Perhaps he had a mistress in the village, and he’d gone for—
“A good, fast frig,” Sacks said now in a low voice, gaze intent on the scene below. “That’s what we all need after this past week’s ordeal.”
“Indeed,” she made herself murmur, and told herself it was true—for the duke, at least.
And perhaps she’d experienced a few dangerous moments of breathlessness in the woods, and perhaps for a second or two she’d imagined what it would feel like if he kissed her, but that was very different from actually wanting him to kiss her.
This is perfect. Only let him enjoy himself with these women and remember what he planned for Greece.
“The Spanish ones know a thing or two,” Sacks told her, “and they’re not fussy about who they lift their skirts for. See ’er with the long curls?” He pointed. Chuckled. “Knows how to give as good as she gets, that one. Here—follow me.”
They left her room and went to a spot near the top of the grand staircase where they could discreetly observe the entrance hall as the group entered. A crescendo of voices filled the hall. There were peals of feminine laughter—and not laughter of quality. Very, very common laughter.
She heard the duke’s laughter, too, and it struck a vibration inside her like a mellow note on a harpsichord. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.
Do not be ridiculous. It was this kind of women that dissolved into fits of silliness in his presence—not her.
By all means, let him have his fun.
A voice boomed up from below—an awful voice from the past that she recognized too well. “Where’s that delicious little marble that used to stand in that corner? God’s sake, Winston, you’ve practically emptied the place.”
A chill ran across her skin, and revulsion soured her stomach.
Lord Hensley. Here.
“Just making a few changes,” she heard Winston say evenly. “How are things in the Lords?”
“The Lords! Good God, man, I didn’t come here to talk about that.”
She breathed deeply. Of course Lord Hensley would be here, at a place like this, for this kind of reason. She was trembling a little, and she told herself to be calm. She was in disguise, and she would scarcely see him, and he wouldn’t recognize or remember her anyhow. And unlike before, this time she wore a sword.
They all disappeared into the grand salon, and she saw Winston give some quick orders to Harris, which must have been favorable because Harris glanced up then, spotted her and Sacks, and smiled.
“There’ll be entertainments aplenty tonight,” Sacks said.
* * *
“WE CAN’T REPLACE EVERYTHING,” Millie hissed hours later as she and Harris and Sacks wrestled with a marble nude in the attic. “And we’ll need at least three more men for this one.”
“It’s too plain anyhow,” Sacks grunted, trying to shift it without success.
“It’s His Grace’s favorite.”
Millie wasn’t sure how that could be possible, considering it was a simple statue of a woman leaning against a pillar—lips parted, modest breasts, one knee slightly bent. Eyes closed, head back, as if being carried away by some invisible ecstasy.
“Never mind about that,” Sacks said irritably. “Let’s find some of the others.”
Which would be moved to the main ballroom while the guests were enjoying a late-evening meal, and if the duke asked about it, the change would be blamed on one of the guests whose name would be conveniently forgotten.
Harris held up his candle, peering through the crowded attic full of draped sculptures. It looked like a roomful of ghosts.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sacks muttered, and pushed past him, checking beneath one sheet after the next.
“See if you can find those nymphs Lord Hensley was talking about,” Harris said. “We could blame it all on him.”
“It’s ’ere,” Sacks called a moment later. “Let’s take it and those two.”
Harris peeked at the first choice and smiled. “I’d gladly be turned to stone if it could be me doing that for all eternity.”
They gathered around the statue, lifted on a count of three and dragged the sculpture to the door.
What could be so enthralling about a handful of sculptures when there were a dozen real women at hand, Millie didn’t know. But if the duke was returning to his ways, she’d count her blessings and plan for Malta.
* * *
BY NIGHTFALL, the entertainments were in full swing. Winston stood in his salon, surrounded by the sights and sounds of pleasure, and couldn’t stop thinking about his visit with Edward.
Couldn’t stop feeling like a bloody coward for slinking away without confessing all, couldn’t stop wondering what might be the matter with Cara.
At the far end of the salon, where the floor was raised for musicians, Urslane’s merry band of harlots was putting on a fascinating rendition of a Greek tragedy.
One of the Spanish women was whispering suggestive things in Winston’s ear, and two others Winston had never seen before were eyeing her venomously even as they allowed Pendergast and two of his London friends to laugh and tug at their bodices.
A young brunette squealed in mock outrage when her nipple popped free.
Winston raised his glass to his lips and made himself enjoy the view. Perhaps he would take all three women to his bed later. He wasn’t dead, for God’s sake.
That was the entire point. He wasn’t dead.
If anything, he should show his gratitude by living all the more fully.
On the stage, one of the harlots “accidentally” gave the audience a peek between her thighs. Urslane called out something obscene. Kerwood pulled a willing companion toward the curtains at the side of the room.
And Winston’s thoughts shifted to Miles, who even now was upstairs probably mixing up his ghastly nighttime tea.
Would she order another bath?
He imagined those shapely, perfect legs.
