A Promise by Daylight

CHAPTER THREE

“THIS ISN’T LIKE HIM, you know,” Harris said early that evening, taking a quick sip from a glass of wine before lowering himself into an armchair in Millie’s dressing room. Across the room, Millie busied herself arranging her medical supplies inside a small cabinet whose contents she’d transferred to the cupboards below the bookcase. “Not like him a’tall, and it’s making me bloody nervous.” He stretched out his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “And you getting to be upstairs. Wish he’d put me upstairs. Make it a good deal easier to access the side benefits.”

It wasn’t difficult to imagine what those side benefits might be.

Sacks, the duke’s valet, refilled his own glass. “You’re certain he said no visitors?” Sacks asked.

“No visitors,” Harris said emphatically, sipping his wine and frowning. “What can he be about?”

“Only let that princess present ’erself below, and ten to one ’is Grace would—”

“None. He said no exceptions.”

Millie smiled to herself as she arranged her new lints and bandages. Apparently His Grace was finally taking her advice seriously. He’d been appropriately clothed when she’d returned to change the dressings—at least, as much as was practical, given that he’d needed to disrobe almost entirely in order for her to remove and replace all the bandages. But there had been no more talk of copulation. In fact, he’d scarcely talked at all.

He’d flinched only a little and, during the worst parts, she’d heard him hiss.

“Perhaps,” she said over her shoulder to the two manservants, “what he’s about is rest. His wounds are quite serious,” she said. “They’ll be some time in healing, and I’ve advised him against all activity.”

“And all company?” Harris sat forward. “Good God, man, you’ll drive us to the madhouse!”

“Understand,” Sacks told her, putting his glass down and walking to the chamber stool in the corner, “’tis more than just the injuries. He hasn’t been ’imself.”

Millie turned back to her medicines when Sacks reached for the front of his breeches.

“His Grace not being himself is bound to have a negative effect on my own self,” Harris groused.

Sacks made a noise while he rearranged his breeches. “Side benefits are bound to be significantly reduced. You’ve got to restore ’im quickly,” he said to Millie, as if it were that simple.

“I’m not a miracle worker,” she said.

“’Twas your news about the widow that got ’im started on all this,” Sacks accused Harris now.

“I could hardly keep the news from him,” Harris said irritably.

“What widow?” Millie asked.

“Wife of ’im that died in the accident,” Sacks told her. “’Is Grace keeps asking after them. Finally learned her whereabouts today—her and ’er five young ’uns.” He shook his head. “Pity, that is.” And then, to Harris, “But you could’ve waited a day or two.”

“The burial is tomorrow.”

“He’s not going anyhow.”

“But we couldn’t have known that, could we?” Harris snapped. “He ordered five hundred pounds sent this afternoon.”

“Five hundred!” Millie exclaimed, and almost knocked over a bottle of linseed oil.

“His Grace seems fixated on that accident,” Sacks said. “And now—” he shot a frown at Harris “—on the widow and young ’uns. If you ask me, it’s interfering with ’is recovery. What if he decides to go to that burial, after all?”

“His Grace will not be attending the funeral of an accounting clerk,” Harris said irritably, then tilted his glass toward Millie. “And you mustn’t allow him any manner of activity that will prolong the healing process.”

“Get him back to ’imself quickly,” Sacks said, “and you’ll have no end of interesting pastimes in these rooms.”

“I haven’t the least—” She caught herself and, instead, raised her brows in what she hoped was a semi-interested expression.

“No need to worry about the dangerous side of things. Just look in that drawer there.” He pointed to a side table with one small drawer. “Go on,” he grinned. “Find all the armor you need, just in case His Grace’s entertainments conveniently spill over into the adjoining rooms.”

Millie opened the drawer. Found a slender case containing—

A protective sheath for an anatomical organ she did not possess.

She snatched her hand away before thinking better of it, glanced over her shoulder to find Sacks grinning at her.

“Got a feeling our young medic ’ere is a virgin.”

Oh, dear God—it would never do for these two to think that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said evenly, and gave the sheath another look for good measure. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.” She smirked and replaced the cover. “Much obliged.”

“You won’t be sorry you took this employ,” Harris said, leaning back in the armchair, raising his wine-glass to his lips. “And if you can return His Grace to his former spirits quickly, neither will we.”

* * *

WINSTON LAY WITH a glass of cognac in his hand, nary a sound in the entire house, thinking about the accident, that bloody vow, that dead man’s widow and fatherless children.

He looked at the vast room—empty chairs, bare tables, closed drapes.

This is what it would always be like if he became the man Edward wanted him to be. Every bloody night for the rest of his life, if he kept that promise.

He got out of bed, took his drink off the night table and limped across the room to the card table. Sat down. Reached for the cards, shuffled, dealt a hand of solitaire.

Lost.

