She sank into the chair at the writing table.
Truly, if it weren’t for herself and the terrible things she’d done, she wouldn’t be in this position.
She and India were the ones who’d stolen the Possession from Katherine. William had only retrieved it. And without Katherine, Millie never would have had the opportunity to sail aboard the Possession in the first place. Likely she would still be in Lord Hensley’s employ, and by now he certainly would have demanded more than he’d taken back then.
But now she was trapped, and Winston knew about her, and it was only a matter of time before...
Before what?
Before he stripped away her disguise entirely. She could be unmasked at any moment, humiliated, her options taken from her.
Suddenly she reached for the quill, dipped it, slid a piece of paper closer.
Dear Katherine,
An apology hummed in her fingertips, hovering unwritten over the page.
Faded. What good could it possibly do now? Katherine would never accept it. An apology would change nothing. She could write the words, but she couldn’t rewrite the past. She couldn’t unsteal the ship from her dear former captain and friend.
A wave of grief swelled up and she sat for a moment, thinking of times gone by—times that would never be again. All of them sailing aboard the Possession with Katherine at its helm...India somewhere up in the rigging, Philomena adorning the upper deck, William conferring with the boatswain or barking orders to the crew. Millie helping the crew when the infirmary was empty.
Back then, she’d had a place. People. A future in which her skills were needed, and she was protected and had the means to protect herself, and the surgical school at Malta was within her reach.
Now she had none of that.
She pushed the paper away and stood up. There was nothing she could say to Katherine anyhow that would make a difference. Millie’s betrayal was too complete. She’d lost Katherine’s friendship—all of their friendships—forever.
A knock at the door startled her from her reverie.
It was Winston, which startled her even more. “What do you want?” she asked him, forgetting her deference for a moment, wondering if he could have decided to press his advantage this quickly.
“There’s something I need you to do, the reason I was looking for you in the first place,” he said, making no move to enter her room. “There’s a friend I would like you to see in the village. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Edward Cady.”
Millie’s knees went weak with relief. “The vicar’s wife,” she repeated. “Is she ill?”
“I don’t know. That is to say, Edward—the vicar, and a very great friend—doesn’t know. He says Cara’s been acting strangely and refuses to see the physician in the village.”
“Then she’ll hardly be willing to see me.”
“Not if you tell her the truth.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There is no truth to be told.”
“Mr. Germain.” His expression hardened. “Deny the facts as much as you wish in my household, continue to hide in your bagwig and suit, but Cara must be seen.” The violence of his concern took her by surprise. “If that requires you to reveal yourself to her, then as a person in my employ, I expect you will do it.” He looked her up and down. “Even if you refuse to admit it to me.”
* * *
SHE WAS NOT going to tell the vicar’s wife a bloody thing.
It was early afternoon the next day when Millie trundled alone toward the village in the duke’s coach while His Grace and all of the guests still lay abed after a night of excess.
She would perform the examination just as she did for Winston himself or anyone else, for that matter, and that would be that.
Except that she couldn’t keep examining him now, could she? Not and touch him the way she’d been doing, knowing that he would be watching her and feeling her touch and knowing she was not Mr. Germain but Miss Germain.
Miss Germain, who took more pleasure than she should from touching him and required far too much effort to keep from staring at him and ridiculously daydreamed about what it might be like to kiss him.
None of which he could possibly know. Could he? What if he’d somehow guessed all that, as well? Surely there would have been some hint of that. Wouldn’t there?
What kind of hint? A declaration of passion? Good God.
There was a reason he’d agreed to go on pretending. Compared to the women he favored, she may as well be Miles Germain—plain, mousy, dressed in men’s clothes.
He may have seen through her disguise in one respect, but in another, it was working exactly as intended.
The coach stopped in front of a cozy stone cottage next to the church but set back from the street. A tidy flower garden bloomed in front. Before she reached the door, she could hear the Reverend and Mrs. Cady arguing inside through a pair of open windows on the far right side of the cottage—the vicar pleading with her to let Mr. Germain examine her, his wife insisting she did not need to be seen.
“I’ll not brook a refusal, Cara. Not this time.”
“It isn’t for you to refuse or not refuse,” his wife said angrily. “I don’t need a physician.”
“I say you do,” the vicar said firmly. “And this is Winston’s own medic. He’s bound to be one of the best.”
“I still can’t believe you discussed this with him.”
But judging from the expression on Winston’s face last night, Millie could believe it. He cared about these people. She’d seen it in his eyes when he made this demand—genuine concern.
“Cara, I’m worried about you,” the vicar said. “That even Winston could see something was bothering me ought to convince you of that, at least. See this medic when he comes. Satisfy my mind if nothing else—and promise me you won’t be rude to him.”
“And if Mr. Germain examines me and says I am well?”
“Then that will be the end of it.”
There was a pause. “Very well.”
Millie knocked and was admitted to a salon, where the vicar and his wife were standing in the middle of the room waiting.
