A Promise by Daylight

by Alison Delaine

  “Why not?”

  “Memories,” she said after a moment. “Of a different time.”

  Now he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Perhaps, later, you’ll tell me about them.”

  She put her hand against his face, touched him and imagined what it might be like for a woman to call him her own. How it might feel to be with him and know that one never had to leave.

  It was a feeling no woman would likely experience.

  Her least of all.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T STAND LONDON,” Sacks muttered a while later when Millie found him stitching a quick mend to one of Winston’s jackets—a friendly face among a sea of strangers, even if he didn’t know the truth about her.

  “I should think there would be plenty of entertainments here to keep you distracted,” Millie said.

  Just then, Harris appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Germain, you have visitors. Lady Pennington and Lady Taggart.”

  Philomena. And India!

  He raised a brow at her. “You keep very high caliber company, Mr. Germain.”

  “Old acquaintances,” she said. “From my former employment. I can’t imagine what they could want,” she added for good measure.

  This was a disaster. If there was one person who could divine the truth of what she’d done with Winston just by looking, it was Philomena.

  Millie would have to lie as she had never lied before.

  Downstairs, Millie found them in the salon.

  “Millie!” India squeaked before clamping her mouth shut.

  “I knew you should not have accompanied me,” Philomena said under her breath.

  They exchanged formal greetings, as any man of Miles Germain’s station might do with his betters, and then seated themselves at the grouping of chairs closest to the window and farthest from listening ears.

  “I came as soon as I heard Winston was in town,” Philomena said in the lowest conceivable voice, perfectly pitched to prevent servants from hearing something they shouldn’t. “I’ve been beside myself since the moment I heard Winston had returned to England. I was much relieved when William was going to take care of the matter, but then he returned from Winston without you. Whyever did you not come with him?”

  And Millie realized that William, bless him, had not told everything he’d learned during his brief visit.

  “I wasn’t finished with my employment,” she explained reasonably, and shifted her attention to India.

  “And it still isn’t finished?”

  “Just a few more days, to make sure nothing is aggravated by his activity in London.” She sounded perfectly calm, perfectly detached. Just as a medic should be. But now as she looked at India and her heart squeezed, she was almost afraid to ask. “Did you receive my letter?” It had been weeks since she’d written it—before her employment with Winston.

  “Oh, yes, and all is forgiven—never doubt that.” She reached for Millie’s hand and immediately let it go. “I should have written back, but I wasn’t sure, with you in Paris...and with so many things happening. Millie—I mean, Miles...” A happy glow flushed India’s cheeks. “I am with child!”

  “India—I’m so happy for you.”

  “I love Nicholas so much,” India whispered earnestly, still glowing. “You have no idea. It isn’t like I feared it would be at all. He’s...magical.”

  “A man always seems magical until one tires of his repertoire,” Philomena said. “Now tell me...Miles...whyever did Winston not go to Greece?”

  “His Grace changed his mind.”

  “Well, yes, I’m aware of that. But why did he change his mind? Because of the accident, I assume. Were his injuries even greater than we were all led to believe?”

  “They were quite severe,” Millie said. “He’s been longer in recovering than expected.” She managed to hold Philomena’s eyes, managed to keep her head up and speak in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Philomena pinned her gaze on Millie. “And you’ve been at his estate all this time.”

  “He’s been convalescing.”

  Philomena narrowed her eyes at that. “I know very well that several men whose presence I can barely tolerate in the best of circumstances traveled to Winston last week—and not for any convalescing. And Lord Hensley was included in the party.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” India whispered, horrified. “Millie...” She started to reach for Millie’s hand but stopped herself.

  “I should have gone to Winston as soon as I heard he’d returned,” Philomena said. “For your sake.”

  “His excesses did not seem to concern you in Paris,” Millie whispered shortly.

  “Endless hours of grueling travel is hardly the same thing as the intimacy of a man’s own house. The things I’ve heard about the goings-on at Winston would burn even my lips to repeat them.”

  “Oh, Millie,” India breathed. “Has it been very awful?”

  “They only stayed two days, and Winston hardly spent any time with them at all. I scarcely saw Lord Hensley.”

  “Winston’s injuries must have been very grave indeed,” Philomena said, searching Millie’s eyes. “And Winston has not suspected you at all? You’re certain?” Her eyes glanced over Millie’s clothes.

  “Not even the smallest suspicion.”

  India leaned forward. “Will you not sail with William, then?”

  “Yes...I very likely will.” But it was too hard to think of leaving and all it implied—never seeing Winston again.

  “Katherine thinks you should,” India said now, and reached for Millie’s hand regardless. She smiled gently. “You should go see her. I’ve asked her forgiveness for taking the ship, and all is right again. You mustn’t leave London without making amends.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MILLIE USED THE CARRIAGE, after all.

  Still dressed as Miles Germain, she adjusted her waistcoat and tugged at her wig in the last minutes before arriving. Katherine had seen her dressed in male clothes before, but for some reason, Millie suddenly wished she could face Katherine as herself.