Lost again, and then a third time.

Finally he snatched the cards off the table and tapped them into a neat deck, knocking back several swallows of cognac, looking angrily around the room.

This was what considering his ways would entail. He would have to abandon his women, his friends, his entertainments. He stood up, felt a painful tug beneath his bandage and had to sit down again.

Devil take it.

He’d always done as he damned well pleased—every night, if he had a mind for it, which he usually did. Nobody even knew about that vow, least of all Edward. It wasn’t as if he’d pledged his support to a bill in the Lords or promised to protect a friend’s indiscretion. He’d merely made a tiny vow. One only he really knew about.

He was being nonsensical. A nonsensical, superstitious faux-puritan with a raging desire for a woman.

He stood up again, more carefully this time, and called for Sacks. He would dress and go out. Perhaps to Madame Gravelle’s. Plenty of opportunity there, and if he found himself a quiet corner—perhaps lounged himself on a chaise longue—he could indulge in any number of satisfying pastimes without risking further injury.

But struggling into his evening jacket was a devil, and standing made the wounds on his leg throb, and even after he sat down they continued to ache, and he finally had to accept that there would be no going to Madame Gravelle’s tonight.

“Call Mr. Germain,” he snapped, breathing deeply against the pain, sitting in an armchair in his dressing room after Sacks had removed the jacket.

His prune-lipped doctor appeared moments later. When she saw him, her expression softened in a way she would need to learn to control if she wanted her disguise to be effective for any length of time.

“What have you done?” she asked with something like irritation.

“I shall be doing nothing, as it turns out.”

“You can’t possibly have imagined you’re fit enough to go out. Oh, for heaven’s sake. You should return to your bed at once.”

“I need some entertainment.”

“Entertainment is the last thing you need. Rest and abstinence is what’s called for, and you’ve made an excellent start by getting rid of your guests.”

“Rest and abstinence are the problem,” he snapped. “My existence has become downright monastic in a matter of hours.”

“Do monasteries have statues of copulating couples?”

Those words, coming from her prunish lips, nearly made him laugh. “Now there would be a cruel form of torture,” he said irritably. “Poor bastards.”

He tried to imagine himself truly living a monastic life. For God’s sake, even Edward didn’t live that way. He had Cara, and—

Christ. Cara was the last person he wanted to think of now.

He stood up, starting for his bedchamber, his bed, but got an idea and veered toward the card table instead. “Sit,” he ordered.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Why does anyone sit at a card table?”

“I don’t wish to play cards.”

“I do wish to, and you are the only one here aside from Sacks and Harris.”

“I’m quite certain either of them would be happy to oblige.”

Sacks and Harris were happy to participate in most any kind of amusement, but that was hardly the point. Winston paused. Stared at her. “You are in my employ, are you not?”

“Indeed I am, Your Grace, but I’ll not allow you to win away my advance earnings.”

“Ah, I see.” He pointed across the room. “Go look in that box. Bring it here.” He sat down and shuffled the deck, letting himself watch her legs as she walked over to the side table and retrieved the gilt box where he kept his coins. He watched her peek inside, thought he saw her physically react to the sight of the contents.

Interesting.

“We’ll use those,” he told her. “I shall even allow you to keep your winnings.” He would probably do well to let her win a few rounds, if only to avoid upsetting the person who held the incision knife. “We’ll consider it extra wages.”

She carried the box to the table, struggling visibly with its weight in a way a man would not have.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” she said sourly as she took the seat across from him.

He gestured to her to cut, and he followed, cutting the high card. Dealing put him at a disadvantage, but that was no matter in this case. “Tell me, Mr. Germain,” he said as he dealt the cards, “what exactly are the supposed benefits of your strict regimen of boredom and sexual frustration?”

“If you’re frustrated, it’s only because you surround yourself with reminders.” Her eyes stayed on her cards as she deftly sorted her hand. “Put away your knickknacks, and you will forget all about whatever you might be missing.”

“Much as they do in monasteries, hmm? I have to wonder how effective that strategy really is. Lust is a powerful force—certainly you’ve found that to be the case.”

“Indeed.” Her gaze fixed on his face, and he found her directness a bit unnerving. “I’ve found it can quite consume a man whose mind does not naturally lean toward substantive lines of thinking.”

He felt his lips twitch. “Perhaps you could share some examples of substantive thinking.”

“I would never presume to advise you on that subject.” She selected three cards from her hand, placed them facedown, and drew three replacements. “Certainly you are creative enough to find ways to occupy yourself until you’ve recovered.”

“Mmm.” He exchanged four of his own cards, deliberately discarding one that might have proved helpful. “Yes, I would say I’ve been described as somewhat creative.”

She raised her eyes from her cards. “Healthful ways of occupying yourself.”

“Such as?”