“Mr. Germain,” the vicar said with a bow. “Thank you so much for coming. This is my wife—we are both very appreciative of your time and attention.”
Mrs. Cady looked anything but appreciative and offered only a perfunctory curtsy. She was a beautiful woman, but not by Winston’s standards—she was earthy, with thick, honey-blond hair pulled up into an informal chignon. Her nose was dusted with freckles, likely from working in the flower garden. Rich brown eyes watched Millie with...
Fear.
And Millie knew, suddenly, that the woman had lied to her husband.
“Shall we go upstairs?” the vicar asked in a firm tone that left no question but that they would go upstairs. His wife led the way up a narrow staircase with Millie in her wake and the vicar following behind, and they went into a spacious sitting room done in light blue with windows that faced the churchyard cemetery to the south. Sunlight streamed in, warming the room if not the chill of Mrs. Cady’s objections.
“I will be fine with Mr. Germain,” she told her husband in the same firm tone he’d used downstairs, while Millie set her bag on a small table and opened it.
In the looking glass she saw the vicar press a kiss to his wife’s temple, and she heard him murmur, “Thank you.”
The moment he’d gone, Mrs. Cady strode to the table where Millie was getting out her instruments. “I do not need an examination,” she said in a low voice. “My husband is overreacting. I want you to tell him you looked at me and concluded nothing is amiss.”
“If nothing is amiss,” Millie countered reasonably, “then why not consent to an examination?”
“That is just the very thing a man would say,” Mrs. Cady whispered crossly. “Because I do not want an examination, and I did not ask for an examination, and as much as I appreciate Winston and Edward’s good intentions, I will not have an examination.”
Millie could not have admired her more.
“You find this amusing?” Mrs. Cady hissed when a smiled tugged at Millie’s lips. “Of course you do. You are in cahoots with them.”
“I am not in cahoots with anyone, Mrs. Cady.” Millie turned away from her medical bag and faced her. “You’re afraid to be examined. Why?”
Mrs. Cady crossed her arms. “I’m not afraid.”
“What are the symptoms that caused your husband to insist on this visit?”
“They are nothing serious. Fatigue, that’s all. One can’t be summoning a physician every time one feels a bit tired.”
“That can’t be all.”
“Mr. Germain, if I wished to discuss this with you, I would submit to an examination.”
“Have you had pain anywhere? Stomach? Chest?”
“No.”
“Are you certain? Even any tenderness, perhaps in your breasts or belly?”
“No.” The answer was breathier this time. Tighter. Mrs. Cady let her arms fall and turned away, going to the window, resting her fingertips on the sill.
“Because if you truly are ill...”
“I am not ill, Dr. Germain. Not in the least. It’s nothing. I already know it won’t be— It isn’t—” She cut off and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, still facing out the window. Millie heard a sniffle and a muffled “Damn Winston and Edward, anyway.”
Millie’s heart squeezed. Something was very wrong—there was no doubt.
“Mrs. Cady, if you’ll only allow me a brief examination—”
“I said I don’t want one.”
Millie watched her for a moment. Glanced at herself in the glass across the room—her suit and bagwig, her unsmiling mouth.
She reached up.
Hesitated. Glanced at Mrs. Cady, saw the woman’s shoulders shaking with silent tears.
And Millie grasped the wig, pulling it back and away, revealing her pinned-up hair. She returned to the table and set the wig next to her bag. Pulled out the pins and set them there, too.
“Mrs. Cady...” She used her own voice, softer than Mr. Germain’s voice.
“Please leave. Tell my husband whatever you wish.”
“I’m not going to tell him anything,” Millie said, joining her at the window, touching her arm. “I only hope you’ll be kind enough to do the same.”
Mrs. Cady turned her head. Her brown eyes widened when she saw Millie’s hair, and then—
“Oh.” A sob ripped from her throat, and she threw her arms around Millie, crying in great sobs that seemed to rip from her deepest soul.
Emotion clogged Millie’s chest, and unshed tears burned her eyes even though she wasn’t sure why—but she was sure that something was terribly wrong, and so finally, when Mrs. Cady pulled away, Millie gripped her arms.
“Please tell me what is the matter so I may help.”
Mrs. Cady shook her head. “There is nothing you can do.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, yes I can. And you mustn’t—you mustn’t breathe a word to Edward. Not a word! Nor to Winston, either.”
“I’ve already told you I won’t, and doubly so for Winston. It’s hardly his business, is it?” Even though he clearly thought everything was his business. “Are you pregnant?”
Mrs. Cady closed her eyes. Nodded.
“He does not want the child?”
“No— Oh, heavens, it isn’t that. Edward would love a child more than anything in the world. But I can’t... Every time a child takes root, it lives for two months, sometimes nearly three, and then...” Fresh tears flooded her eyes, and she shook her head mutely. “There’s nothing to be done. And this time I can’t bear for him to know. The pain in his eyes is too much... I can’t bear to see it again.”
“How long has it been this time?” Millie asked.