  This was herself now, she supposed, and climbed out nervously when the carriage stopped and the door was opened.

  She was admitted into the entrance hall with a severe scowl from Katherine’s butler, but a few moments later she heard a voice that made her forget all her nerves and uncertainties.

  “Millie!” Anne’s delighted cry carried through the entrance hall, and Millie’s heart sang even as it squeezed with awful regret. “Millie, are you really here?”

  Millie hurried to the base of the stairs as the little girl descended, holding her governess’s hand but straining against it with excitement, grasping for the spindles to help her go faster.

  “Not so quickly, Anne,” Miss Bunsby said, casting a disapproving glance at Millie.

  “I’m here, Anne,” Millie said, knowing full well she deserved every bit of the young woman’s disapproval.

  “I’ve missed you so!”

  But she didn’t deserve Anne to miss her. Not after the way she’d left Katherine’s house all those months ago, too full of pride and anger to stay, and Anne had been the most hurt.

  All of that and more was there in Miss Bunsby’s eyes. The last time they’d seen each other, they’d argued bitterly about Millie’s leaving Katherine’s house without telling anyone.

  Pride, Millie realized now. She’d had too much pride to accept the love of friends, thinking it was charity.

  But in the next moment none of it mattered because Anne threw her arms around Millie, and Millie crouched down and hugged Anne tightly. “I’ve missed you, too, little Anne,” Millie said. “Very much.” How could she have grown so much in only a few short months?

  Tears filled Millie’s eyes and she blinked fast.

  “You’re wearing men’s clothes,” Anne said, patting Millie’s jacket with small hands. “You’re not wearing a gown like Mama does.”

  “No,” Millie said. “But your gown is
beautiful.”

  “I’m almost a lady now,” Anne said proudly. “My new papa says so.”

  “And he’s exactly right.” Captain Warre had always known just how to make Anne feel special.

  And now, coming down the stairs, was Katherine. She wore a simple yet elegant gown of light blue covered with embroidered ivory flowers, and she looked regal. Katherine always did. Millie straightened, suddenly nervous, wondering whether Katherine’s mercy had been reserved for India alone.

  “Mama, it’s Millie!” Anne cried.

  “Yes, dearest. Isn’t it wonderful? Hello, Millicent.”

  But dear, blind Anne could not see that wonderful was not the expression on her mother’s face.

  After a few more words with Anne, Miss Bunsby took her back upstairs, and Katherine led Millie into an adjoining salon. Before they could even be seated, the words that Millie couldn’t seem to put on paper began to roll off her tongue.

  “My offenses against you are unforgivable,” Millie said, through a throat thick with emotion. “I don’t expect you to accept my apologies. But I want to look you in the eye and make them nonetheless. I betrayed you in the worst possible way after you showed me nothing but kindness, and I don’t expect your friendship—I don’t deserve it—but...” Now she lost her voice completely.

  Katherine regarded her through those same intelligent, light brown eyes that Millie knew so well—shrewd, exacting...compassionate. “Thank you,” she said, and reached for Millie’s hand. “I’m glad you came...I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I don’t deserve it.”

  “You’ve never believed you deserved anything unless you earned it,” Katherine scoffed gently. “You have so many excellent qualities—courage, strength—yet pride was always your worst fault.”

  “I know,” Millie said. “If I could go back, I would do everything differently.”

  “But we cannot go back, can we? We can only move forward. As far as I’m concerned, what happened is forgotten.” Her eyes sparkled. “And William tells me a position awaits you aboard the Possession once more.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were the strongest member of my crew in so many ways, Millie. William will be fortunate to have you.”

  Hearing Katherine say that, fresh tears burned Millie’s eyes. “And I will be fortunate to sail with him,” she said, and it was true. The terrible fear that had lived inside her dissolved away in the light of her former captain’s approving smile.

  And now Katherine pulled her into an embrace, and everything was just as it used to be—better, even, because the old tension between them was gone. She had her friends back. All of them—Katherine, Philomena, India and even William.

  What more could she possibly ask for?

  * * *

  WITH EACH PASSING HOUR, London threatened to pull him back into his old life.

  The luncheons he used to take at the finest brothels in town, where the food was just as succulent as the women.

  The friends who expected entertainments to resume immediately at Winston’s town house and who were obviously perplexed by the excuses he made.

  The invitations to various routs, the illicit solicitations for his company by women whose living came from other men’s accounts, the promises of delights at any number of scandalous festivities about town.

  Everything that had taken up his time for years.

  Even the discussions he’d come to London to help broker did not stop the tide of others’ expectations.

  And as the day wore on and his frustration grew, he thought of Millicent.

  Last night, he’d made up his mind not to touch her. But this morning, he hadn’t been able to resist seeing her. Touching her, after all, if only to hold her hand.

  He burned to hold much more than that.

