A Promise by Daylight

by Alison Delaine

  Millie’s chest tightened. She swallowed. “Perhaps the accident changed him,” she said, hating how small she sounded and how fearful her eyes looked, and hating even more how much she wanted Winston to approve.

  “Do not lose your heart to him, Millie.” Phil adjusted a lock of Millie’s hair that curled artfully at the curve of her neck. “It will only leave you bitter and aged when you must finally accept that he will not return it.”

  “I haven’t lost my heart.” She hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. She knew better than that.

  Philomena was studying her critically in the glass. “You look too innocent. Smile a bit— No, not that much. Just a tiny curve at the corners. Yes. Like that.”

  Phil moved out from behind her, reached for a small jar and held Millie’s chin in her hand, fixing her eyes on Millie’s mouth.

  “Philomena, I don’t want—”

  “Hold still...” She dabbed a bit of color on Millie’s lips— “Just a tiny...tiny...smidgeon. And this...” Philomena added a small black beauty patch high on Millie’s cheek. Finally she smiled. “Much more appropriate. Nothing too garish, but it takes the edge off that innocence.”

  Millie looked past Phil. Just these two small changes completely changed her face. Her lips looked lush. The beauty mark lured attention to her eyes.

  “Now try that smile again,” Philomena instructed.

  Millie curved her mouth.

  In the glass, she saw the very kind of woman that Winston preferred.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE BALL WAS an endless crush of glittering quality.

  Millie stayed by Philomena’s side, the practiced phrases she’d been taught soon rolling easily off her tongue, even as it seemed that every pair of eyes regarded her suspiciously.

  She did not belong here. Surely everyone could see that.

  And yet her connection to Philomena—however circumspectly explained—had gentlemen bowing and kissing her hand and women curtsying politely, if not warmly.

  “Remember what we discussed,” Philomena reminded her in a low voice behind her fan. “When we see him—and Winston always attends these things, even if only for a short while—you must be the picture of calm indifference. We want him to see exactly, precisely, what he has under his nose.”

  Indifference. Yes, that was what they had discussed.

  She still wasn’t sure she could accomplish it. But she would try.

  Hope she barely dared entertain pressed at the edges of her mind. She imagined the expression on his face when he first saw her, how much more intensely his eyes would darken with desire tonight than when she dressed in her men’s clothes.

  Millicent, she imagined him murmuring on a breath of wonder. You look magnificent.

  For the hundredth time she surveyed the sea of faces, expecting any moment she might see him yet almost wishing she wouldn’t.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t be here, after all.

  “Where is your fan?” Philomena asked.

  “Here.” Millie had forgotten all about it, and it hung from a cord on her wrist.

  “Open, open— Yes, just like that. Now close...”

  Millie did as Philomena had taught her, and Philomena nodded. “Good. Now just remember that when we— Ah, here is someone you will be happy to see!”

  “Millie?” India stared at her. “Oh, my heavens. I can’t believe it! You look beautiful.” And then, scolding, “Auntie Phil, you didn’t tell me you were going to do this.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Philomena said smoothly.

  India held up her fan and spoke behind it. “Is it because of Winston?”

  Millie’s pulse shot up. “Well, I—”

  “Certainly not.” Philomena laughed lightly. “I only wanted Millicent to be with friends in London, and what better place to be with friends than here?”

  “You’ll have men positively swarming around you,” India said. “Which I know you’ll hate, but you must keep an open mind. And only look,” she said, lowering her voice, “here are two that I know are eligible. Nicholas,” she called to her husband, waving him over with her fan even though he was already headed this direction. “Look who I’ve found.”

  India’s husband joined them with two young gentlemen at his side. Millie already knew Nicholas Warre, Lord Taggart, better than she wished. The last time she’d seen him, he’d paid her a tidy sum in exchange for her role in helping him trick India into marriage.

  “Miss Germain,” he said, bowing politely. “A pleasure to see you again.” He introduced his companions, both ridiculously out of her reach even if she had entertained hopes of marriage. She felt their eyes on her, and her skin prickled.

  “Do excuse me,” Philomena said now. “There’s someone I must speak with. I’ll only be a minute or two. India, look after Miss Germain, won’t you?”

  She smiled encouragingly at the two young gentlemen and disappeared into the crowd. Now Millie was forced to make small talk about the music, the food, the general affability of the company, and all the while her nerves grew tighter and tighter, expecting Winston at any moment. She wanted to search the faces, but she didn’t want to embarrass India and Lord Taggart by being impolite, so she continued with the conversation even though she was starting to feel ill.

  He’d never been the kind of man to maintain prolonged relationships before. What if Philomena was wrong, and he refused to do so now?

  But they couldn’t go on with her in disguise. Philomena was right about that.

  She would not be abandoning Malta, the surgical school, her hopes for a life as a surgeon. She was simply...securing that future for herself. Just like Philomena said.

  * * *

  “WINSTON,” A VOICE CALLED, and devil take it, Lady Pennington was bearing down on him, gliding across the ballroom floor as if on ice.

