A Promise by Daylight

by Alison Delaine

  Was he thinking about last night at all? About his complete and utter violation of her privacy? “As well as any.” The examination had revealed nothing abnormal. Nothing Millie would not have expected to see in any woman four months pregnant. She wasn’t sure when she’d felt so relieved after a patient visit.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that my examinations are confidential, and if you wish to know anything about Cara, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  “Cara is my friend. I demand to know what you’ve discovered.”

  “You certainly are interested in everyone’s private business, aren’t you?” Millie snapped, and looked up.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “In fact, you seem interested in everything except that which is freely available to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Healthful regimen,” she scoffed. “You order a princess’s portrait returned to the attic, you store away all your nude sculptures—yet you couldn’t resist peeking at me in the bath?” She tossed the bandage aside and faced him. “Perhaps I ought to remove myself to the attic and drape myself with a sheet.”

  “Mr. Germain—”

  “Oh, yes, and what fun you’ve had with that, haven’t you? Mr. Germain, you said, as if you believed it to be perfectly true, giving no hint that you saw through my disguise, making sure I suspected nothing, all the while you were anticipating your first opportunity to peep at me like a boy outside a privy house.”

  “I seem to recall you refusing to admit the truth even when I told you I knew it.”

  “Well, I can hardly deny it now, can I?” she shot back. “And were you titillated, skulking in your darkened peep-chamber? Were you amused? Of course, I already know the answer to that. And now you refuse to entertain yourself with your company—your very willing company, I might add.”

  “I have my reasons,” he said tightly.

  “Indeed—reasons known only to yourself. This never would have happened if we’d gone to Greece, unless you have secret closets in every coaching inn on the continent and aboard every ship in the Mediterranean. And perhaps you do,” she said, making a show of looking at the walls. “Perhaps you have them everywhere. Do your guests know you spy on them? Or perhaps they enjoy that sort of thing.”

  “I do not spy on my guests.”

  “Only your medics, then?”

  “I gave you my apology,” he ground out.

  “Which does me little good now. All has been revealed—nothing is left to the imagination, and it cannot be undone. It’s past time for you to get on with your business here, whatever that might be. So far you have me at a loss.”

  “Perhaps it would help if I were free from distractions,” he said darkly.

  “You’ve kept yourself closeted away for days.” She gestured toward the empty bedchamber. “You can’t be any less distracted than this.”

  He stared at her. The look in his eyes made a nerve pulse in her belly. And suddenly—

  Dear God, he was saying that she was a distraction.

  “There’s no earthly reason for us to be here,” she said now, thickly. “You could have healed just as well in Paris. Found ten times the number of activities. What you need now, Your Grace, is—”

  “Do you want to know what I need, Miles?” he asked darkly, advancing on her. “Do you really?”

  And there wasn’t time to think before he reached for her and pulled her to him, bringing his mouth down on hers, forcing her lips apart.

  Fire raced hotly, startlingly to her most intimate places. He possessed her mouth completely, finding her tongue, mating with it.

  He tasted of sin and excess.

  The devil duke. His lesson was immediate and thorough. He parried with her tongue and she parried back, learned quickly how to devour him the way he devoured her—madly, recklessly.

  And the world shrank until nothing existed but him and the sensations he was igniting in her body that were impossible to resist.

  She splayed her hands across his chest.

  Felt his hands slip down, curl around her bottom as he pushed her backward, backward, until she bumped into something—a table. He half urged, half lifted her onto it, and stood between her parted legs, brought her snugly against his erection.

  Nerves flamed to life in her breasts, belly, thighs, taunting her to press herself closer.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, dug her fingers into the curls at his nape. Writhed at the startling pleasure where he rocked against her. He reached beneath her waistcoat and yanked her shirt from her breeches. And then—

  His hands, hot and demanding against her bare skin. He groaned with frustration into her mouth when her clothes hindered his exploration, but yanked them higher and now she felt his fingers at the edge of her binding.

  Skimming over top of it.

  Finding the peaks of her breasts that strained hard against the binding. Circling them.

  She clung to him harder, pressed closer, cried out a little into their kiss.

  And ignored the voice telling her this needed to stop. That she knew better.

  Because his fingers were pushing at the tight binding. Shoving it up, and now his hands covered her bare breasts, and the flesh between her legs was on fire. And she didn’t know what to do—how or where to touch him—but she ran her hands over him impetuously, crazily, the way no medic would ever do, closing over his firm buttocks the way he’d done to her, pulling him closer—

  And then, suddenly, he tore away.

  Snatched his hands from beneath her clothes as if she were on fire.

  “Damnation.” He backed up, breathing hard.

  The separation stunned her, left her sitting there with her legs still spread and her heart pounding a deafening pulse through her veins, in her ears, and her breath coming too fast through lips that still throbbed from the ferocity of his kiss.

  He shoved his hand through his hair. Cursed again. “I promised I wouldn’t do that. I vowed I wouldn’t.”

  He’d vowed? Not to...kiss her?

