From the Publisher

A delightful Regency–era tale of an earl who always gets his way and the woman who is determined to resist his charms...by an exciting debut author!

The Earl of Sinclair is fit to be tied! His servants have been pairing up and eloping, leaving the rest of his household staff referring to him as the matchmaking earl. His newest hire is his secretary Quincy.

It isn't long before his insolent employee wraps the household staff around his finger, which Sinclair is willing to overlook, especially when he realises that the backside he finds himself constantly staring at is not that of a boy, but of a full–grown woman! Quincy never actually lied; she simply never said she wasn't a he.

Desperate for employment, she dressed as any secretary would and let her employer make his own assumptions. Now if only she can keep her mind on her work instead of Sinclair's devilish charm, she just may stop herself from falling in love with him.

Product Details

• Read an Excerpt
• Read a Sample Chapter

Read an Excerpt

What an Earl WantsChapter One

London
March 1816

"It ain't my job," cried a feminine voice out in the hall. " 'T'ain't mine, neither," a male voice replied. More voices joined in the squabble, and the volume rose.

Benjamin, Earl of Sinclair, leaned forward in his leather chair and wondered what else would go wrong today. He stared at the young applicant seated across the desk from him, who stared calmly back, unfazed by the shouting match. Just as Sinclair was about to rise to quiet down the servants, the group moved on. Silence reigned at last.

"Why should I hire you, Mr. Quincy?" Sinclair sank back into the chair cushion.

Blast. Now he couldn't see over the ledgers and papers piled on his desk. He sat forward again, studying the young man seated opposite. "I've already interviewed five other secretaries this morning, each with more experience than you. I doubt you even shave yet."

Quincy adjusted one clean but frayed cuff, his gaze never leaving Sinclair's. "Is shaving a requirement for the position?"

Sinclair blinked in surprise. He propped his boot heels on one corner of the desk, sending a pile of folios sliding to the floor. They disappeared amongst other piles already littering the carpet. He stared at Quincy from around a remaining, quivering stack. "I haven't decided yet."

Another commotion in the hall made them both glance at the door. Voices rose and fell, then faded away altogether, and Sinclair returned to the task at hand. He picked up a sheet of foolscap from a pile still balanced on his desk. "Since you've only had one previous employer, and you say Baron-" he glanced at the signature at the bottom ofthe sheet "-Bradwell recently died, I can't even verify this reference. How do I know it's not a fake?"

"You don't." Quincy pushed his spectacles farther up on the bridge of his nose, concealing the expression in his gray eyes. Or were they green?

Sinclair studied the lad. Though wearing a threadbare coat, the set of his shoulders spoke of confidence, and the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. Quincy might desperately need this job, but he wasn't begging for it. Another, still louder commotion in the hall interrupted Sinclair's perusal.

It was beyond Sinclair how being short by just one maid could cause such chaos. Why weren't the upper servants handling this? Sinclair slid his heels off the desk, stalked to the door, and yanked it open. Half his household staff stood clustered in the hall, abruptly silent at his appearance. "Do you mind?"

The servants scattered amid a chorus of "Beg pardon, milord" and "Won't 'appen again, milord."

By Juno, he'd had more peace and quiet when they camped a mile from Boney's forces. Sinclair returned to his chair with a sigh and propped his feet once more on the desk. "Give me one good reason why I should hire you, Quincy. Just one."

Quincy gestured toward the door. "I could get your business affairs in order, so you would be free to get your household affairs in order."

Sinclair shook his head. "Any of the men I interviewed this morning could do that. Why should I hire you?"

Quincy pushed his spectacles up again. "I can forge your signature."

Sinclair's feet slammed to the floor, all annoyance gone. "The devil you say."

The young man continued as though discussing the weather. "As my employer, you could supervise my activities. Make certain they were in your best interest."

Sinclair raised one eyebrow. "I could have you thrown in Newgate."

"You could, but that would be a waste, wouldn't it, my lord?" Quincy pointed at the mountain of mail teetering between them on the desk. "If I were in prison, I wouldn't be able to save you from all that dull paperwork. You should be out tending your properties or attending balls and such, not here signing every little thing."

"Little things such as bank drafts?"

He watched as Quincy glanced around the room, at the thick Turkish carpet and two floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with leather-bound books. Quincy stood, and stepped over the debris as he walked past the red-striped armchair that clashed wonderfully with the burgundy leather wing chair, to the mahogany side table supporting a silver tea service. "Judging by this room, I would wager bank drafts are never 'little' where you are concerned, my lord." He wiped one gloved finger through the dust on the table. "Though perhaps you should find a replacement for the downstairs maid before you go off to your properties."

Sinclair allowed one side of his mouth to curve up. Intrigued by the cheeky lad, he rummaged through one of the piles on his desk. "Here's an invitation I don't wish to accept. Let's see how you handle it."

"Certainly, my lord." Quincy took the invitation, read it, then unearthed the inkwell and a pen while Sinclair searched the desk drawers for a clean sheet of paper. A few moments later, Quincy handed over a neatly penned missive. It bore Sinclair's signature at the bottom.

Sinclair frowned as he studied the note. "Very diplomatic refusal. As it happens, I do have another engagement that evening. But the body of the note is written in a different hand than the signature."

"Of course. My writing, your signature. Your own mother could not tell it's not by your hand."

"Damned if you aren't right." Sinclair glanced from the mountain of newspapers and ledgers to the young man, then to the clock striking the hour, and grimaced. Late again. He shuffled a few folios together, casting another look at the lad. Quincy held Sinclair's gaze, unblinking.