“That’s just the thing.” The fear returned to Mrs. Cady’s eyes now. “It’s been four months. I’ve never carried a babe this long—not since the first time.”
“How long the first time?”
“The full term. But something went wrong in the delivery... The child died, and I nearly did, as well. Ever since then...”
Ever since then, there had been nothing but miscarriages. And now, she obviously expected one any day.
“Oh, Mrs. Cady. I am so very sorry.”
“Please.” The woman reached for Millie’s hands and squeezed them. “Please call me Cara. I’ve thought of going to my sister’s...making some kind of excuse to Edward, and staying with Ruth until...” She shook her head. “But somehow I can’t bring myself to do it. As if it wouldn’t be fair to him. And then I keep thinking, what if this time...” Another head shake, as if she couldn’t bring herself to express even the smallest hope.
“Will you let me examine you?” Millie asked quietly.
This time, Cara nodded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HE’D MADE A bloody mess of things, and there was no undoing it.
Winston prowled his upstairs library alone, fully aware that his guests were downstairs making merry in the late afternoon and that he should join them—wanted to join them—yet here he was, doing absolutely nothing.
A packet of papers had arrived this morning—some information from DeLille about a new enclosure bill—and he’d skimmed through them, but now the papers lay scattered on the table.
Miles should have returned by now, shouldn’t she?
He went over to the window, looked out at the brilliant day and suddenly wondered if she might never return, after what he’d done last night. Sacks had told him she’d gone to the village to see Cara, but—
He left his small library, strode down the hall to Miles’s rooms, opened the door...
And sighed with relief to see that all of her things were still there.
Well, of course they were. Hadn’t she made it clear enough that she needed the wages from this employment? She would stay for that reason if for no other.
And it wasn’t as if her gender could have remained a secret forever.
Of course it could bloody well have remained a secret. She could have finished her service, collected her wages and left without ever knowing he suspected a thing.
That wouldn’t happen now. Instead, the next time he saw her, she would know that he knew, and he would know that he knew, and the only thing standing between them would be her suit and that god-awful bagwig—and his self-control.
He briefly considered looking through her trunk to see if it contained anything that would shed light on her background but decided he knew enough already.
Knowing more would only make things worse.
What things?
His attraction for her, he admitted with no small amount of aggravation as he returned to his private library. Voilà, there it was. He was attracted to her.
It was hardly news.
He entered the library and had taken two steps when he realized it was occupied.
“There you are,” purred a familiar figure waiting in the middle of the room.
“Miss Tensie,” he murmured. Good God, she was the last person he wanted to see.
She came toward him. “I haven’t seen you nearly as much as I’d hoped this time. We’ve had such fun before.”
From much farther down the corridor, he heard voices. A door open and shut. Guests were returning upstairs for a late-afternoon...rest.
“Indeed,” he said as she pressed herself against him, which wasn’t striking him as fun at all, even though it should—it certainly should.
He set her away, but she only dimpled at him.
“Are we in a foul mood this afternoon?”
“Not at all. I simply—”
“I daresay I know how to change that,” Tensie said, and slipped two fingers into her stays, giving a gentle tug that exposed two plump, pale nipples to his view. “Mmm? Better?”
He tried to grin, but it felt more like an awkward twist of his lips. “Quite.”
No, it wasn’t bette
r. It should be, but it wasn’t.
Why not? It’s Miles you’ve vowed not to touch.
He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, there’s some business I must see to...” He went to his table, gathered up the paperwork DeLille had sent.
Tensie followed. “Surely it can wait...” she pouted, drawing a finger up the length of his thigh to his—
“It can’t.” He smoothly backed away, already feeling a stirring that Tensie could easily satisfy. It could be fast. Simple.
“I shan’t let you spend the afternoon with the doldrums,” Tensie declared, with those nipples jutting brazenly out at him. “If you have business...I can help.”
* * *
MILLIE RETURNED LATER than she’d meant to, after enjoying a long tea with Cara in the upstairs drawing room at the vicarage. It was an enlightening visit. Too enlightening, really. Cara, the vicar and Winston had been the closest of friends since they were children, and Cara was only too willing to discuss her childhood friend.
The childhood walk by the river when Winston and Edward had collected an entire bucket of frogs—and dumped it over Cara’s head.
The private dinner at Cara and Edward’s table after Winston’s father’s death, where he had broken down and wept.
The generous sums sent to any woman on the estate who lost a husband.
“He isn’t as shallow as he likes to pretend,” Cara had said, right before she’d asked, “Can it be true that he has no idea of your gender?”
That was when Millie had spouted a lie, offered an oh-how-time-has-flown excuse and made a hasty retreat.
And now she was back in her rooms, and any minute now she would have to face him. He’d never called for his morning examination, and she’d left for the village without ever seeing him.
But he would need his injuries examined this evening whether he called for her or not. She would have to go to him. See him undressed. Lean close and touch his bare skin, breathe his intoxicating scent—dear God, it was as if she could smell him just by remembering—and know that he knew. There was no safety left in her disguise, at least not with him.
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