  She closed her thighs, slipped onto legs that trembled so strongly she wasn’t sure she could stand. Everything they’d just done burned into her skin, her lips, her hands.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Miles— Oh, for Christ’s sake, whatever your name is— What is your real name?” But, “Never mind,” he went on sharply. “I don’t want to know. And let me make one thing perfectly clear— There will be no journey to Greece.”

  Greece? “I didn’t say anything about—”

  “I shall be staying right here, at my estate, for the rest of eternity if that’s what it takes to—” He broke off.

  She waited. To what?

  He watched her through eyes that burned with something she’d never seen directed at her before.

  Raw desire.

  White-hot yearning.

  Even as they stood there, he wanted to kiss her again. She could see that, too.

  And she may still be bundled up inside breeches, waistcoat, jacket and bagwig, but her disguise was in tatters.

  “Harris will make sure you receive your wages,” he said in a low voice, barely audible. “My carriage will take you to London, and you shall have a letter of credit to see you to Greece or Malta or wherever it is you wish to go.”

  It took a moment to grasp what he’d said. “You’re dismissing me? Because of this?” Outrage reared up inside her, comforting and familiar.

  “I’m not dismissing you. I am anticipating your resignation.”

  Her insides were spinning out of control, swept up in feelings she’d never had for any man in her life, feelings she wanted no part of—especially not with him.

  She made a desperate grab for control. “I’ve endured worse from an employer,” she said, sounding not nearly outraged enough to her own ears. “You shall have to do more than that to be rid of me—”

  “Which employer?” he demanded.

  “—an
d I assure you that if you try to do more than that, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Which employer?”

  “Not one of any significance.” Shame burned through her at the thought of him finding out about her employment as governess to Lord Hensley’s children—how he’d taken advantage of her, how she had complied because she’d thought she had no choice, how being a governess did not always mean only looking after the children.

  Lord Hensley, Winston’s friend. Which was all the more reason she needed to be furious. Repulsed. Sick, even.

  Instead, her nipples still peaked sensitively against her shirt with the lingering effects of his touch searing into them, sending warm yearnings down through her belly to her most intimate places and beyond, making her yearn for his touch again. Making her yearn to touch him.

  And now her binding was stuck awkwardly above her breasts, and there was no way to reach beneath her clothing without calling attention to all the places he’d just touched.

  “Perhaps I should speak with Harris about my wages,” she said, but just then something caught his attention outside, and he went to the window.

  She took advantage of the moment to quickly stuff her shirt back into her breeches, but there was no doing it properly, and the shirttails bunched and bulged beneath the fabric, so she pulled her jacket tightly around her, quickly fastening the buttons—

  “Who in God’s name... Bloody hell.” Winston was already heading for the door before Millie could get to the window to see what was happening. “I’ve got to find Urslane immediately. Sacks!” And then he was ripping the banyan back off, striding into his dressing room, yanking open his armoire and pulling out a jacket without bothering to wait for Sacks. Stuffing his arms through, he practically ran from the room.

  And now, looking down, Millie saw why: An ornate coach had arrived at the front of the house, and emerging gracefully from its interior was...

  One of the most beautiful women Millie had ever seen.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PRINCESS KATJA. This was the last straw. And it could ruin so many things.

  Winston raced down the stairs, his body still hot and tight and pulsing with something that never, ever should have happened.

  There wasn’t time to consider it now. He strode through the entrance hall, through the empty ballroom and into the dining room, where he found everyone just finishing a leisurely breakfast.

  He walked straight up to Urslane and murmured in his ear.

  Urslane bolted from his chair. So did Pendergast.

  “It’s Princess Katja,” Winston said under his breath, and Pendergast paled.

  “Who in God’s name—”

  “Never mind about that.” He already had a good idea who had invited her. “You know what needs to be done.”

  Urslane nodded once. “Of course, of course...”

  “The back courtyard...”

  “Consider it done.”

  If Katja thought Winston had invited her to participate in this... Bloody devil.

  “I shall see you all in London,” Winston said, even though he had no intention of going there—no thought for anything except the impending disaster that was Princess Katja.

  “Indeed, indeed,” Pendergast said. “London.” He turned to Hensley. “There’s no time...Princess Katja of Prussia...”

  Winston returned to the entrance hall, pausing to instruct Harris to order all the harlots’ things packed away immediately and taken out the back, and made it to the front door just in time to greet Katja.

  As always, she was done to perfection. Beautiful, with a small upturned nose, high cheekbones and blue eyes. Her blond hair spilled over one shoulder, over a velvet cape lined with ermine. She stood perfectly straight—a porcelain doll surrounded by the marble and gilt of his entrance hall. But he knew full well she was no fragile untouchable, and that beneath the robe and gown waited the lush body of a young widow with strong desires.

  A body he’d enjoyed even in her absence, since she had gifted him with that sensuous portrait. The princess was a woman who nodded to society but did as she pleased.

  She never would have come to his bed otherwise.

