A Promise by Daylight

by Alison Delaine

He fastened his breeches with the unsteady motions of a man barely in control.

  And then he reached for her, softly, just a hand on her face, and he dipped his head. Touched his lips to hers—barely clinging at first, then moving lightly, lightly...

  And she was caught. He coaxed her lips open and gently, gently explored her. Nothing like the other kiss, none of the ferocity. More like the way he’d tasted her in the conservatory.

  She pressed her palms against his chest, against the satiny texture of his embroidered waistcoat.

  His hands cupped her shoulders. Skimmed down her back and rested on her buttocks, burning through her nightgown. He cupped her there, too, ever so briefly, all the while kissing, tasting, his lips soft as a prayer against her mouth.

  He smoothed his hands up her sides, dragging the hem of her nightgown with them, and found her breasts. His fingertips caught her nipples, barely tightening around them, and a small cry escaped her. She clung to him. Felt his fingers tighten more, tasted the languorous brush of his tongue against hers, felt herself respond below with a warm, slick need.

  As if he could read her body, his hand was there. Slipping into her folds, caressing her like he’d done before.

  “Sit,” he whispered, urging her backward, and she realized now that he meant to do the same thing he’d done the other times—pleasure her and then walk away, taking nothing for himself. But she didn’t want to let that happen.

  She put her hands on his chest, refused to do what he asked. “I don’t want you to hide from me.”

  The corner of his mouth curved up, and his hot gaze touched her nose, her cheeks, her lips. “You have an interesting concept of hiding.” Below, his fingers stroked the length of her slit.

  “Then let me touch you.” She ached to hold him in her hands again and feel that fullness in her heart again.

  The curve on his lips faded. “There’s no need for that,” he said roughly.

  “I know. But I want to.”

  His hands fell away from her body, and he stepped back. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

  She knew exactly what she was saying, what she was asking for. She wanted this with him—knew he wanted it, too, and was only denying himself because he thought he had to, but there was only the two of them now and nobody would ever have to know.

  “Good night, Winston,” she said, and went into the bedroom, trembling now with the desire to know what womanhood felt like—warm and pulsing and ready for it. She gripped a bedpost. Leaned her forehead against it.

  Heard him cross to the door in the other room.

  Held her breath, imagining him opening it, waiting to hear it close again.

  Instead, she heard the lock.

  Heard a sound behind her and turned to find Winston tossing his jacket onto a chair, stepping out of his shoes, yanking at his neck cloth. Coming toward her with his hands at the front of his waistcoat working the buttons, abandoning them to reach for her instead and pull her to him, crushing his mouth against hers, digging his fingers into her hair and kissing her deeply. Fiercely.

  And she reached for his placket again, and he let go of her but didn’t break the kiss, worked his buttons, shrugged free of his waistcoat at the same moment that she caught him in her hands. But this time he pushed his breeches down. Broke away just long enough to yank them off, get rid of his stockings, pull his shirt over his head, whisk her nightgown away.

  And then he was lifting her, naked, onto the bed, and he planted a knee between her legs, bracing one arm by her shoulder, dipping down to kiss her breasts. He took one in his mouth and she arched toward him, reaching between their bodies to find and hold him again.

  He groaned against her skin. Pulsed in her hands. Kneaded a breast and pulled its nipple taut, and then licked it, loosing new pleasure between her thighs. His knee came up higher, pressed against her flesh, and she moved against it.

  Stroked him—up, down, teasing his sac with her fingers, gasping at the wicked things he was doing to her breasts.

  Knowing what would come next, yet not knowing at all.

  And oh, heaven, he felt glorious, and she let go of him with one hand to caress his thigh, his tight buttocks, his flat stomach and hard chest. He abandoned her breasts and buried his face at her neck, kissing her there with his breath coming hot against her skin. She feathered her fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, splaying her hand against him.

  He eased his knee back and reached between their bodies. Took her hand from his shaft, moved to his side, and raised up on one elbow, bracing himself over her while he parted her with his fingers.

  She looked into his eyes—those devil eyes that were heaven to her now, looking at her with need and desire, as if she were the greatest temptation he’d ever known.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered, as he delved deeper between her legs. She opened them wider, already knowing his touch. Craving it again.

  He leaned down to kiss her, taking her mouth completely as he stroked her. His touch was a refiner’s fire, burning away the ugliness of the past, and she pressed into it. Sighed—gasped—with new pleasure when he circled her opening and dipped inside.

  He circled again, pushed his finger farther inside her this time, spearing fresh need with it, and she lifted her hips.

  “Easy,” he murmured into their kiss.

  He went on like that, pushing his finger in her and then tracing her opening, each time stoking a need that came from deep in her belly, as if her womanhood was crying out to be found, until she couldn’t stand it anymore and she cried out against his lips with desire—frustration—she didn’t know.

  And then his finger left her. He brought his other knee inside her legs and nudged them even wider. She felt his hand on her hip, shifting her. And something else—his shaft—rubbing against her thigh now. Touching her where his fingers had been, sliding up and down against her slick folds slowly, deliberately, sending excruciating pleasure searing through her flesh. She dug her fingers into his hair, made a noise when he broke their kiss to suckle her breasts, heard him breathing now—hard, barely-in-control breaths.

