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A Promise by Daylight

Page 23

by Alison Delaine

He kissed her again, deeply, and she wound her arms around his neck and let him pull her intimately against him.

  After long minutes he worked at her waistcoat, let it fall to the floor, as well. Dispensed quickly with the rest until she stood before him in only her shirt, and now it didn’t matter that she had no sparkling gown, because the look in his eyes made her feel...desirable.

  He drew her toward the settee, pulled her down with him, on top of him, so that she lay cradled between his powerful thighs. And still he cupped her bottom, but now she felt him pulling her shirt higher, higher, exposing her, while her belly pressed against his hard sex and he was kissing her so very sweetly, drinking at her lips as if she were the very elixir that kept him alive.

  The room’s air touched her bottom, followed by warm fingers against her flesh, exploring now. Caressing their way between her thighs, coaxing her open for him.

  She did.

  She felt him at her opening, his finger circling in the moisture there, and a noise escaped from deep in her throat. She pushed herself against it and felt him breach her. Felt him inhale even as they kissed.

  And then he was pulling, tugging her shirt over her head until she was naked on top of him and he cradled her breasts in his hands, stretching up to kiss them. Suckle their tips. Pleasure pooled between her legs and she melted in his hands, desperate to feel him moving inside her again.

  She felt him working his placket, freeing himself. Urging her to straddle him, guiding her, seating his sex at her opening.

  Thrusting upward. Filling her on a hiss of breath.

  She gasped at the tightness of it, the depth, as if he’d speared all the way to her heart. His eyes were dark, burning with desire as he withdrew and then pushed inside again just as deeply. Guiding her into a rhythm and then pulling her forward, feasting exquisitely on her breasts.

  “Ah, God,” she heard him breathe against her skin. “Forgive me.”

  But there was nothing to forgive. He was heaven beneath her, and she moved her hips with him. He was beautiful madness, building her pleasure with hard, sure strokes.

  Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, and she felt like a goddess in his hands. Felt herself tightening, spiraling, straining against him—and breaking, crashing around him in a flood of pleasure while he pushed up, up, up into her, and stilled, arching beneath her, letting out a strangled curse as he lost himself inside her.

  She could scarcely catch her own breath in the aftermath of such intensity. But before she realized what he was doing, he caught her around the waist and stood up, still buried in her, and carried her into the next room.

  She clung to him, pressing her face against his damp neck, breathing his scent.

  He laid her down on the bed, carefully, staying joined with her, moving over her to kiss her. She reveled in his weight between her thighs. Ran her hands down his back, over the embroidered silk of the waistcoat he still wore, pulling it up to grasp his bare buttocks and pull him closer.

  Yes.

  This was what she wanted.

  Him. She wanted him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MILLIE AWOKE IN the nude.

  It took a moment to realize that the curtains she stared up at were those that draped Winston’s bed, and that she lay sprawled across that bed.

  And that he lay next to her, asleep.

  But just that quickly, memories pooled and eddied in her mind.

  They’d made love on the settee, and again on the bed after he’d carried her in here, and yet again, much later.

  Her eyes shifted to the doorway...to the arm of the settee, barely visible in the next room. His dressing room—

  Her gaze shot to the clock on the mantel, scarcely readable in the darkened room, but slices of daylight edged the window curtains, which meant...

  Morning. And—

  Sacks! He could be here any moment.

  Next to her, Winston lay on his stomach, breathing in the slow, even rhythm of a man deeply at rest. Carefully she sat up, looking around for something to cover herself with, finding only his crumpled shirt at the foot of the bed. She reached for the shirt and clutched it to her breasts as she climbed from the bed.

  And still Winston slept.

  For a moment she watched him, and everything they’d shared filled her so completely she felt as if her chest might burst. Perhaps...

  Perhaps she could stay. Everything could remain just as it is now, with her continuing to act as his personal medic...

  His personal mistress, more like.

  Oh, dear God.

  And it was worse than that, because tomorrow she would receive the week’s pay, which meant—

  No. No, that wasn’t what was happening. He was paying her for her medical services, not... She clutched his shirt more tightly to herself and glanced down at her bare legs and feet.

  He wasn’t paying her for this.

  Tears filled her eyes. He wasn’t. And she certainly hadn’t done this for any sum of money. She’d done it because she’d wanted to. She’d wanted him.

  And that was the entire problem.

  She hurried into the dressing room to find her clothes, brushing away tears that slid down her cheeks. She needed to leave. Wanted to leave.

  But she also wanted to stay.

  More tears leaked from her eyes as she quickly gathered her breeches, shirt and waistcoat from the floor, hastily pulling the shirt over her head, stuffing one leg into her breeches, nearly losing her balance—

  The door opened.

  Frantically she stuffed her other leg in just as Sacks entered the room. She looked up at him and froze, her face wet with tears.

  He looked at her. His eyes widened in shock. “Good God.”

  She tried to straighten, but her breeches were only half-on, so she ended up on the settee. “Sacks, please...”

  His eyes shot from her to the doorway leading into Winston’s bedchamber and then back to her. Voices came from outside the room—chambermaids.

