Thursday, she woke up breathless from a dream in which it was her hand upon Sinclair’s knee, and he wasn’t fending off her advance.
At work, she tried to concentrate on the books, but couldn’t help overhear Lady Sinclair’s comment about a particular Miss probably bearing beautiful sons and daughters. Nor could she miss the cool tone in Sinclair’s voice as he agreed Mama was probably correct but he would have no part in proving her theory.
Friday, just as Quincy was leaving for the day, he came into the library for a glass of brandy before escorting his mother to a ball, which was in addition to squiring her to a card party and two soirees earlier in the week.
“Forgotten how much I detest all this social folderol,” he had said, settling in the wing chair, his legs stretched out toward th