Sinclair never had been able to resist a puzzle, and the impertinent pup intrigued him. Five years as a cavalry offi- cer had trained him to make decisions quickly and follow his instincts, and those instincts shouted at him to keep the young man around. All was not as it seemed ...

Read a Sample Chapter

What an Earl Wants

Avon Books

Chapter One

London
March 1816

"It ain't my job," cried a feminine voice out in the hall. " 'T'ain't mine, neither," a male voice replied. More voices joined in the squabble, and the volume rose.

Benjamin, Earl of Sinclair, leaned forward in his leather chair and wondered what else would go wrong today. He stared at the young applicant seated across the desk from him, who stared calmly back, unfazed by the shouting match. Just as Sinclair was about to rise to quiet down the servants, the group moved on. Silence reigned at last.

"Why should I hire you, Mr. Quincy?" Sinclair sank back into the chair cushion.

Blast. Now he couldn't see over the ledgers and papers piled on his desk. He sat forward again, studying the young man seated opposite. "I've already interviewed five other secretaries this morning, each with more experience than you. I doubt you even shave yet."

Quincy adjusted one clean but frayed cuff, his gaze never leaving Sinclair's. "Is shaving a requirement for the position?"

Sinclair blinked in surprise. He propped his boot heels on one corner of the desk, sending a pile of folios sliding to the floor. They disappeared amongst other piles already littering the carpet. He stared at Quincy from around a remaining, quivering stack. "I haven't decided yet."

Another commotion in the hall made them both glance at the door. Voices rose and fell, then faded away altogether,and Sinclair returned to the task at hand. He picked up a sheet of foolscap from a pile still balanced on his desk. "Since you've only had one previous employer, and you say Baron—" he glanced at the signature at the bottom of the sheet "—Bradwell recently died, I can't even verify this reference. How do I know it's not a fake?"

"You don't." Quincy pushed his spectacles farther up on the bridge of his nose, concealing the expression in his gray eyes. Or were they green?

Sinclair studied the lad. Though wearing a threadbare coat, the set of his shoulders spoke of confidence, and the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. Quincy might desperately need this job, but he wasn't begging for it. Another, still louder commotion in the hall interrupted Sinclair's perusal.

It was beyond Sinclair how being short by just one maid could cause such chaos. Why weren't the upper servants handling this? Sinclair slid his heels off the desk, stalked to the door, and yanked it open. Half his household staff stood clustered in the hall, abruptly silent at his appearance. "Do you mind?"

The servants scattered amid a chorus of "Beg pardon, milord" and "Won't 'appen again, milord."

By Juno, he'd had more peace and quiet when they camped a mile from Boney's forces. Sinclair returned to his chair with a sigh and propped his feet once more on the desk. "Give me one good reason why I should hire you, Quincy. Just one."

Quincy gestured toward the door. "I could get your business affairs in order, so you would be free to get your household affairs in order."

Sinclair shook his head. "Any of the men I interviewed this morning could do that. Why should I hire you?"

Quincy pushed his spectacles up again. "I can forge your signature."

Sinclair's feet slammed to the floor, all annoyance gone. "The devil you say."

The young man continued as though discussing the weather. "As my employer, you could supervise my activities. Make certain they were in your best interest."

Sinclair raised one eyebrow. "I could have you thrown in Newgate."

"You could, but that would be a waste, wouldn't it, my lord?" Quincy pointed at the mountain of mail teetering between them on the desk. "If I were in prison, I wouldn't be able to save you from all that dull paperwork. You should be out tending your properties or attending balls and such, not here signing every little thing."

"Little things such as bank drafts?"

He watched as Quincy glanced around the room, at the thick Turkish carpet and two floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with leather-bound books. Quincy stood, and stepped over the debris as he walked past the red-striped armchair that clashed wonderfully with the burgundy leather wing chair, to the mahogany side table supporting a silver tea service. "Judging by this room, I would wager bank drafts are never ‘little' where you are concerned, my lord." He wiped one gloved finger through the dust on the table. "Though perhaps you should find a replacement for the downstairs maid before you go off to your properties."

Sinclair allowed one side of his mouth to curve up. Intrigued by the cheeky lad, he rummaged through one of the piles on his desk. "Here's an invitation I don't wish to accept. Let's see how you handle it."

"Certainly, my lord." Quincy took the invitation, read it, then unearthed the inkwell and a pen while Sinclair searched the desk drawers for a clean sheet of paper. A few moments later, Quincy handed over a neatly penned missive. It bore Sinclair's signature at the bottom.

Sinclair frowned as he studied the note. "Very diplomatic refusal. As it happens, I do have another engagement that evening. But the body of the note is written in a different hand than the signature."

"Of course. My writing, your signature. Your own mother could not tell it's not by your hand."

"Damned if you aren't right." Sinclair glanced from the mountain of newspapers and ledgers to the young man, then to the clock striking the hour, and grimaced. Late again. He shuffled a few folios together, casting another look at the lad. Quincy held Sinclair's gaze, unblinking.

Sinclair never had been able to resist a puzzle, and the impertinent pup intrigued him. Five years as a cavalry offi- cer had trained him to make decisions quickly and follow his instincts, and those instincts shouted at him to keep the young man around. All was not as it seemed ... Continues...

---

Excerpted from What an Earl Wants by Karr, Shirley Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---