  Sacks turned abruptly, shut the door, bolted it.

  Turned back, nodded toward the bedchamber. “Is he awake?”

  She shook her head.

  His brows furrowed. “All this time...?”

  She nodded.

  “And you and ’is Grace have been—”

  “No,” she said quickly, and now the tears started coming again and she pressed a fist to her mouth to try to stop it. “No, it isn’t like that.”

  “Here, now.” He came over, crouched down and helped her with her breeches, quickly hiking them up over her knees, letting her do the rest. “We’ll get you dressed and to your room.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged in a whisper as she blindly tried to button her waistcoat.

  “Never mind about that, just put this on,” he said, helping her with the coat and then handing her the wig. “And this.”

  She tried to pull her hair back.

  “Just put it on,” he said. “Like this.” He pulled it down with the ends of her hair hanging out and ushered her to the door, pushing her behind him as he opened it and looked out. “Wait here.”

  He was gone for a few seconds, and when he returned, “Now. Quickly.”

  He kept her at his side, shielding her as they walked briskly down to her rooms.

  “No wonder you’ve got such small feet,” he muttered, and then they were inside her dressing room and he shut the door behind them.

  She looked at Sacks and pulled the wig off her head. “Promise you won’t tell. Please.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone.” He exhaled, looking at her. “Did he take advantage or are you plying your trade?”

  Plying her trade? “No! No, I’m not a...” The tears stopped her again, because now she was thinking of her pay coming tomorrow.

  Sacks cursed. “He never touches the ’elp. And I’ve never known ’im to take advantage. I can’t believe ’im, doing something like this.”

  “I only dressed this way so that I could work as a medic,
” she sniffled, hating how helpless she sounded.

  “You don’t have to explain it to me,” he said “I know what it is to have to scrap for a living. I’ve seen women do stranger than this to get by. A damned sight stranger.” He looked her over and shook his head. “Here, now, let’s find you a fresh shirt, and then I’d best hie myself back to ’is room before he wakes. Oh, and I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket. “Harris said this came for you.”

  It was Philomena’s writing. She tore it open while Sacks pulled a shirt from the drawer and set it out for her.

  I must see you immediately. I will send a coach for you at 12:00.

  It was already nearly eleven. Philomena wanted to see her? Millie tried to imagine why. Worse, she tried to imagine hiding the truth from Philomena’s all-perceiving gaze.

  For her own sake, she would have to.

  * * *

  “THIS IS ALL my fault,” Philomena declared the moment Millie walked into the lovely upstairs drawing room with its robin’s-egg-blue walls, clotted-cream trim and floral drapery. “I blame myself entirely. But Winston will not use you ill and toss you aside. I won’t stand for it.”

  Philomena could not have divined the truth this quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Millie said. “He hasn’t used me ill.”

  Philomena framed Millie’s face firmly in her hands. “He most certainly has. It was written all over your face yesterday. It’s written all over your face now. You shared his bed last night, didn’t you?” Millie’s stomach tightened. Dear God. “No, you don’t need to confirm it,” Philomena went on. “It couldn’t be plainer what’s happened. And I shall never forgive Winston for it—but we can use the situation to your advantage.”

  Millie felt light-headed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your compensation.”

  “I already have my compensation. He has recovered from his injuries, and I’ve received my wages for tending to his health—”

  “You shall receive a good deal more than that.”

  Millie shook her head and took a step back, breaking Philomena’s hold on her. “I don’t need more than that.”

  “Millicent. Your feelings for him haven’t caused you to change your mind about your future, have they? About that school?”

  “Of course not.” But just this morning, her feelings were murkier than they’d ever been before.

  “How much did he give you in wages?”

  Millie told her the sum, and Philomena raised a brow. “Handsome, indeed. But you shall have more than that.”

  “I’ll be leaving at the end of the week with William.”

  “Millicent...” Philomena’s blue eyes turned shrewd. “You’ve always been exceedingly practical. What’s done is done, and I take full responsibility, but now we must face this situation squarely for what it is—” she came forward again and took Millie’s hands “—and what it can become.”

  Millie stared at her.

  “Men like Winston pay their favorites extravagantly. Let us not mince words. Surely you agree that the virtue he took from you is worth the price of your schooling and then some.”

  Millie felt sick. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I...” Gave it to him. But Philomena would wave that away with a flick of her wrist.

  Philomena let go of Millie’s hands. “Tell me you haven’t fooled yourself into imagining he might marry you.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I am not suggesting you become anything you have not already become. For the sum he’s paid you already—”

  “That wasn’t what it was for!”

  “I’ve never known you to be a fool, Millicent. Or impractical. At this very moment, Winston’s seed could be taking root.”

  Dear God. Dear God. “I know.” She’d let herself be swept away by Winston and her own desire, but now, hearing the facts spoken aloud brought a lick of panic. “I know.”

  A child. Winston’s child.

  “What will you do aboard a ship then?” Philomena asked, kindly but firmly. “How do you imagine you’ll do what William expects of you when you’re waddling across the quarterdeck heavy with child? I doubt that’s what he had in mind when he made the offer.”