  Lady Pennington was beautiful. Stunning, really, with perfect breasts slimming down to an impossible waist. A young widow—the ideal companion. There was a time he would have paid a decent sum for the opportunity to explore that luscious body.

  Yet standing here with her now, he hardly felt a stir. There was only one body he could seem to think of lately.

  “Paris must be entirely shuttered without you,” he began, deciding he would take this opportunity to see if she would divulge any information about her day spent with Millicent.

  Lady Pennington fluttered her fan. “I have no doubt that it is. Why did you not tell me you’d changed your mind about Greece?” The fan snapped shut, and she swatted him lightly on the arm.

  “Forgive me for not realizing I answered to you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. But a change of plans might have made a difference to Mr. Germain, who can only have me to blame for disappointed hopes of a Mediterranean adventure.”

  “Indeed.”

  She took his arm, and he found himself being guided toward a secluded corner. “I shall come straight to the point, Winston,” she said now. “About Millicent.”

  He tensed.

  “I shan’t ask whether you’ve trifled with her, because I already know you have. It was written all over her face as soon as I saw her.”

  Anger flashed. “If you breathe a word to anyone, so help me—”

  “If I breathe a word.” Those jewel-like blue eyes narrowed up at him. “Have you taken any precautions at all to protect her reputation? To protect her from conceiving?”

  “Her reputation is as safe as ever.” And if she conceived...he would arrange to care for the child.

  “And what do you plan? Use her until you tire of her, and then toss her aside?”

  Rage burned so hot it nearly blinded him. “Excuse me, Lady Pennington. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Do not walk away from me, Winston.” She skillfully blocked his way. “I referred a medic to you. Not a plaything.”

  He knew that. Forgive me, he’d said to Millicent last night, as if that meant anything at all. The old adage about actions versus words screeched through his
brain.

  He was not going to discuss this with Lady Pennington. “And I will be forever grateful for your recommendation,” he said.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Will you.”

  “As you can see, I am quite recovered.”

  “Indeed. I only wonder whether Miss Germain will recover.”

  “She is nothing if not resourceful. And I understand she spent the afternoon in your company.”

  “Indeed she did, and I’ll have you know that I will not stand for you to cast my young friend aside. Where you play, Winston, you must pay—and I expect you to do right by her in that regard.”

  Now she had his attention. He stilled on the inside. “Please—do explain how you expect me to do right by her.”

  “Do not play dumb with me. An apartment of her own in London. Lavishly furnished, of course. And a very tidy allowance. No less than a hundred a week—and I do not mean that she must use that sum to dress herself. You will see to that, as well.”

  “Will I?”

  “This is no game, Winston. My young friend may have made any number of mistakes, but ruining herself was not one of them—at least, not until I delivered her into your hands. And now I expect you to ensure that she profits handsomely from your seduction. And in the meantime, I will be moving her out of your household to await your arrangements.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said.

  “She cannot stay with you.”

  “She is not staying with me. He is staying with me—or perhaps you forget that it is Mr. Miles Germain that you referred to me.”

  “That makes not one whit of difference to me, because it was not Mr. Miles Germain’s field that you plowed.” She smiled at him. “And it shan’t be Miles who becomes your mistress. I assure you, any man in London would fall over himself to have Millicent at his disposal.”

  He laughed, because he wanted so fiercely to strangle the very life out of her for what she was suggesting. “Millicent would never do that. Not for me or anyone else. Apparently you don’t know your young friend as well as you think you do.”

  She smiled and reached for his arm. “Escort me into the other room, will you? There’s someone there I would like you to meet.”

  * * *

  A COLD FEELING snaked through him.

  He walked with her into the next room, through the crush, until Lady Pennington paused. He followed the line of her gaze.

  And saw Millicent.

  She was scarcely recognizable, but it was her, all feminine curves in patterned pink silk. Jewels sparkled around her neck and at her ears. The breasts that for weeks had been secured beneath their binding swelled enticingly above her décolletage. There was no hideous bagwig now—her hair was piled atop her head, save for a few locks left curling at her shoulders, and it shimmered twenty shades of mink in the candlelight.

  She stood with Cantwell’s daughter, India, her husband, Nicholas, and two young men Winston didn’t recognize but whose purpose was easy to guess. She was laughing.

  And clearly he was the one who didn’t know her.

  “Do come and say hello, won’t you?” Lady Pennington singsonged.

  Dumbstruck, he followed her over.

  Felt, in the moment that Millicent’s gaze shifted and their eyes collided, as if he’d taken a fist to the gut.

  There were the usual greetings. One of the young men was a knight from the north of England, the other a gentleman from a family whose name he didn’t recognize.

  “Winston,” Lady Pennington cut in smoothly as he was kissing Lady India’s hand, “I have saved the best for last. Do meet my young friend Millicent Germain.”

  And now there was no more avoiding her. He met those soft brown eyes—the very eyes he’d looked into last night as they’d found release in perfect unison on his bed, when he’d felt almost as if he was part of her, and she of him.