  She felt him splay her with his fingers. Felt him shift between her thighs, felt his shaft push at her opening.

  And time seemed suspended as she clung to him, feeling him breach her and rock himself in, in, in, a little farther each time, until suddenly—

  Dear God, he braced himself on both elbows above her and thrust himself once, swiftly, all the way inside her.

  She cried out in pain, surprise, and her eyes shot to his face, and there was just enough time to see the apology in his eyes before he brought his mouth down on hers again, tangled his tongue with hers and began moving between her thighs—slow, sure thrusts that seemed to touch her very core, each one opening her a little more, coaxing pleasure from the pain.

  Building a rhythm inside her.

  His hand found her breast again, caught her nipple, and fire speared down below. Need. She began to move with him, wanting to feel...to feel...

  Oh.

  Her breath turned ragged and the fire turned wild inside her, building...building...and she couldn’t keep her legs still so she lifted them, hooked them around him, reaching for him with everything she had.

  And the fire took her. It ripped through her in great throes of release that clenched and gripped him as he thrust again, again, again, kissing her madly now, holding tight to her breast on one final thrust that held and held and held.

  His shaft throbbed and pulsed inside her. He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against hers, breathing...breathing...while shudders racked her body and she pushed herself as close to him as she possibly could.

  And he finally released his breath, and his arms came around her tightly, possessively. He buried his face in her hair and just held her.

  * * *

  WINSTON THOUGHT HE’D known everything there was to know about being inside a woman’s body.

  Now it seemed as if he’d never known at all.
>
  He rolled onto his side, taking Millicent with him, keeping himself buried in her tight sweetness. Thoughts crowded at the edges of his mind, but he didn’t want them. He only wanted her.

  Her passage still pulsed, so exquisitely tight around him he almost couldn’t take it. But he couldn’t stand to pull out of her. Not yet.

  He tried pushing farther inside her—as if that were possible—but stopped with a hiss when her body fisted around him and he was too bloody sensitive after that insanity of a release to do anything but lie perfectly still and breathe.

  Feeling her skin, soft and warm against his.

  Smelling her hair.

  Letting his lips linger against her ear, her jaw, her lips.

  Her arms felt small yet fierce around him. Her legs, too, tangled around him, splayed wide to cradle his hips and accept his body into hers.

  You’ve done it again.

  The thought crept in, seeking a place to take root in his foggy mind.

  He turned his head, just a bit, just enough to see her face because she was so beautiful he couldn’t stand not to look at her. Her hair was a silken curtain of mink pooling on his shoulder and the pillow. Her eyes were liquid brown and looking at him with something he’d never seen in a woman’s eyes in bed before: Trust.

  You don’t deserve it.

  He cupped the side of her face—innocence cradled in the palm of sin. “Did I hurt you?” He barely recognized his own rough voice.

  She shook her head. “Only a little.”

  “Good.” But a terrible feeling had begun to pool in his gut.

  He tried to ignore it. He trailed his fingers down her throat, along her collarbone, across the tops of her breasts. Those tender nipples stood firm and berry-pink from his lips and teeth and hands. He smoothed his hand down her side and over her hip and thigh to her knee where it hooked around him.

  Remembered that moment—the one where there had been no going back because he was already inside her, had already breached her maidenhead, and there was nothing left to do but take everything.

  Fifteen years.

  “My leg hurts,” Millicent whispered.

  And of course—he was lying on it. So he shifted, and the movement made him slip from her body, and he glimpsed a sheen of moisture on her inner thighs before she closed them.

  Moisture from her deflowering.

  By him, when he’d sworn off virgins after that mistake with Cara and hadn’t even been tempted by one in all these years.

  He pulled her close and tucked her face beneath his chin. His clothes lay strewn about her room. Her nightgown lay atop his breeches, a limp scrap of linen that had been no protection at all.

  “What do we do now?” she asked against his throat.

  He had no bloody idea. Somehow he had to make things right, but he couldn’t stand to think of that now.

  She would need to wash.

  “Now,” he said, pushing himself to his elbow and then fully upright—pausing to brush his thumb across her lips because, holy God, they looked so plump and perfect. “You wait here.”

  He got out of bed and walked into her dressing room to her pitcher and bowl, seeing his naked body in the glass as he wrung out a cloth and wished the water weren’t so cold. When he returned to the bedchamber, she was out of bed and picking up her shift off the floor. He caught a glimpse of those scars, and fury rose up inside him.

  He needed to know who Millicent really was. Her family, her history. He needed to speak with Lady Pennington.

  Why? Why the devil do you need to know any of that?

  “I thought you’d want this,” he said, and offered her the cloth when he’d intended to bathe her himself, but then he’d assumed she would still be in bed. He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his head, watching her.

  He wanted to commit murder on her behalf. The way she’d looked earlier, clutching that damned shift while she stared at him in horror and shame...

  He’d wanted something he couldn’t even identify. Wanted to protect her, though clearly it was too late for that.

  He pushed his arms through the sleeves and flexed his hands, itching to find the whoreson who had whipped her and tear the man limb from limb.

