Free What an Earl Wants by Shirley Karr

not planned, I assure you,” he added softly as he stumbled from the room, his limp more pronounced than usual.
    Quincy leaned against the desk, hand over her pounding heart, trying to regain control of her breathing. His anger had been almost as startling as his touch, as he fumbled with her cravat, his fingers brushing her chin. Smoothing her lapels, his palms flat against her chest.
    “Would you care for a brandy, Mr. Quincy?” Harper closed the door behind him and poured two drinks. “I’ve ordered the carriage brought ’round for you, as his lordship requested.” The butler handed her one of the glasses, then sat on the sofa. “Drink up, lad. It’ll steady your nerves.” Quincy was vaguely surprised to see the butler making free with the earl’s finest brandy, but shrugged it off.
    She took a sip and coughed as it burned its way down her throat, then set the glass on the desk, her hand shaking too much to hold it steady.
    Harper swallowed his glassful in two gulps. “Lord knows we all need a drink when he gets like this. Damnable weather.” He got up to stare out the window at the pouring rain. “But you’ll get used to it, just as we all have.”
    “Are you saying the rain makes Sinclair drink too much?”
    “Well, it doesn’t help matters. He missed the step getting out of the carriage this morning. Landed on his bad leg. Broderick is tending to him now, but don’t be surprised if he’s not quite himself for a few more days. Takes him longer to recover when the weather is cold and wet.”
    Quincy mouthed a silent “Oh.”
    Harper let the curtain fall back as the carriage came into view, and handed Quincy her hat and gloves. “Don’t judge him too harshly, lad. He did insist the carriage take you home, and pick you up in the morning if it’s nasty out.” His expression relaxed, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “The way I see it, London streets are always nasty, don’t you think?”
    “Thank you, Mr. Harper. You’re very kind.” She smiled at the older man. “And I will reserve judgment, as you suggest.” But the truth was, Quincy had already passed judgment on her new employer. Even with this afternoon’s outburst, she liked him quite fine.
     
     
    “Good morning, my lord. How are we feeling this morning?”
    “We have a devil of a head, you dolt. Lower your voice.” Sinclair opened one eye enough to see daylight peeking between his lashes. Too much. He flung an arm over his face. “Broderick, you idiot, close the curtains.”
    “They are closed, my lord.”
    Sinclair moved his arm. “Then have them replaced with something more substantial. Tomorrow. Not today. I don’t want anyone in here today.” He sat up, slowly, so his head could keep up with his shoulders.
    Broderick plumped the pillows behind him and thrust a mug filled with a foul-smelling brew into his hand. “It will soon be summer, my lord, and the weather will be warm, and the incessant rain will stop.”
    “And then it will soon be winter, and we’ll go through it all over again. Bah.” He tasted the brew and grimaced, then drained the mug.
    “Ah, but by then you’ll be much better. Think how far you’ve come already!”
    Sinclair glared at the wall while Broderick pulled back the covers, raised his nightshirt, and massaged liniment on his thigh. He could barely tell which throbbed more, his head or his leg.
    Definitely his leg. From his hip to his ankle it was one long throbbing ache, deep in the bones, sometimes so intense it made his eyes water.
    When he’d come to his senses after Waterloo, in those first dark days when he’d prayed for an angel of mercy to ease his misery, laudanum kept the pain at bay, kept him sane. But soon he needed it even when he felt no pain, and he’d given it up before losing himself to the drug. The only thing left to deaden the pain was alcohol, and he’d developed quite a tolerance for it. Even his mother couldn’t tell when he drank more than usual.
    But his new secretary