  A hole opened up in the pit of Millie’s stomach. “There could well be no baby.”

  “And if there is?”

  “Katherine sailed with a child.”

  “Katherine had no choice. You must command from Winston everything you will need should the worst become reality. You already enjoy his company... I assure you, you will do far better now than you ever could as his medic.”

  Stricken, Millie’s hands started to tremble.

  Philomena’s eyes softened. “I would never recommend that you lose your heart to Winston, but seeing that you’ve lost it already, isn’t there part of you that would be glad to stay close to him?”

  There was. Heaven help her, there was. She just never imagined...

  “I will call my dressmaker immediately and we must have you outfitted for tonight. We must waste no time. He will be at the Rogersfield gala tonight, and he must see you there, and he must see a woman who could command the attention of any man she wished. He must see that you are not a waif. He desires you, that much I could tell.”

  Millie thought of those times at his estate, the way they’d laughed together. The care he’d taken with her, the torment in his eyes when he’d spoken of the accident in Paris. His mistake with Cara.

  He cared for her. He respected her.

  They were...friends. Weren’t they? And yet...

  The practicalities and realities of their relationship reared up, and she wanted to stay with him so badly, had given so much of herself to him, and suddenly—unbelievably—she was thinking of how much Phil knew about the ways of the world, and how possibly...

  Perhaps...

  Millie took a deep breath, feeling like a different person as she nodded.

  Perhaps Phil was right.

  * * *

  WHEN WINSTON CAME home to dress for the evening, he was told that Mr. Germain had gone off in Lady Pennington’s carriage and that he had not yet returned.

  “What time did he leave?” Winston asked Sacks as his neck cloth was being tied.

  “Noon, Your Grace.”

  He wondered if Lady Pennington might be helping Millicent arrange a new employment.

  He didn’t like that idea at all. Not that he had any right to an opinion.

  Maybe they should return to the estate. The pressing need for his presence was becoming a clear exaggeration. He could beg an emergency and take Millicent back there, where...

  What?

  Where every night could be like last night. He could tolerate her disguise indefinitely if, at nights, he could have her—just her, stripped of everything except her passion, her determination. When he was inside her, he felt washed clean of all that came before.

  It didn’t make any sense. He’d wronged her gravely, and what he did with her was a blacker mark against him than any of the rest. And yet it felt...more pure.

  “Did Mr. Germain say anything before he left?”

  “Such as what, sir?”

  “Anything about his plans. Whether he might be seeking other employment, for example.”

  “Is Your Grace thinking of dismissing ’im, then?” Sacks asked.

  “His employment was only supposed to last until I recovered.”

  “He did seem a bit out of sorts.”

  “Out of sorts? How?”

  “Can’t say, really.”

  “Unhappy?”

  Sacks raised a brow. “Most definitely, sir.”

  He’d hurt her. She was an innocent—if not sheltered—and now that carefully guarded innocence was gone, and instead of mitigating the situation by refusing to touch her further, he’d indulged his own needs and ignored how it might affect her.

  He’d taken her on the settee—that settee right there—setting her atop him and driving up into her as if she were experienced, when, in
fact, it had only been the second time she’d ever taken a man inside her. And then, later, the third time and the fourth.

  As if she were a whore.

  Not that she hadn’t responded to him. The fire between them burned hotter than anything he’d ever experienced. But her awakening pleasure was no excuse for tumbling her for hours in his bed. Had he ever even been in bed with a woman that long?

  And then he’d fallen asleep—must have, because he didn’t remember her leaving. Had she been unhappy even then? Creeping back to her rooms, virtue in a shambles, wondering what she would do next?

  And now she’d been with Lady Pennington all day.

  It made too much sense. The only question was, how much would Millicent tell?

  None at all, most likely. Millicent valued respect above all else. It was the reason “Miles Germain” existed in the first place. And however much he might be weary of seeing her in that awful disguise, he couldn’t help admiring her for it. Her tenacity, her sense of purpose, her refusal to let anything stop her from pursuing her gifts to the fullest.

  Not even him.

  * * *

  MILLIE STARED INTO the glass in Philomena’s dressing room and scarcely recognized herself.

  Jewels winked from her hair. Embroidered silk in a richly hued pink floral pattern shimmered in candlelight, fitting Millie’s body perfectly, accentuating slender shoulders and a trim waist. Soft lace fell from her elbows, graced her low-cut décolletage where stays pushed her breasts high and round. Panniers made her skirts flare at her hips. Yards of fabric and lace draped all around her.

  She looked...beautiful.

  Like someone else entirely.

  Like a duke’s mistress.

  “Here,” Philomena said, moving to an ornate jewelry box and lifting out a heavy necklace of pearl, opal and ruby. “You’ll wear this.”

  “Philomena—”

  “Don’t you dare change your mind now, Millicent,” Philomena said, placing the magnificent necklace around Millie’s neck and fastening it.

  Miles Germain was gone. The face that stared back at her now was feminine, uncertain. Philomena rested her hands on Millie’s shoulders. In the glass, her eyes softened. “I have a good deal more understanding of these matters than you do, and I’ve known Winston for a very long time.”

 

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