  “It was so very kind of you to invite me,” Katja said when he bowed and kissed her hand. “I have missed you.”

  “And I you.” Which wasn’t true at all, but perhaps it should have been, and even now his hands still hummed with the softness of another woman’s breasts—breasts he ought to be hanged for touching.

  “I confess, I almost did not come,” Katja said, gently scolding him with a sweep of her lashes. “But when I heard you had injured yourself...well, I thought there must be something I could do to help.”

  And even though her tone was elegantly innocent, he knew exactly what she meant.

  “The rumors of my injuries have been somewhat overstated, as you can see,” he told her. “You may well have made the journey for nothing.”

  “That cannot possibly be true.” She smiled at him in a small, mysterious way that was no mystery to him. “I confess I was finding London rather boring.”

  “Now that cannot possibly be true.” He made himself smile, but it only made him too aware of his lips, and the taste of Miles lingering on his tongue, and the way her kiss had shot straight to his cock—her first kiss, and he didn’t need to have seduced any virgins to determine that, and good God.

  He guided Katja toward the small salon, where none of the past days’ entertainments had taken place, and called for tea.

  Katja put a hand on his arm. “If you please, I would adore some wine.”

  Of course she would. He canceled the tea and ordered wine instead. He had to keep her here at least as long as it would take for the harlots and all of their baggage to be loaded into his guests’ carriages and taken away.

  And then his house would be empty except for one woman whose body was available for the taking, and another whose body was strictly forbidden and who, if there was any mercy in the world, was even now packing her bags to leave.

  He inhaled deeply, grateful when the wine arrived almost immediately, taking a large swallow to wash away the taste of innocence.

  “Such a lonely place for you,” Katja said, sipping her wine and casting her deep blue eyes around the empty salon over the rim of her glass. “I would not have expected it, after we last saw each other.”

  On his last visit to Prussia, Katja had been made aware that Winston had been frequenting a well-known brothel that catered to Prussia’s elite. His fiery lover had very quickly iced over—and exerted her influence over an important negotiation that had been taking place, which had been saved only thanks to Urslane’s stellar diplomacy.

  Yet, now, here she was, as if fate had known he would end up giving in to his impulses and could never resist temptation on his own.

  Princess Katja would require his constant attention. She came with expectations. And, he already knew, hopes for an exclusive and enduring affair.

  They drank their wine and talked of London, of Prussian politics, of all the small annoyances Katja had endured since arriving in England. And at last, Harris appeared in the doorway and gave Winston a discreet nod.

  Everyone had left, and the guest wing was clear.

  “No doubt you’d like to rest awhile after your journey from London,” Winston said smoothly, standing.

  She looked up at him, cocking her head a little to the side, a question in her eyes. “Oh, I do not know. Perhaps.”

  He felt a stirring—a response purely physical and not entirely unwelcome. He could join her in her guest chamber. Ease his tension between her sensuous thighs.

  “I have some business I can attend to while you rest,” he said instead, because now he was thinking of the way he’d pressed himself between Miles’s thighs, and God help him, he would send her off with an extra hundred for that—but not as any kind of payment for his pleasure.

  Disappointment touched Katja’s eyes and was gone. “Actually,” she said, reaching to set down her em
pty glass, “I feel quite rested already. Perhaps you would take me for a turn in your gardens. They looked so lovely from my carriage.”

  The gardens. When he had another apology to issue to Miles. But he didn’t want to apologize. He wanted to kiss her again, and this time he wanted to touch all of her.

  “An excellent idea,” he said, and meant it. Now was no time to be alone with Miles.

  In fact, he should never be alone with Miles. But he could do it once more—just long enough to finish their business and see her off.

  And then there would only be Katja, who would not be staying in the guest wing, after all.

  * * *

  MILLIE WATCHED FROM the window as Winston and Princess Katja strolled through the garden on the other side of the drive. The garden seemed to stretch for an eternity, marked with small hedges and geometric plantings and three oval ponds stretching end to end the entire length of the garden.

  Princess Katja walked with her hand tucked into Winston’s arm. She held herself perfectly straight, with her skirts flaring out fashionably from her hips, her light blond hair arranged elegantly with three fat curls falling to the front over one shoulder.

  And thanks to that portrait, there was no mystery in what Winston would find once that beautiful gown was removed.

  And it would be removed. There was no doubt of that.

  Whatever Winston’s trouble was, clearly he was coming back to himself. He never touches the help. Indeed?

  It was those very touches that burned into her skin even now. Into her breasts, once more secured beneath their binding, yet she was more aware of them than she’d ever been.

  He’d touched her breasts. And she’d let him, like any one of those strumpets downstairs.

  “The estate is becoming a bloody madhouse,” came Sacks’s voice from behind her. “Never saw a hastier exit, and all because of ’er.” He joined Millie at the window.

  “Exit?”

  “All of ’em. Gone back to London at the drop of a hat.”

  “Everyone?”

  “I said all of ’em, didn’t I?”

  Which meant Lord Hensley was gone. That, at least, was something to be grateful for.