  Now those eyes were finely edged with pencil. The face that had been flushed pink and warm with pleasure was now dusted with powder, and the sweet lips he’d devoured as he moved inside her were lightly stained. And she was breathtaking—every bit as beautiful as any woman who had ever tried to capture his interest.

  More so.

  And he could hardly stand to look at her.

  “Miss Germain,” he murmured. “A great pleasure.”

  She curtsied low, and he bowed, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach for her hand and bring it to his lips.

  “Likewise, Your Grace.”

  He saw the uncertainty in her eyes and wondered if she feared he would not like what he saw or that he might reject the scheme Lady Pennington had so obviously devised.

  And that Millicent, apparently, had embraced.

  A feeling cut through him—betrayal? Disappointment?—even though he was the one who had wronged her, and he had no right to feel anything but remorse.

  “You must be very careful of him, Millicent,” India said now in a tone of mock seriousness. “He has the blackest of reputations.”

  Winston smiled a little. “You wound me greatly. And cause Miss Germain unnecessary alarm. I’m quite sure she has no reason to fear my reputation.” Now he bowed to Millicent. “Enjoy your evening worry-free, Miss Germain.” And, “Lady Pennington. Always a pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HE GAVE AWAY NOTHING.

  Millie’s pulse raced as he walked away, and her heart sank. Not even a flicker—nothing to indicate whether he approved, whether he found her more attractive now.

  Enjoy your evening worry-free. What did that mean?

  “You did very well,” Philomena said to Millie behind her fan. “I am exceedingly proud of you. Only let him think for a little while about what he’s seen.”

  “He didn’t seem pleased,” Millie whispered back.

  “Of course not. It would have been tasteless for him to show it. But never fear...I’ve already spoken with him, and all shall be settled before the evening is through.”

  Settled. With Millie no longer Winston’s medic but his mistress.

  It seemed, suddenly, as if her stays were strangling her.

  And now India was talking to her, telling her something about Lord Taggart’s sister, and Lord Taggart was conversing with one of the young gentlemen while the other seemed enthralled by Philomena, and the air was filled with music and voices and perfume, and somewhere in this great sea of people Winston was considering... What? How much he should pay her?

  One of the young gentlemen asked Millie to dance, and she started to decline, but Philomena interrupted. “By all means, Millicent. What an excellent idea.”

  He led her through the crowd, closer to the orchestra, where a lively line of people whirled and twirled and laughed.

  Pay her. Winston was going to pay her.

  It wouldn’t be like it was now. She would dress herself up, make herself available, and he would visit her—or perhaps, too often, he wouldn’t—and she would give herself to him, but even if she still gave from the heart, he would never believe it.

  He would make love to her knowing he was paying handsomely for the privilege.

  And she would store up money for her future knowing it all came because of what she let him do with her in bed.

  She felt sick.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the young gentleman, pulling away from him just as they reached the line of dancers. “Please forgive me. There’s—”

  “Is something the matter?”

  “There’s someone I must see. Please,” she said even as she was already walking away, “forgive me.”

  And she pushed through the crowd, looking for Winston.

  You’re already receiving wages in exchange for your favors.

  The truth of it burned her cheeks, soured her stomach.

  She scoured the rooms, searching, searching, praying he hadn’t left already, knowing it was really too late, that she was already here tonight as a whore. She’d become the thing she feared most without even realizing it.

  He wasn’
t in the main ballroom, wasn’t in the antechamber. She noticed people coming and going through a door, so she went in and found herself in a sort of corridor, a labyrinth of rooms that were just as full of people as the main rooms.

  She had to talk to him and put an end to this. It couldn’t wait until tonight—she wouldn’t be seeing him, anyway, because Philomena would refuse to let her return.

  One room, the next, the next... He was nowhere to be found.

  And it began to hit her that this could be the last time she saw him at all, because she couldn’t be his medic, wouldn’t be his whore, would have to accept, now, that—

  Oh.

  Millie stopped short in a doorway and stared at the laughing group inside.

  At Winston.

  He didn’t notice her. His attention was on a woman who was dipping her finger in his drink and drawing a wet trail across the tops of her—

  “Ho, there! Come in, come in—always room for beauty,” a man said, coming up to her.

  “No, I—” Couldn’t tear her eyes away from Winston, who only now looked her way, laughing and licking his finger after catching a bead of liquor from the woman’s bosom.

  Millie’s heart constricted, her lungs, everything, so sharply that it seemed as if she would not survive this moment, but by a miracle her voice returned.

  “Forgive me. I have the wrong room.” She turned and fled. Blindly, not toward the party but away, to another room and out a pair of doors that led to a stone balcony populated with knots of people talking, drinking, laughing.

  Frantically she looked from one side to the other for an escape.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” came a horribly familiar voice from nearby, and Millie turned abruptly.

  Lord Hensley. He stood talking with another man, and both of them were looking pointedly at her décolletage.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “No. No, I was just...” What she’d just seen had her dazed. Confused.

  “Now, now.” Lord Hensley reached out, caught her hand. “What’s the hurry?”

  The other man laughed and shook his head. “I think I’ll rejoin the party,” he said meaningfully, leaving them.