A Promise by Daylight

by Alison Delaine

  “Good God, no.” It was out of the question. “The estate is vast enough as it is—I don’t need anyone else’s fortune.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Imperative, more like. Being content with the excess he already possessed gave him freedom. He would not be bought and yoked to the daughter of any Spanish prince or Italian noble—or even Princess Katja, if that was what she secretly had in mind. His nephew Theodore was a perfectly sensible heir, with a large estate of his own and five children.

  “Is that what’s required, then?” Winston demanded. “Marriage?”

  Edward put a hand on the back of Winston’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I don’t require anything of you, my friend. I’ve only ever hoped you might consider what you require of yourself.”

  * * *

  AND THAT, WINSTON thought as he rode home a while later, was exactly why he would go to Katja tonight.

  Edward might not require anything, but Winston owed him everything. He would become the man Edward wanted him to be—that was what Winston required of himself.

  And Katja was the answer.

  Monogamy. He would stop the ribald activities Edward disapproved of and limit himself to one woman. Princess Katja, his most logical alliance if he were to choose one.

  He could make Katja his mistress. Not that the princess needed to be under any man’s protection, but it was clear what kind of relationship she wanted from him. He could limit himself to her, perhaps for a period of three months.

  He exhaled, guided his horse over a stone bridge. Three months. And then what?

  Perhaps by then Katja would have tired of him anyhow, and he could get another mistress. One woman at a time certainly seemed reasonable.

  A thought of Miles crept in, but he snuffed it out with thoughts of Katja: shapely legs, round hips, bountiful breasts. Curves he could hang on to when he sank inside her, which by this time tomorrow he would have.

  He had a choice to make, and it was only too clear which one was right and which was very, very wrong.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PRINCESS KATJA.

  Millie paused on the walkway, halfway to the conservatory, her path blocked by the princess herself coming the other direction.

  She was the last person Millie expected to see this far from the house, but apparently the princess was not averse to walking.

  “Mr. Germain,” the princess said, seeing Millie approach. “Winston’s medic?”

  Millie bowed. “I am, Your Highness.”

  Up close, the princess was...stunning. Delicate, perfectly formed features. Exquisite gown in the very latest fashion, decked with ribbons and lace, like the ones Philomena wore—and so unlike anything Millie would ever own.

  Or wish to own, she reminded herself.

  “Winston says that you have worked miracles,” the princess said, “but he is not himself at all. I believe he has been dishonest about his recovery.”

  “A man never wishes to appear compromised in front of a lady.” Especially not one like this.

  But Millie already knew from Harris and Sacks that Winston and the princess had not been together last night. And she hated that it gave her even the smallest hope of...anything. There was nothing to hope for.

  The princess smiled. “No, a man certainly does not.” She looked at the book Millie carried. “What have you there?”

  “This?” It took a moment to credit that she was interested in the book. “It’s a reference. A compilation of medicinal plants native to North Africa and the Barbary Coast.”

  “How fascinating.” The princess turned a little, and her perfectly arched brows dove and she studied the frontispiece Millie showed her. “I have been to the Barbary Coast,” she said, straightening. “With my husband, years ago. Such a fascinating and exotic place.”

  The closest Millie had come was miles offshore, aboard the Possession on the Mediterranean.

  “I cannot say that I spent any time studying the flora, however,” Princess Katja added. “Perhaps I should have.”

  “The conservatory has an entire collection of African plants,” Millie told her. “I had planned to see whether it includes any mentioned in this book.”

  “I thought Winston would be available this morning, but I am told he has gone to the village.” The princess frowned in the direction of the house. “It would seem I am left to my own devices. Perhaps you would not object if I accompany you?”

  * * *

  THE PRINCESS WAS beautiful and intelligent. Inquisitive. And, as the portrait in Winston’s attic attested, open to adventure.

  She was everything a man like Winston would need if he was to truly change his ways.

  Late that night, fool that she was, Millie listened for any sign that the princess had gone to the duke’s bedchamber—or vice versa. But all was quiet. Millie cracked her door open, peered out into the blackened hallway. Listened.

  Nothing.

  And then—a sound.

  A door being opened. The glow of a small candle, the whisper of fabric as the princess let herself into the hallway and went to Winston’s door.

  Not a woman to be put off for long, but then Millie could have guessed that after their time together today. Princess Katja did not hesitate to offer her opinions, to speak when she had an idea, to say what she wanted.

  And there was no doubt that the princess wanted Winston.

  Millie watched through the most slender crack in her door as the princess silently raised the latch and let herself into Winston’s dressing room without knocking.

  Millie shut her door and leaned against it, closing her eyes, trying not to imagine what would come next.

  This was what was supposed to happen.

  She wanted this to happen.

  She returned to her writing desk. Tried to read, her eyes skimming over the words without really seeing them. And all the while, inside, the screws turned. Tighter, tighter.

  It was for the best. He would be happier. Less tormented.

  Cinching, cinching, until it felt like her ribs caged nothing but tense muscle, and breathing became impossible.

