Sinclair chuckled, though she couldn’t help a small smile of her own. “Lady. Singular. And Miss Ogilvie is, well, she’s nearly desperate. As soon as her companion makes a match, Miss Ogilvie will be cast aside, and Lady Hu—that is, Lady Cecilia is intent on making a match quite soon.”
Sinclair leaned forward on the sofa to see behind the desk, his gaze sweeping Quincy from head to toe, making her blush even hotter. He tapped his chin with one finger, studying her. At last he nodded. “Irresistible.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook one finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. We shall see who is proven correct at Mama’s next matchmaking tea.”
Next?
Chapter 5
S inclair stepped out of Henry Angelo’s, still breathing hard from his training session. The pleasant mood from exercising was quickly fading, as his body reminded him of all his aches. Soaked with perspiration, his clothes clung to him, suffocating him. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes, mixing with the big drops of cold rain blowing sideways in the stiff spring breeze.
Precipitation was welcome at the moment—he imagined steam rising from his shirt collar as the droplets fell—though he’d be shivering by the time he reached home. Broderick would use it as an excuse to make him drink one of those foul-tasting tisanes his valet swore by. Sinclair grimaced, adjusted his grip on his walking stick, and started down the steps to the street.
“Sorry ’bout that last flèche, old chap,” said a voice from behind. The tone conveyed the opposite meaning.
Sinclair waited until he reached the secure footing of the sidewalk before turning to face the speaker, the son of his father’s rival. “No apology needed, Twitchell.” He forced facial muscles into a smile instead of cracking the man over his skull with the walking stick.
“Thought you’d be more agile by now, though I s’pose you’re lucky to be on your feet at all.” Twitchell adjusted his hat.
Sinclair managed a stiff nod, but was spared having to reply, as Twitchell’s coach pulled up and the twit wasted no time getting in out of the rain.
The nasty business between their fathers had ended five years ago with both men dead, but Twitchell would likely carry a grudge against the Sinclair family into his own grave.
Sinclair had no time or energy to spare for such foolishness. He continued alone toward home, struggling with each step. He’d been increasing the length of his fencing sessions by a few minutes each week, but since hiring Miss Quincy, he’d felt even more impatient to get back to his former self. Perhaps the extra hour today had been a tad too much.
Perhaps he should set his next goal to be free of the limp by the time he had to let her go. Was that feasible? She would only be around a fortnight longer. A month at most. He nodded. Seemed a reasonable goal.
Thinking of the secretary, he pictured Miss Quincy poring over the ledger books at his desk, nibbling on the end of a pencil as she deciphered Johnson’s scrawl. From her perch in his big leather chair, she often crossed her ankles and swung her feet when she was deep in thought—an innocent, carefree gesture so delightfully in contrast to her usual no-nonsense attitude.
He’d teased her
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