“Tell me, Mr. Germain...why do you want to go to Greece?”
* * *
MILLIE LOOKED AT him and decided there was no reason not to tell him the truth. “Not Greece, Your Grace. Malta.”
“Malta. What in God’s name would a—a young medic want there? Good God, tell me you don’t have fantasies of joining the order of Knights.”
“I have plans to attend the surgical school there.”
“The surgical school.” His brows furrowed.
“It is an excellent school,” she said stiffly. “Renowned for its teaching.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
He had?
“And you plan to...obtain a degree?” he asked, still observing her with knitted brows.
There was no reason the question should make her flush, but it did—sudden, hot blushes on the apples of her cheeks. She imagined the surgical school. She’d seen it plenty of times from the outside. Had seen the professors in their robes, students walking together deep in discussion.
The yearning to be a part of that drove so deeply it hurt.
“There’s nothing foolish about wanting a degree.” At least, not for Miles Germain.
“No, I suppose not.”
He supposed? “I may be young, but I have a great deal of experience. It’s education I lack, and that’s a deficit I plan to remedy at the first opportunity.”
“I see. And your father...is he a surgeon?”
“An apothecary.” Here, too, she could afford truthfulness.
“And so you learned your skills...”
“From my father. And my brother. And from reading, of course. I don’t have as many books as I’d like—” just the one now, or two counting the old volume she’d brought here from his Paris library “—but the few I have are excellent, and I’ve memorized every word.”
“I see,” the duke said. “And the reason you didn’t apprentice as an apothecary?”
“My older brother.”
“Of course.”
“He has my father’s shop now.” And the last time she’d seen him, he’d beaten her nearly to death for shaming the family with her world travels. “I was planning to ask whether, when my employment with you is ended, you might be so kind as to prepare me a letter of introduction that would help me when I reach Malta.”
He smiled a little, and she felt it in her knees. “I rather thought you might say you hoped I would personally enroll you. Malta is in the general vicinity of Greece, after all.”
“Whatever Your Grace thinks best.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to settle for a letter, Mr. Germain, assuming I recover successfully—” he leaned close “—because I am not. Going. To Greece.”
CHAPTER NINE
EVEN IF HE were going to take her to Greece, Winston thought in the carriage on his way to finally see Edward, he would go mad long before he arrived.
She was intelligent.
And driven—more so than most men he knew. Certainly more so than himself.
And she had the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen.
Which was obviously an exaggeration, and a testament to his new monastic mode of living, because he’d seen a great many breasts. Larger ones, certainly. Katja’s, for example, and what the devil her portrait was doing in his bedchamber this morning he didn’t know, but there bloody well would not be a repeat or someone would find himself transferred to the kitchens.
Malta’s School of Anatomy and Surgery. Yes, he’d heard of it. It was highly acclaimed, just as she’d said. And it was obvious that her desire to attend was not just a story made up as part of her disguise.
She—whoever she really was—wanted to attend for herself. And she likely planned to do it as Mr. Miles Germain.
Could it be possible that she planned to spend the rest of her life disguised as a man? Certainly difficult, but admirable in its commitment. Winston’s coach pulled up in front of the cottage next to the church and he got out, only to see Edward on the road some distance away, apparently walking home from somewhere.
They’d gone fishing mere weeks earlier, a few days before Winston had left for Paris.
Edward was his best friend. They’d grown up together—the heir to Winston and the son of the parish vicar, riding hell-bent across the countryside, hunting small game, climbing trees and walls and just about anything else that appeared scalable. He, Edward and Cara, the daughter of the village solicitor.
He stood watching the familiar, easy gait of his childhood friend and hated that part of him wanted to make a hasty excuse and climb back into the coach. At the same time, he didn’t want that at all. It was good to see Edward again.
Edward approached now, smiling quizzically. “You’re not in Greece.”
“No.” He was starting to wish Greece did not exist.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Edward said, and then just noticing, “Your shoulder— You’ve been injured? Is that why you’ve returned?”
“A minor accident in Paris.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. But you’re not too badly injured, it would seem.”
“A few cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious.” He hadn’t had trouble looking Edward in the eye—not in fifteen years. But now, suddenly, it seemed easier to survey the shrubbery near the church doors.
“Walk with me,” Edward said. “I just promised Mrs. Marsh I would pay respects to her husband.”
They went around the side of the church to the graveyard, and then it was either continue with Edward or admit that graveyards made him uneasy these days, so he stepped through the gate and onto the spongy grass.
He shouldn’t have come. He was doing just fine on his own. He was here at the estate, wasn’t he? Considering his ways while half of the decor in the house sat covered with linens in the attic.
Considering how to seduce your medic, more like.
“Mrs. Marsh has been having trouble walking these past months, else she’d be here every day herself,” Edward was saying, and Winston knew him well enough to know when he was making conversation simply to bide the time until Winston decided to tell him what was the matter.
Unburdening himself was not something Winston was particularly fond of.