  She stood up.

  Don’t be a fool.

  Went to the door.

  It’s inevitable anyhow.

  She left her room, walked to his and knocked—three times, loudly—with no idea at all what she was about, what she would possibly do if he answered, what she hoped to accomplish. They could have started already. He could be kissing her, working his way beneath her nightdress, touching—

  The door opened and Winston stood there in his red banyan. Beneath it she glimpsed his waistcoat and breeches. Beyond, the room was well lit and the princess sat on a love seat in a cloud of lace.

  Millie swallowed. “My deepest apologies for disturbing you, Your Grace,” she said. “I was concerned that you might have forgotten to take your medicine, and I promised that I would see to the bandage on your lower back.”

  He looked down at her. Of course, she’d promised no such thing, and now he would send her away with instructions to return in the morning.

  “So you did,” he said after a moment, and opened the door wider. “Do come in.”

  He wasn’t sending her away. She hesitated, too surprised to believe it.

  She stepped inside.

  “Mr. Germain,” the princess said. “We were just speaking of you.”

  They were?

  “Indeed?” Millie said, and swallowed.

  “Winston was recounting the many ways in which you have improved his health since his accident in Paris. I have been treated to the entire story.” Princess Katja offered a pleasant smile that might have been a bit strained. “But of course, I might have guessed, from our time together this morning, how skilled you would be. After tonight’s conversation, I feel as if I know you intimately.”

  “Such flattery,” Millie managed. “Your Highness is too kind.” And then, in a sterner tone, “Your Grace, I do not see your medicaments anywhere about. You have forgotten
them, haven’t you?” Certainly now he would tell her that all was in order, and he would speak with her further in the morning.

  But he was looking about, frowning a little. “I wonder if they weren’t carried off with my tray.” He looked at her. “Perhaps you’d better bring some more. In fact, this is excellent timing, as I believe the princess was growing weary of my company anyhow.”

  He didn’t want the princess here, Millie realized. It didn’t seem possible.

  Princess Katja stood up and came to him, her hand lighting on his chest. “Not weary at all. But surely your medicaments can wait until morning...?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, sounding for all the world as if his nighttime medical routine was a complicated and time-consuming procedure that could be fatal if missed. “Missing even a single dose leaves me in a good deal of discomfort, and I was beginning to feel a pain in my lower back—but how indelicate of me to describe the details. Please accept my apologies,” he murmured, and stepped away from her.

  The princess looked at him, and Millie knew she was far too intelligent to be completely fooled. She could tell that—for some reason unfathomable to Millie—Winston wanted her to leave.

  “I shall see you in the morning, then,” the princess said smoothly, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Good night.”

  The countess left, the door latched behind her, and Winston turned. Stared at Millie with eyes gone frighteningly savage. He stalked past her, snatching the wig from his head, tossing it on the dressing table and roughing his fingers through his hair. Staring into the looking glass.

  At her.

  “What excellent timing you have,” he said, and turned, going to his armoire, yanking his greatcoat out, shrugging into it without bothering to call for Sacks. “Come with me.” He grabbed Millie’s hand and led her out the door and left, not right, down the servants’ stairs, through another hallway and outside into the darkness.

  In the shelter of the doorway, he reached for her wig. “Off with this.”

  “Wait! I need that!”

  He tossed it atop a box hedge. “It will be here when we return.”

  Return? “Where are we going?”

  Instead of answering, he led her toward the stables. He didn’t bother to wake any help there, either, but saddled a horse himself—a great bay gelding that seemed as restless in the night as Winston himself.

  And then he reached out his arm, beckoning her. “Ride with me.”

  There was a moment suspended when she realized what he intended—that she would take his hand and mount the horse, and the two of them would ride. Together.

  She should refuse. Instead, she took his hand and let him help her into the saddle. Sat tense, almost breathless, as he climbed up behind her.

  And now she sat snug against him with her bottom cradled between his thighs and her back pressed against his chest. She felt his hands in her hair, pulling out the pins now, tossing them aside until her hair fell onto her shoulders, thick and blunt.

  “There,” he murmured.

  And she wanted him to keep touching her hair, working his fingers through it, pressing his—dear God, pressing his face into it so that she could feel his hot breath against her ear.

  But in the next moment he reached around her to grasp the reins and tapped the horse with his heels, and they were moving forward, then trotting, past the grand entrance to the house, breaking into a run and then a gallop down the shadowy tree-lined drive. Winston’s body moved powerfully, at one with the beast beneath them. At one, it seemed, with her.

  The night air whipped her hair like an ocean breeze coming off the water. The horse’s hooves thundered like the roar of waves. It was exhilarating. They thundered over the stone bridge, down the straightaway that cut through the vast meadow, up a rise and along a crumbling wall that disappeared into a wood. And she felt him shift, and the horse slowed quickly, almost suddenly, at the top of the knoll overlooking the inky countryside, with stars peeking through silver-lined puffs of moonlit clouds speeding by high above them.

  She felt his chest rise and fall behind her.