  And despite all that, he’d taken her virtue. Which made him the whoreson. But God help him, when she’d said she wanted to touch him... And he wasn’t going to do it. He was going to walk out that door—because he’d promised, and he was trying, and—

  God.

  She had her shift on now and was tugging to straighten it, and she looked beautiful. Vulnerable.

  Self-hatred edged in on all sides, but there was little point to that now, so he closed the distance between them and took what he wanted instead.

  A kiss.

  Those soft lips, moving against his. That slender body, melting against him even now, when she had to be raw and sore from their lovemaking, because he hadn’t gone slow.

  He couldn’t.

  Not with her, not after holding back for so long.

  He held her face in his hands and drank of her for long, long minutes. Loved the feel of her arms around him, her tongue mating with his, sweet and trusting.

  And knew that he’d failed completely at everything he’d set out to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MILLIE HARDLY SLEPT after Winston returned to his rooms. He didn’t stay—couldn’t, not with Harris and Sacks and the rest of the help, not unless she was willing to risk being entirely exposed as very definitely not “Mr.” Germain.

  She didn’t feel like Miles Germain.

  She felt...womanly.

  In the morning, hours after the fact, she lay there in the very spot where it had happened, and the tenderness between her legs testified to the truth that she had become a woman, fully and completely.

  With him. Winston.

  He’d called her beautiful. Had touched her scars. And she’d let him. And it had felt so, so good to be cared for, even if he was only being kind.

  But last night, as he’d filled her and they’d moved together...

  She felt she knew him.

  The clock chimed. It was later than usual. She needed to dress before any servants arrived. She made herself get out of bed, hurried through her morning routine to be dressed before any servants arrived.

  Finally she fussed with her wig, unable to get it quite right, feeling unaccountably grumpy about having to wear it all the time in the first place.

  She tugged at the wig, leaning toward the glass. Bloody thing...now it decided it didn’t want to fit properly. She pulled it off and three pins came loose, and half of her hair came tumbling down.

  She looked at herself in the glass and paused. Lifted her hair, brought it to her nose.

  Inhaled his scent. Remembering.

  A duke could always use a personal medic, couldn’t he?

  She let her hair go, took out the rest of the pins, brushed out her hair and gathered it back up. Five extra pins beyond the usual number, and all was secure.

  She really needed to cut her hair.

  Later. She would do it later, after she left Winston’s employ, when she was on her own as Miles Germain and would not be able to afford the risk of an ill-fitting wig.

  She pulled the bagwig back on. And still it didn’t look right.

  She looked like a woman in a man’s wig. Had her gender been this obvious the entire time?

  Surely not. Harris and Sacks would never have been able to keep quiet if they’d suspected.

  She patted the bagwig down more firmly and opened her jaw to draw out her expression. But her cheeks were still flushed pink, and her neck...

  She leaned closer. There was a slight abrasion on her skin where Winston’s jaw had scraped her when he’d moved over her.

  But nobody would know that’s what had happened.

  She tugged at the front of her waistcoat and turned to the side to make sure the binding was having its proper effect.

  There was a knock, and her attention shot t
o the door. A mass of butterflies came alive in her stomach, and for a moment she didn’t answer because what did one say to the man one had given one’s virtue to the night before?

  But it was only Harris.

  “There’s a visitor here to see you,” Harris said, while Millie closely watched his face for any sign that he saw the same things she’d seen this morning in the glass. There was no hint that anything had changed. “He said his name is Sir William Jaxbury.”

  William. Here?

  “Mr. Germain, are you quite all right?”

  “Yes,” she managed, and swallowed past a rising panic.

  “If you’d rather I sent him away—”

  “No. No, I shall see him. Thank you.” She started down the corridor and then paused, looking back. “Harris, has His Grace risen yet this morning?”

  “He has, and he’s gone out for a ride on horseback. I would expect him to return shortly.”

  Then there might be enough time to find out what William wanted and send him away before Winston ever knew he was here.

  Downstairs, she entered the grand salon and saw William’s familiar figure in front of the window.

  She stopped just inside the threshold. “William.”

  He turned. And seeing him now, a terror ripped through her. Blood rushed in her ears like the deafening shouts of the crew.

  Hang her! Hang her!

  Her stomach knotted tightly. Sickly.

  “Please don’t do this to me now,” she begged before he could say anything. Horrible memories rose up, putting a panicked waver into her voice. “I’ve told you I was sorry, and I would go back and change it if I could, but I can’t.”

  “Millie—”

  “It was an accident.” She approached him now, because she couldn’t afford to be overheard. “I didn’t set out to do it. Truly, I didn’t.” But she’d done it—hit him over the head, locked him away, taken over his ship. And now he had come to England to bring her to justice.

  “I’m not here for retribution,” he said in a low voice, coming toward her now, and she began to shake. His blue eyes weren’t laughing like they usually did, and his mouth was tight, and the scar down his cheek made him look ferocious. He still wore his gold earrings, but dressed, today, in a crisp jacket, waistcoat and breeches embroidered with oriental patterns. “God knows I’ve punished you enough already,” he said raggedly.