Bloody hell. “You’re certain?”
“It’s been confirmed.”
Five children and a widow. Winston rubbed the back of his neck. “See that they receive a hundred pounds,” he murmured. “No. Five hundred.”
“Very good, Your Grace. I’ll see to it straightaway.”
Winston exhaled, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but that only made the problem worse. That face was always there—those sightless eyes staring at him while the man lay lifeless, his head cracked open by a piece of masonry that could just as easily have struck Winston. He could hear the screaming, the chaos of those crazed moments.
Now, a female hand smoothed over his chest. “Ça va?”
For a moment the courtesan’s perfume cloyed nauseatingly in his nostrils, but then he opened his eyes, drew his finger lazily across the top of her bosom. “Oui.”
She smiled and eased a hip onto the bed next to him.
Everything was fine. Or it would be, as soon as they were under way to Greece. He imagined the heady taste of Mediterranean wine, the even more intoxicating distraction of Grecian women and the exotic fantasies they would bring to life.
You vowed to put an end to all that.
Indeed. That was the other part of this entire debacle that would not let him alone: his private vow to reform. By God, I’ll be the man Edward wants me to be. The vow had exploded through his mind as he lay there in fiery pain, while people ran frantically around him, and even more masonry broke loose from that blasted building, crashing to the ground.
As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of stone hitting the street inches from his head.
He forced himself to smile when Hélène joined Marie on the edge of his bed, exchanged a few loaded remarks with the two of them, considered several possibilities for other ways they could entertain him.
Instead, he told them his side hurt. Told everyone he needed to rest. Instructed Harris to turn away any new visitors.
Ten minutes later, his rooms were empty. And now he lay there, irritated, wishing everyone back.
This was ridiculous. It was a freak accident—anyone could have been passing by that building when the facade fell. That falling masonry was not a sign from above. It was not a heavenly indictment of Winston’s life. The danger of those moments had gotten the better of him, that was all.
He’d made the kind of vow sailors made in a hurricane. The kind soldiers made on the battlefield.
They weren’t the kind of promises a man was meant to keep.
He was being superstitious. His best friend had been admonishing him since school days. Little surprise there, given that Edward was a vicar and couldn’t be expected to know about real life—the pleasures to be had that were just pleasures, nothing more, but made life worth living.
Consider your ways, Winston. That’s what Edward had always said. For God’s sake, what did that even mean?
Only a saint could live up to Edward’s standards.
He ought to have Harris summon his company back. Now, before he could change his mind again.
Instead, he called Sacks. “Bring Mr. Germain,” he said irritably. “I want my bandages checked.”
He thought of those pursed lips and almost smiled. Perhaps there was entertainment to be had, after all.
* * *
BY THE TIME the duke’s valet came to tell her that His Grace required her assistance, Millie had decided that if the mere mention of an incision knife was all it took to make the duke recoil, it would be a simple matter to keep the advantage over him for the remainder of her employment.
Mr. Sacks, the valet, was a short, brawny man with giant hands and dark bushy brows, and he stood expressionless as he waited in the doorway. Millie gathered up her medical bag and followed him to the duke’s rooms.
Where—unbelievably—the duke was alone.
Wearing nothing but his shirt.
“Mr. Germain, Your Grace,” Mr. Sacks announced unnecessarily.
“Excellent.” Reclining against his pillows, with a glass of liquor in his hand and the tails of his shirt covering him only to midthigh, the duke smiled. “That will be all.”
Mr. Sacks withdrew, and Millie plunked her medical bag on the card table by the window and reminded herself that the duke was just a man like any of the sailors she’d doctored aboard the Possession—no more, no less.
“A number of cuts and an immobilized arm that isn’t broken,” she recounted briskly from their earlier conversation as she dug through her bag for heaven knew what except a few moments to delay the inevitable. “Is that the complete list of your complaints?”
“Hardly,” came his cognac-roughened voice from the bed. “Among other things, there isn’t a single comfortable method of copulation.”
She paused for only a second. And, for that, she deserved a medal.
“I shouldn’t think there would be a single comfortable method of eating, sleeping, defecating or any of the body’s other natural functions, either, in your condition,” she said matter-of-factly. If he thought the young Miles Germain would be startled by the duke’s excesses, he would soon learn otherwise. “But I was asking about your injuries, Your Grace.”
“Forgive me—when you said complaints, it was my most pressing grievance that came to mind.”
“As well it should.” She turned from the card table. Hardly a surprise that he considered slaking his lust a more serious issue than an immobilized arm.
“Bad enough that a woman has two breasts while I only have one good hand,” he complained.
She smiled, tight-lipped, because a man would smile at such an idiotic statement. And she approached the bed, hoping that if she didn’t encourage him further they could be finished with talk of copulation and breasts.
One of his legs was severely bruised—black and purpling, wrapped in two places with bandages.
Without all his clothing, she would have thought he’d seem smaller.
“Of course,” he mused, raising his glass to his lips, “there is much one can do with a breast and one’s mouth.”
And no, of course they weren’t finished with lewd talk. Because they were supposedly two men, and men were never finished with lewd talk.
“What a miracle that your injuries have not entirely kept you from enjoying your company,” she said in her blandest tone.
“But they have kept me from enjoying it in an entirely satisfactory way, if you understand my meaning, Mr. Germain.”