  He took supper at the temporary residence of a member of the French court who was anxious for entertainment, and in the interest of international relations ended up in one of the very brothels he’d avoided at luncheon, only to drink quietly in a chair while the proprietress—a woman whose charms he knew intimately—tried valiantly to tempt him before finally giving up, insisting that he must be ill.

  “I’ve never seen you like this,” she said with genuine concern. “I fear something is dreadfully wrong. Have you seen a physician?”

  No. He’d seen a medic—a ship’s surgeon—and sitting there while other men enjoyed themselves, he made up his mind that he would see her again.

  All of her.

  Tonight. And he wouldn’t think about the consequences or the reasons he shouldn’t or how he might make things right.

  He would sink into her, experience the unique madness of it and, for a few hours, forget all about London’s demands and expectations, forget that he may never really succeed at turning his back on any of it... Forget everything but Millicent.

  * * *

  BACK AT WINSTON’S town house after her reunion with Katherine, Millie marveled at her good fortune.

  All was forgiven. It didn’t seem possible.

  She felt lighter. Happier, as though she’d been given a precious gift. Suddenly the future seemed...manageable. She would have the money she’d earned as Winston’s medic, and she would have her salary as ship’s surgeon. And, if she was lucky and nobody had found it, she would have the sum she’d hidden away aboard the Possession months ago.

  But you won’t have Winston.

  It was a dangerous and nonsensical line of thinking that she tried to ignore.

  It was late when Winston returned. Millie’s heart leaped when she heard the low rumble of his voice as he said something to Sacks in the corridor. She got up from where she’d been writing, went to her dressing room door, listened.

  She heard the faint click of his door and deflated a little.

  Still in her waistcoat and breeches—just in case he might ask for her—she returned to her writing desk, where the letter she’d been writing to Cara lay nearly finished. Candlelight flickered over her careful script. It hurt to think of leaving her new friend behind. But when the truth finally came out, there was no doubt Cara would have the best care. And if anyone could possibly understand why Millie couldn’t stay, it was Cara.

  She looked at the door. Wondered about Winston’s day. His evening. Who he’d seen, what he’d done.

  Perhaps he’d taken a lover tonight.

  She sat down, staring at the page.

  Perhaps there’d been more than one.

  Her stomach contracted into a tight, painful lump. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what he was like when she’d made love with him. But at the estate that night, beneath his gentle touch, it had been so easy to imagine he was changing into the man he’d said he was trying to be, and that giving herself to him would turn out to be more than a disastrous experiment.

  Disastrous?

  No, it hadn’t been that. It was an exquisite, sensuous experiment that only made her yearn for him in a way she’d never dreamed possible. And that was worse.

  A knock startled her. “Yes?”

  Sacks poked his head into the room. “He’s asking for you.”

  “Of course.” Anticipation took wing. “I’ll be there momentarily.”

  With a nod, Sacks withdrew.

  Now Millie checked herself in the glass—another thing that there’d been no reason to do before she’d entered the duke’s employ.

  A plain young man with too-rounded features stared back at her.

  And suddenly she didn’t want to see him like this. But what other way was there? This was what she’d chosen. What she wanted. Once she left his employ, she needed to be Miles Germain—there would be no hope of respectability otherwise.

  But she also wanted...more.

  More of him.

  More of that delicious feeling of being a woman that he’d awakened so thoroughly.

  But she knew the kind of women who would flock to him in London. Women like the princess, who would not be wearing bagwigs and breeches. For a
ll she knew, he was asking for her in her capacity as a medic.

  She took her candle and went to his room, where he stood staring into the fire. Just the sight of him—broad shoulders encased in shimmering, embroidered silk, narrowing to firm hips—made her breath turn shallow.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said.

  He turned. And now everything inside her felt shallow, tense, warm. He was so utterly handsome, firelight playing across his devil’s face.

  “Yes.”

  She saw his eyes roam over her, knew exactly what he was seeing because she’d seen it herself moments ago. And for the first time ever, she wished she’d been wearing one of those gowns like Philomena wore—sparkling, tight, accentuating every curve.

  The kind that ladies of quality wore.

  The kind she’d never owned. Never even wanted to own.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

  Now he came toward her. Stopped next to the settee. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

  “Perhaps a calming tea—”

  “No. No tea.” And then, “Come here.” His voice was low. Soft. Unmistakable in its intent.

  She set her candle aside and went to him.

  He reached for her. Silently removed her wig and tossed it aside, undid her hair and let the pins fall where they may.

  Dug his fingers into its mass and kissed her deeply.

  He smelled of perfume and snuff. Tasted of port and frustration.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he breathed against her lips.

  The clock on the mantel chimed half past midnight. A coal snapped in the fire, sending a spray of sparks into the flue.

  He kissed her once, twice, a third time, then buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. “I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again.”

  But he was touching her again now, drawing his fingers along the side of her neck, pushing her coat from her shoulders, smoothing his hands down her back, curling them possessively around her buttocks in a way that made her feel so utterly feminine.