  Felt him sweep her hair aside and press his lips to the side of her neck.

  Felt his hands splay across her chest and drag down, down, over her bound breasts, her belly, her thighs. He gripped her, pressing his fingers into the soft insides of her splayed legs. Dragged one hand back up to her chest, the other to the vee of her thighs, and held her against him that way, cupping her intimately, holding her as if she were the only thing keeping him alive.

  Her most intimate flesh seemed to melt beneath his touch, as if her breeches didn’t exist.

  But he didn’t move.

  Just held her, breathing into her hair.

  Slowly, she uncurled her fingers from the saddle’s edge. As if in a trance, she rested her hands on his knees.

  Felt him inhale sharply.

  His skin burned warm through his breeches. His muscles flexed hard. She already knew each one intimately, but now it was as if she’d never examined him at all.

  “Miles,” he breathed. “I want you to tell me to stop.”

  He said it even as his fingers began a slow caress between her thighs, sending liquid pulses of desire deep into her body.

  Stop.

  She moistened her lips, felt the kiss of cool night air. But the word didn’t come out. His touch lulled her. Lured her. Awakened sensations she’d heard of but dismissed as the province of men.

  But they were hers now.

  In his arms—the duke’s arms.

  And now he was working the fastening of her breeches, and she needed to stop him. Now, before—

  He found her.

  A sound escaped her throat. A gasp, a small cry as he used her own moisture to circle her in small, tight motions constrained by her clothing. And it was as if she’d never been touched there at all, because she hadn’t—not like this.

  Behind her, the swelling inside his own breeches pressed hard against her bottom.

  “You’ve got to tell me to stop, Miles, because— Ah, Christ.” And now he was reaching beneath her shirt, tugging at the binding, then pushing it, shoving it up over one breast and then the other, and cupping her.

  Rolling her already tight nipples in his fingers, sending spears of intense pleasure straight to the spot he was touching between her thighs.

  She dug her hands into his legs and tried to form the word he asked, but couldn’t.

  “Winston...” Her whisper sounded more like a plea.

  “Forgive me,” he said against her neck. “Forgive me...”

  And she might have forgiven him anything at all, because nothing existed except the pleasure coursing through her body and the solid heat coming off his, snaring her, making her cling to him and spread her legs wider instead of trying to slam them shut.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “There’s scarcely room in here for me as it is.”

  Scarcely room—her breeches. He meant her breeches. They were tight across his hand—

  She slackened her legs, but the tension had to go somewhere, and she arched against him, felt like screaming as his fingers slicked more powerfully, more rhythmically against her, and he plucked her nipples more firmly—

  And now—

  And now—

  The nighttime swallowed her ragged cry as something inside her broke open, unleashing a pounding tempest of clenching, searing, pulsing deep, deep in her body, and the horse stepped restlessly beneath them and Winston issued a low command that sounded as if it could be meant for her.

  But the pulsing went on and on and only finally began to fade, and his hands smoothed over her now, gentling her, as if catching her from a great fall.

  And then there were only the sounds of the night and his breathing above her ear. She sat stunned.

  He’d touched her there.

  But it had been nothing at all like before. This time, she’d wanted the touch. And still his erection pressed against her, unsated. And any moment he would shif
t and guide her hand there.

  He fastened her breeches.

  Kept a hand on her belly and reached for the reins.

  Urged the horse forward—away from the direction they’d come, not back to the house. Coaxing the horse faster, faster beneath them.

  And when they finally returned, they didn’t speak of what happened.

  He helped her dismount in the shadows by a far wing of the house, murmured good-night, and was gone toward the stables. As if nothing at all had taken place between them.

  As if her entire body wasn’t thrumming with the aftermath of his touch.

  She stood in the shadows of the door, watching his form fade into the nighttime, then grabbed her wig off the hedge and let herself inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HE WAS FAILING.

  “Your Grace,” a stable hand said, his voice tired. “Allow me—”

  He thrust the reins at the young man and stalked out of the stables, into the night, around the side of the building and leaned against the wall.

  Hot. Wet. Unbelievably sensitive, responding to his touch like wildfire.

  He’d wanted to be with her. Just...be with her.

  And he could have anticipated that would be impossible. Had probably known it even as he was telling himself, after speaking with Edward, that Katja would be enough.

  A promise attempted but not fulfilled.

  He was sliding headlong down a slippery slope, and he knew where it would end, because he couldn’t keep his hands off her. What had she been thinking, coming to his room, interrupting his tête-à-tête with Katja with that nonsense about his medications? What had he been thinking, talking to Katja about Miles instead of talking to her about all the ways he wanted to enjoy her body?

  He rubbed his jaw, smelled Miles on him, felt himself grow hard all over again. Katja was beautiful. Keenly intelligent. An exhausting and creative lover.

  And he’d turned his back on her for his sharp-tongued medic in men’s clothes, whose virginity made her entirely forbidden. But when she’d come to her peak in his arms... Ah, Christ. He’d been nearly mad with wanting to make love to her.

  But he’d vowed not to do that.