He tried not to think of those who rested beneath their feet, and especially tried not to think of that man in Paris and how easily it could have been himself rotting away beneath the soil. How it probably should have been him, and not a man who left behind a wife and five children.
“Here we are.” Edward stopped in front of a stone with neat, clean carving: Peter Marsh, b. 1697 d. 1765. The soil mounded above the grave but had settled already, and a soft green fuzz covered it. Edward stepped forward and placed his hand on the stone, gripping it the way one might grip a friend’s shoulder, then stepped back and folded his hands in front of him.
Winston waited, thinking Edward might be saying a silent prayer.
A moment went by. Another. And another.
And Winston realized Edward wasn’t praying anymore, but was waiting. For him.
“The accident in Paris,” Winston finally said. “A man died.”
“No.” Edward turned his head to look at him—equal height, but entirely different coloring. Gray eyes, sandy blond wig that matched his own hair. “What a terrible thing.”
Winston told him about the crumbling facade, the pure chance of his having been walking a few feet farther from the building than the other man.
He didn’t tell Edward about the vow.
“What horror,” Edward said. “And praise God you weren’t killed, as well.”
Winston stared at Peter Marsh’s headstone, searching for a way to query Edward about which of his ways in particular Winston should consider. Edward knew him—knew what Winston could reasonably expect of himself, where the line between excess and sense could be drawn.
But now Winston wasn’t sure exactly how to frame the question without earning himself one of Edward’s damning looks of reproof, which
cut all the more deeply because they were so bloody sincere.
“And so you’ve returned here to recover from your injuries.”
“Yes.” Better, perhaps, that Edward believe it to be true. “How is Cara?”
Edward smiled. “Lovely as ever.” The smile dimmed a little. “But she’s seemed different lately, and I fear she’s unwell and hasn’t been telling me. When I ask her about it, she says she feels perfectly well. Says she doesn’t need to see Dr. Brunt.”
“Has she been ill?”
“No...nothing obvious. No fever, coughing... I suppose it’s been more in her demeanor.”
The obvious possibility hung between them unsaid, and Winston’s gut knotted a little.
Cara could be with child again. But he didn’t dare mention it—not when he was the reason Edward and Cara had remained childless all these years. And Edward didn’t suggest it, and the silence stretched uncomfortably long while Winston wondered if it were possible for a woman of Cara’s age to finally carry a child to term after so many miscarriages.
Each and every one of which was his fault.
“Perhaps you ought to insist that she let Brunt examine her,” Winston said.
Edward shook his head, smiling a little. “I don’t need to tell you the response I would get if I tried that.”
Edward always talked about Cara. It was only natural for a man to discuss his wife with his closest friend. Before Paris, Winston had scarcely given it a thought.
Now, suddenly, it felt profane.
For years Winston had shoved away the things he didn’t want to remember, but now all he could think of was that long-ago afternoon. His memories of it were hazy. He and Cara had gone riding. Had stopped in the woods—he couldn’t recall why. He’d been drinking, basking in a few weeks’ freedom from university and the power of the horse beneath him. Had known Cara fancied him, had known his rank prevented him offering her anything—hadn’t wanted to offer her anything. And he’d known Edward loved her. But that afternoon none of that had mattered. She’d flirted, he’d flirted, and somehow they’d ended up on the ground in the grass with her skirts up to her hips.
And he couldn’t even remember, now, what it had felt like.
“I hired a medic when I was in Paris,” Winston said now, through a throat that suddenly felt dry and scratchy. “Was supposed to accompany me to Greece. I’ve an idea Cara might prefer my Mr. Germain a good deal more than Brunt.” The doctor was at least sixty and had watery eyes and a permanent frown and, despite his good intentions, could be off-putting. “I could send him down.”
“I doubt Cara will let him examine her. And she’d be furious that I told you.”
“But if it would help...”
Edward sighed, considering that, while Winston recalled the expression on Edward’s face when he’d learned what Winston and Cara had done.
They’d had too much respect for Edward to try to hide their mistake from him.
And Edward, studying to follow his father as the parish vicar, had forgiven them. Forgiven Winston and married Cara, selflessly protecting Cara and her reputation, as well as that of the child that resulted.
A child who had not survived birth and who had nearly drained Cara’s lifeblood in the process.
And yet Edward never spoke of it. Nor did Cara.
Fifteen years in the past, it was as if none of it had ever happened, and the three of them were exactly as they would have been if that day in the woods had never taken place.
Before Paris, Winston had been happy to let it stay there. But now...
* * *
NOW, HE TOLD himself in his coach an hour later, it could be a mistake to disturb the status quo.
Several times during their walk it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell Edward about the vow, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The moment he told Edward what he was about, there would be no going back. He would be committed.
And perhaps he didn’t want to be committed.
Things were fine the way they were between himself and Edward. And really, things were fine with Winston’s life. He wasn’t some grievous wrongdoer.
He simply enjoyed a good time.