Those small, tender nipples no man had pinched and pulled the way Pendergast was doing to that brunette right now as the little strumpet laughed and grabbed for him.
And God help him, Miles’s nipples were exactly what he shouldn’t be thinking of.
What he would not think of, even though the mere memory of them was having an effect on him that a quick look at a harlot’s quim hadn’t done.
Miles was no harlot. She was a skilled medic, studious, with more gumption than he would have in her position—or foolishness, perhaps. But she would likely know exactly how to convince Cara to submit to an examination, during which she would doubtless figure out exactly what the problem was.
The theatrical women grew more daring with their antics, and his guests grew more ribald, and two of them were moving in on his favorites—something he should put a stop to, if he planned to enjoy them later himself.
Which he should. That was the plan, after all...enjoy himself so thoroughly that no thought for Miles would remain.
He shifted his attention to the beauty at his side and earned a suggestive smile from full stained lips. Generous round breasts pushed against him, his for the taking.
But the greater temptation was upstairs bundled in men’s clothes, which made absolutely no sense at all.
One of the harlots tripped and fell, and three or four men rushed to help her, and suddenly he was worrying about Cara again, about whether Miles would agree to see her, and now the harlot was on her feet once more complaining of a bruised hip, and God’s blood this was nothing like these parties used to be.
He should send them all back to London. Throw them out like he’d done in Paris.
Only to change your mind the moment everyone has gone?
This was intolerable.
He disentangled himself from the woman clinging to him, made a quick excuse and a hasty exit and took refuge in the library—but not for long, because anyone could find him here. He poured himself a quick slosh of brandy, knocked it back in two swallows.
A large book on a sid
e chair caught his eye—or rather, the title caught his eye.
Wartime Injuries Examined.
There was only one person who could have been reading this. He picked it up, felt its weight in his hands as if they held Miles herself and quickly set it down.
A roar of laughter drifted from the salon.
He ought to be in there laughing with them instead. He headed upstairs, too frustrated now to care whether his guests noticed him missing.
* * *
BUT MILES WASN’T in her rooms.
Sacks was nowhere to be found, either, nor Harris. He scoured the rooms, went up a floor and did the same. Nothing.
And then, a thud. A hard one, drifting faintly from somewhere above. He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, listening. Headed up a flight of servants’ stairs and then another, all the way to the attic floor, where he heard the unmistakable murmur of voices.
What the devil was anyone doing in the attic rooms at this hour?
He followed the sound, pausing when he located the room it came from.
“Careful, now—” There was a clatter of objects hitting the floor. An oath. “For God’s sake, we shan’t need all of them!”
“Then ’ow many?”
Harris. And Sacks.
“I told you we should leave well enough alone.” And Miles?
He pushed open the door and went inside. Found the three of them amid a forest of draped statuary, crouched next to an open trunk, picking up erotic playthings that were scattered on the floor. “What the devil is going on here?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DUKE’S VOICE shot through the room. Millie’s attention snapped to the doorway, and her fingers tightened around a wooden phallus.
“Your Grace,” Harris said calmly, placing the objects he held back in the trunk and then reaching to adjust the sheet on a statue they never should have attempted to move. He bowed. “Forgive me for being away from my post. Do you require attention?”
Her hand seemed permanently clamped around the phallus while her mind screamed at her to put it down.
“I’d hoped for a sedative tea,” Winston drawled, and his eyes shifted to her. “But I couldn’t find my medic.”
Her cheeks flamed, but there was nothing to be done except brazen it out. She stood and deposited the disgusting toy calmly into the trunk as Harris had. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said. “But we—”
“Learned that your artifacts had been very hastily stored away,” Harris explained, “and given the extraordinary value of some of the pieces, we thought it imperative to ensure everything is as it should be. Would you believe it, at least half of these sculptures had not been properly covered.”
Sacks shook his head as if to comment on the disgrace of it all.
“I intend to have a talk with Mrs. Coombs immediately,” Harris said.
Sacks said, “Is Your Grace finished for the evening already? Right, then,” he went on without waiting for an answer, “I’ll go lay out your bedclothes while Mr. Germain prepares that tea.”
“I’m not ready for my bedclothes,” the duke said irritably. “And Mr. Germain will stay here. The two of you are excused.”
Stay here!
“Your Grace,” Harris said evenly, “the sooner the tea can begin steeping—”
“I understand the workings of tea, Harris.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Harris bowed, casting a furtive and apologetic glance at Millie. And then Harris and Sacks were gone, and only the duke and her own candle remained, its solitary light flickering over his impossibly handsome face and the open trunk full of disgusting playthings.
She pursed her lips and bowed. “I am at your service, Your Grace.”
“Indeed you are, Mr. Germain. And what a fascinating pastime I find you engaged in. I’m well aware of Harris and Sacks’s proclivities, but I had no idea you were interested in such things. Tell me, what did the three of you intend with all of these?”
“We only meant to ensure that your guests have access to...whatever they might need.”