“I cannot pretend to know how men of leisure amuse themselves, but no doubt they have any number of interests and pastimes. Reading, for example.”

“Indeed. I read an amusing little novel last week about a young woman who fell prey to a libertine’s seduction and found a new life that she enjoyed to the fullest—although read may not be precisely the right word. There were an abundance of illustrations.”

“Some men read about scientific topics,” she said sternly, “or they read literature.”

“Do they.”

“Or they engage themselves in political subjects. You must have any number of political obligations demanding your attention.”

“I suppose I do, occasionally. It would seem you know more about men of leisure than you thought, Mr. Germain.”

“Some men enjoy horticulture, collecting insects, observing the fauna of a particular region,” she continued, completely ignoring his remark. “You could make a study of the natural world during your journey to Greece.”

“And yet I’m told at every turn that my efforts to...study the natural world are detrimental to my health and my soul.”

“There are any number of fascinating birds that dwell around the Greek isles.”

He couldn’t resist a grin. “Or on them.”

“I was not speaking with a double entendre, Your Grace.”

“Pity.”

They finished the hand. She came away the winner—and would have done even had he not exchanged that high card. On the start of the next hand, she had the dealer’s disadvantage.

She dealt the cards with an efficient familiarity, and he decided perhaps he would keep his advantageous cards this time.

“Tell me, Miles—you don’t mind if I address you as Miles, do you?—despite your disapproval of lusty pursuits and the double entendre, I’ll wager you’ve enjoyed a few women while you’ve been in Paris.”

“That isn’t something that I normally discuss—”

“Confess. At least one Parisienne has welcomed you to France with open thighs.”

“Not one, sir.”

“Not one? I find that very odd for a man of your obvious youth and vigor.”

“Not every man is entirely preoccupied with women—”

“Ah, I see. You prefer men. I do wish you’d told me before I sent Perry away. He had some thoughts about a possible companion whose company you may well have enjoyed—”

“That is not what I meant.” And now her temper was starting to rise, and her brown eyes that seemed so plain earlier took on a tigress sort of luster. “If you must know, in fact, I have enjoyed a woman or two in Paris.”

It was a blatant lie, of course, yet the very idea of it sent a lick of flame through his groin. He’d wager his entire collection of statuary that she’d never even enjoyed a man, let alone— Good God.

He reached for his drink. “Well, well, Miles, I daresay all this puritanical advice of yours is hypocrite’s talk.”

“Medical advice,” she corrected. “Besides, I am a man, after all.”

No. She was a woman, and a fairly young one, and despite her apparent skill at cards, almost certainly an untried one. Which meant he would not be having any real entertainment with her—not that he had any real desire to—because contrary to popular belief, he did have a code of ethics: no virgins.

It wasn’t as if he was seducing his way through England’s crop of young hopefuls and leaving a trail of ruination in his wake. Which was more than could be said of any number of men he knew.

The truth was, he was already a moral citizen. Edward ought to have been praising Winston’s restraint all these years instead of quietly suggesting that Winston reevaluate his priorities.

Change—and that vow—were entirely uncalled-for.

They finished the hand, and once again she bested him. Four more, and she’d won the game. Utterly trounced him.

She watched him with impassive eyes as he pushed a pile of coins across the table.

He raised a brow at her. “It would seem you learned more than just sailing during your four years at sea, Mr. Germain.”

* * *

IT WAS LATE when Millie finally returned to her room with a pocketful of coins.

The house was quiet, all the servants asleep.

But there was one person who was not asleep. She stared at the wall of her dressing room and imagined him just on the other side, preparing for bed, and a sensation fluttered deep in her belly.

She should have absolutely refused the card game. Two hours of bantering with him, of watching him from across the table, with that wicked smile that hypnotized her every time it touched his lips—watching him watch her with those dark eyes that glittered like obsidian with a wit and intelligence far deeper than his bawdy talk would suggest...

She went into her bedchamber, dumped the coins on the bed and counted them briskly, pushing away the image of him in her mind.

There was nothing deep about the duke. Quite the contrary. It was only too clear that she’d accepted employment with another Lord Hensley, after she’d sworn she would die before she would enter service to another disgusting lecher.

Disgusting? That’s not what you were thinking moments ago.

What she’d been thinking moments ago, she told herself sternly, was that this time she wore breeches, which would be a fair sight more difficult to reach into than her skirts had been to reach beneath—and this time, she was not the fearful, compliant girl she’d been while in Lord Hensley’s employ.

If His Grace attempted anything like what Lord Hensley had done, she would use her incision knife, and in a manner he would not soon forget.

She finished counting and sat for a moment with her hands around the coins, silently adding the sum to the wages she would receive.

With enough time in the duke’s employ, perhaps she could recoup the sums she’d lost. It made her ill just to think about all that money, gone. Five hundred pounds, stolen, ripped from her very hands. Slightly less than that left hidden aboard the Possession. And she would not be able to retrieve it, because she would never again be allowed to set foot aboard the ship.