And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t recognize boundaries that were not to be crossed. He knew any number of desirable women he had no intention of seducing. Friends’ wives, for example. Hadn’t he extricated himself from a delicate situation with Lady Rhys not two months ago for that very reason?
It wasn’t as if the sight of a desirable woman sent him on a mindless rampage. He wasn’t going to attack Miles just because she aroused him, for Christ’s sake. Men who pressed the issue—they were the ones who needed reforming.
The coach stopped in front of his house. Yes, he might have come damned close to doing something he shouldn’t have when he’d walked with her in the woods, but that was a situation that would not be repeated.
He climbed out of the carriage. He had barely touched a foot to the ground when another coach was spotted coming down the drive at a fast clip.
Who the devil—
In a matter of moments, the coach was close enough to answer the question: It was his friend Urslane, almost certainly come from London, and where Urslane went, Pendergast always followed—and they rarely traveled alone.
Especially not when they came here. Which they did, regularly, and not to stand around toeing the grass in a cemetery searching for moral ground.
Winston met Urslane as he emerged from his coach, followed by Pendergast and two women Winston would have been mightily glad to see a month ago. Already a third carriage was coming down the drive.
“Winston!” Urslane called, slapping him heartily on his good shoulder. “Heard the terrible news—a narrow escape, eh? But all’s well that ends well.”
“Indeed,” Winston said, although so far nothing had ended well at all. “To what do I owe the visit?”
“To what—” He looked at the others and laughed. “Listen to Winston, pretending surprise. Is that to be part of the game this time, then?”
“Just out for the country air,” Pendergast said exaggeratedly. “With our friends.” He winked at the two women that had ridden with them, then looked at the carriage behind them, from which were emerging four women Winston recognized from a dancing troupe whose entertainment he had procured on several occasions. “Lo, there—more city folk with a hankering to take the air.”
“There’ll be more coming,” Urslane said, already heading toward the door as his footmen were taking down an alarming amount of baggage from the top of Urslane’s coach. “That is to say, I shan’t be a’tall surprised if we aren’t the only ones with country notions today. Hensley, for one. And our titillating trio shouldn’t be far behind,” Urslane told him now, as if imparting confidential state secrets. Winston conjured up an instant mental image of the trio in question: dark-haired Spanish beauties, all, with lusty bodies that were available for much more than just the dancing exhibitions that made them so sought after in certain circles.
He greeted the theater women, bowing and kissing each one’s hand as if he greeted the king’s daughters. He recognized one of them—artful blond hair, sly blue eyes, crests of pink barely peeking from her décolletage.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying in a manner carefully designed to afford him a clear view of her assets.
She was beautiful. Uncomplicated. And most definitely no innocent miss. The kind of woman who would as soon throw her skirts up as smile at a man.
The kind of woman who was meant to be enjoyed.
The kind who could distract him from Miles.
The other carriages slowed, stopped, and out came the very Spanish trio Urslane had predicted. Already some of his visitors were making their way toward the entrance, their loud conversation punctuated by laughter and bawdy remarks.
A few hours earlier, his house had been a mausoleum.
But, suddenly, things had shifted back to normal. And perhaps it all made perfect sense.
&nbs
p; He couldn’t have known it at the time of the accident, but fate had known—that he would employ a desirable young innocent, and that he would need the strength to resist her.
Perhaps Miles was the true test. A young—if a bit worldly—virgin who roused his desire the way no virgin normally did. All he had to do was resist the temptation. Not touch her—not even to see whether she would respond.
Because he already knew she would.
This, then, would be his new vow: he simply would not touch Miles.
Surely he could manage that for as long as it took him to recover from his injuries—especially with his usual company to distract him.
Indeed, it seemed fate had intervened just in time.
CHAPTER TEN
“THEY’RE HERE,” SACKS said, charging across Millie’s dressing room, where she was studying, going to the window to look out.
And then, moments later, Harris ducked in just long enough for a happy “They’ve arrived! I can’t think when I’ve been so relieved,” and left to carry out his duties.
Millie looked up from her desk toward Sacks, who stood at the window looking down approvingly.
“It’s those Spanish doxies,” Sacks almost groaned, as if the ecstasy had begun already.
Millie closed the book on her finger to mark the page and finally joined him at the window, hugging the book to her chest as she peered down. Below, a crowd of colorful, magnificent people emerged from half-a-dozen carriages—ladies in elaborate gowns, gentlemen in colorful embroidered coats, all talking and laughing.
Her eyes found the duke immediately, already with a bevy of women around him.
Sacks made a noise of appreciation. “Miss Tensie,” he said. “All will be right very soon, mark my words.”
Millie peered below. “Which one is she?”
“The one on ’is arm, of course. He always enjoys ’er the best.”
A quick and visceral objection knotted behind Millie’s ribs. The book clamped harder around her finger.
But...good. This was good.
It was.
Whatever had him reading about lugworms and trying to catch insects and ordering nude portraits stored away was clearly fading. Perhaps it had something to do with whomever he’d visited this afternoon.
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