“Or perhaps you were choosing something for yourself, hmm?” He reached into the trunk and picked up the same wooden phallus she’d held seconds ago. His teeth flashed wickedly. “This, perhaps?”
Her face flamed. “Your Grace is well aware there was a mishap and we were only picking things up from the floor,” she snapped.
He tossed the object back into the trunk. “You’ve turned quite red, Mr. Germain. One might almost suspect you are uncomfortable with the male organ. Rather odd for a medic, isn’t it?”
“A box full of disgraceful objects has nothing to do with medicine.”
“You’re quite right. All the same, you do seem remarkably off put.”
This line of conversation could not continue. “I’ve been giving your situation a great deal of thought,” Millie told him now, firmly, “and I’ve been thinking that perhaps you ought to enjoy some company, after all.”
“Have you.”
“I never expected you to be this out of sorts,” she explained. “Your situation has led me to develop a theory that rest and solitude may not be the best regimen for every person.”
“A theory, you say.”
“Yes. And I’ve found my theories quite sound in the past.”
“Mmm.” The corner of his mouth might have moved, or she might have imagined it. “I have a theory, too, Mr. Germain.”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.
“My theory is that you will stop at nothing to convince me to pack my bags and set off for Greece. My only point of uncertainty is how you imagine a book full of erotic sketches or an insect’s privy parts could possibly accomplish that.”
“Your Grace, now you are talking nonsense. Perhaps just a quick rest before you rejoin your company—a half hour’s lie-down in your bed, for example—”
“Where I might gaze upon my friend the princess? Or do I have my trusted butler and valet to thank for that? I daresay they’ve appreciated that portrait more than anyone...except perhaps you.”
“You misunderstand entirely, Your Grace.”
He scratched his chin. “I think not. In fact, I have another theory, Mr. Germain. Although it isn’t so much a theory as it is a fact.”
No, she definitely did not like the way he was looking at her.
“My theory, Mr. Germain,” he said, coming closer, “is that the reason for your embarrassment a moment ago is because you have little to no experience with the male organ at all.” He stopped in front of her, much too close. “And the reason for that, factually speaking—” he took her chin in his hand and glanced over her face “—is because, quite simply, you are a woman.”
The vast attic room swallowed up the words into silence.
Blood rushed in her ears, pounded in her throat, paralyzing her tongue.
“You must admit,” he went on reasonably, dropping his hand, raking his gaze critically over her body, “it would account for your small stature.”
No. No. This would ruin everything.
There was a split second, a hasty and half-coherent decision, and she glared at him. Drew herself up to her full height. “I take great offense, Your Grace. I may be small, but not every man is blessed with as...athletic a figure as Your Grace’s. Being less well-endowed is hardly grounds to call a man’s gender into question.”
“I am quite certain you are not endowed at all...Miss Germain, is it?”
But she was not going to tell him anything. “If I dared to suggest anything so outrageous about Your Grace’s endowment—”
“Did it occur to you that I might prefer if you were a woman?”
“Oh, yes—I have no doubt Your Grace would greatly prefer it.” He knew. He knew. “I can only imagine the fate of a female medic in your employ, as if such a thing could even—”
“The fate of a female medic in my employ?” he interrupted sharply. “Pray, do tell me what you imagine that fate might be.”
“One would only have
to make a quick appearance in Your Grace’s salon at this very moment to answer that question.”
“Those women are whores.”
“Forgive me if I haven’t met any men of your station who comprehend the difference—”
“You have now!”
“—which is neither here nor there to me, of course. Quite honestly, I’d been contemplating taking advantage of the entertainments myself, since you made it clear in Paris you have no objection to my indulging. Perhaps have a go at one of those bits of Spanish tail—”
“Good God.” He stared at her in apparent frustration.
Clearly he hadn’t expected her to deny his allegation. Had expected, apparently, that she would... What? Simply confess? Ah, you’ve discovered me, Your Grace.
Absolutely not. He had no right to expose her—none at all.
“Is this your plan, then?” he demanded. “To remain in disguise indefinitely? For the rest of your life, even?”
“I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about.” All the times she’d touched him, changed his bandages, put her hands against his bare flesh mere inches from his sex...
Every time she’d done those things, he’d known.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Good. Excellent, in fact. Perhaps it’s better this way.” He turned to go. “Enjoy your attic discoveries, Mr. Germain. I have no doubt they’re proving every enlightening.”
* * *
THE MOMENT HE was gone, Millie replaced everything and fled back to her rooms.
This was a disaster.
What was he going to do now? Would he tell anyone else his suspicions? Would he tell everyone—including Lord Hensley?
She never should have accepted this employment with Winston. None of this should be happening. It wasn’t fair.
If it weren’t for Philomena, who must have known the duke would see through Millie’s disguise...
Before that, though, if it weren’t for William, hunting down Millie and India like dogs and leaving Millie with no resources, she’d never have had to rely on Phil’s connections.
But really, if it weren’t for Katherine returning to England and thus ending Millie’s position aboard the Possession, she’d never have resorted to stealing the ship and running away.
A Promise by Daylight Page 11