Guilt stabbed her hard, and she squeezed her eyes shut against a past she could never undo. Friends betrayed. All of them—each and every one.

There was no one left.

For a moment the pain drove so deep she couldn’t breathe. But then she managed to inhale—a thin, reedy breath that barely filled her lungs.

She didn’t need anyone. She could survive on her own—she’d done it before.

Besides, a man wouldn’t need anyone to help him survive.

She scooped the coins into her hands, slid off the bed and carried them to her trunk, hiding them in the secret compartment at the very bottom. And then, snuffing the candle, she climbed into bed fully clothed. The wig felt lumpy and hard between her head and the pillow. But if she put on a nightshirt, and the duke had an emergency and found his way into her rooms...

Even a man’s nightshirt wouldn’t conceal the truth.

It wouldn’t be long. Only a matter of weeks before they arrived in Greece. And already, things had changed for the better because she’d left Millicent behind and become Miles. Miles Germain would not have to endure men taking lewd advantage. Miles would be taken seriously. He would be able to come and go freely. Miles would be welcome at the School of Anatomy and Surgery.

How much more would she be able to help people if she truly understood the body? If she could only see it—dissect it, explore it—so much more would make sense. Mysteries were hidden there. Treasures of knowledge that she wanted more than anything. All she had to do was imagine being at the school, participating in learned discussions about the latest medical theories, having access to thousands of texts, observing the dissection of cadavers—perhaps even participating in those, too—and she knew she could do anything the duke required of her.

If she were fortunate, she could make connections through the duke that would help establish her reputation after she’d finished at the school. Miles Germain, learned surgeon, would earn a handsome wage and be respected for his skills.

And when that day came, Millie would have no more reason to be afraid.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I MUST ADVISE against carriage travel, Your Grace,” Millie warned the next morning as she followed the duke down the main staircase. His greatcoat sat around his shoulders like a cape, unable to be worn properly because of his sling.

“Advice noted,” he said.

“Your wounds could easily be aggravated in a way that could cause your condition to worsen and your journey to be further delayed.”

“Advice noted, Mr. Germain.”

They exited the front door and climbed into the waiting coach—the two of them, alone, sitting across from each other as the coach lurched into motion. Millie grabbed for her medical bag to keep it from tumbling to the floor.

“If you must have your entertainment, then I highly suggest you have it at home,” she said irritably. If he thought he could drag her around Paris and force her to attend him at the city’s various houses of pleasure, he was very much mistaken. “I never agreed to provide my services at a brothel.”

He looked at her—expression blank, eyes inscrutable—and returned his gaze out the window, dark and pensive.

The coach clattered through the streets, grand and ornate with velvet cushions that felt like being seated on a cloud. She watched him brood in silence, noticed his jaw clench each time the coach hit a rut.

For heaven’s sake, what entertainment could possibly be worth what he must be suffering? The damage he would likely do to his wounds? She’d read about this kind of abnormality—men for whom no pleasure was ever enough, who exposed themselves to any kind of danger in pursuit of ever greater stimulation, until...

The coach slowed.

The duke’s lips thinned.

The coach came to a stop—

Next to a cemetery.

“Wait here,” he ordered when the coach door opened.

Dear God. Harris and Sacks had been mistaken. Lord Winston was attending the burial, after all.

She watched him climb out, clearly in considerably greater pain than when he had climbed in. A footman opened the cemetery gate, but he waved the servant away. Beyond, among the headstones, a group of people was already gathered. A fine mist put a sheen on every stone and blade of grass.

A woman dressed in black sank into a curtsy the moment he joined them. The duke reached out to stop her and pull her gently upright. Nearby, five children huddled together.

He ordered five hundred pounds sent this afternoon.

And now he was here, standing out in the drizzle with his injuries doubtless paining him like the devil, clasping his hands in front of him while a priest spoke at the edge of the grave.

Millie watched through the coach window. A slow bead of moisture skidded down the outside of the pane. Next to the grave, the widow held a handkerchief to her face.

When he finally turned back toward the coach, Millie scooted away from the window and opened her medical bag, pretending to be preoccupied with the contents.

He climbed carefully back into the coach. Settled against the seat. Inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “Sodding, bloody state of affairs,” he muttered as the coach rolled away.

“My condolences,” she said.

“I didn’t even know the man.” He stared out at the passing streets as they clattered back toward the house. “He left a widow and five children.” And that upset him. The distress was plain on his face.

“It was kind of you to think of them today,” she said.

“Kind.” The word shot from his lips, and his eyes shifted to her. “Kindness never raised the dead, Mr. Germain.”

“Perhaps not, but it shows them respect, and it comforts the living.” Which he already knew, or he would not have risked his own health to attend.