“Perfectly, Your Grace. But you needn’t fabricate the situation to me.”
“Was I fabricating?”
“The body is less able to respond to stimulus when it is putting its efforts into healing itself. But rest assured that as the healing process continues, you’ll find yourself once again able to copulate to your full ability.”
“Oh, but you misunderstand, Mr. Germain. I don’t have a complaint of ability.”
She let her brows edge upward, as if just comprehending something new. “Oh. I see.”
“Good.”
“In that case, I shall prepare a concoction straightaway. We should foment the organ very often—perhaps even apply a poultice in a suspensory bandage—and with a strict regimen, things should clear up for you eventually—”
“Mr. Germain, that is not the issue.”
“You needn’t be embarrassed. And rest assured that should there be anything present that requires lancing, I will use my knife most delicately.”
“You will not come near my privates with a knife, Mr. Germain. Is that clear?”
She almost smiled. “Certainly.”
“And there is nothing in need of clearing up. Or...lancing.”
“I trust your word completely, Your Grace. And you may trust me not to reveal this conversation to a single soul. We shall simply pretend nothing was ever said about it.”
“Nothing was said about it,” he said with a hint of frustration.
“Exactly.” She continued her cursory examination, close enough
now to detect a spicy kind of musk on his skin and feel the whisper of breath on her cheek as she leaned forward to check his sling once more. And there was that sensation again—a quiet response to him, stirring in a deep, intimate place. She inhaled to cleanse it away, only managing to breathe in more of him.
“It’s a miracle no bones were broken,” she said, focusing intently on his shoulder.
She could sense him debating whether to press the point about the state of his manhood, but instead, “Indeed,” he said shortly.
“I shall need to see the wounds.” She backed away from the bed. He would have to sit up to remove his shirt.
When he did, he would be nude.
One male body is the same as the next. God knew she’d tended enough of them aboard the Possession.
He reached to set his glass on the bedside table, and his shirttails edged upward on one powerful thigh. A sudden frisson of anticipation had her turning toward her medical bag. But then, before she realized what he intended, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Turned his back to her. Grabbed his shirt with his good hand and pulled upward, revealing a solid pair of buttocks.
“Mr. Germain...”
“Of course,” she said quickly, tearing her eyes away from where they should not have strayed, helping him off with his shirt, seeing now that his other physician had dressed a handful of wounds down the left half of his back and his left thigh. Much of his torso was wrapped completely around with bandages and plasters to keep the compresses in place, and where the skin wasn’t covered, it was badly bruised.
Dear God.
She lifted the edge of a bandage on his back and sucked in a breath at the ragged wound beneath. He had to be in considerable pain. Gently she checked the others, found thankfully that the first was the most serious. “What a miracle none of the pieces struck you on the head or neck,” she said, more sincerely than she’d intended, and felt him tense.
She touched his skin, lightly, and heard him hiss. “How long before I’m fully recovered?” he asked.
“Weeks, certainly.”
“Weeks. What can you give me to hasten the process?”
“Only the natural course of time and healing will do that, I’m afraid.” Assuming the wounds didn’t fester and bring on a new fever.
Holding up his shirt like a shield in one hand, she moved around him and reached up to press the back of her fingers to his forehead. “Have you felt warm? Any sign that the fever is returning?”
“No warmer than usual,” he said.
She let her hand fall. And now she became too aware of his bare chest, the dark hair dusted across it, the bare hips visible on either side of the shirt hanging limply from her fist.
She looked him in the eye. “When was the last time you were bled?”
“Good God. Yesterday.”
“Hmm.” Perhaps she ought to bleed him again, just to be safe. But if it had only been yesterday...
She moved behind him again, leaned close to sniff the poultices. Yes, definitely turpentine. “I’d like to re-dress the wounds, as I suggested earlier. But I’ll need to prepare the dressings first. It shouldn’t take long.” She ran her fingers along a length of gauze that stretched across his lower back and heard him inhale sharply.
She pulled her hand away, and a warm sensation skittered up her arm.
His hand reached back. “My shirt.”
She gave it to him. Had to help him again, because he could not put it back on one-handed. He walked a few steps to the bedside table, keeping his back to her, and picked up his drink.
“Prepare the dressings,” he said a bit shortly. “I shall be ready.”
* * *
AND WHEN SHE RETURNED, Winston thought as she left, his body would have stopped responding to her touch and begun responding to the liquor he would need in order to bear the pain when she changed the bandages.
He glanced down at his tented shirttails and knocked back a swallow of liquor, a little disgusted with himself. He’d sent away all the beauties, so his anatomy was making do with what was available.
And what was available was a medic whose cheeks had pinkened during the examination, who had inspected him with eyes averted from his crotch, and whose small, capable fingers were too easy to imagine wrapped around his cock.
Or around a surgical knife. Good God.
He’d do well to dismiss her. Today, now, before she could do any damage.
But already he preferred her methods to that Parisian doctor whose thoughtless handling had nearly hurled him into unconsciousness from the pain. And something in her tone had him suspecting that whatever she planned to use on his wounds actually stood a chance of having some effect.
Miles Germain would stay. He would take her to Greece, perhaps even continue to entertain himself at her expense. But he’d be damned before he’d let her near his privates again.
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, c
ould 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.
A Promise by Daylight Page 3
