Praise for ALISON DELAINE

‘A fearless debut! Alison DeLaine pens a stand-out romance.’

—New York Times bestselling author Julia London

‘Unusual and engaging … DeLaine keeps the pages turning.’

—Publishers Weekly on A Gentleman ‘Til Midnight

ALISON DELAINE

A Gentleman ‘Til Midnight

A Promise by Daylight

A Wedding by Dawn

ALISON DELAINE lives in rural Arizona, where she can often be found driving a dented old pickup truck out to her mining claim in the desert. When she’s not busy striking it rich, waiting on spoiled pets, or keeping her husband in line, she is happily putting characters through the wringer.

Alison DeLaine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Christie Craig and Faye Hughes, in honour of the Quiet Room

Contents

Cover

Praise for ALISON DELAINE

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE INFAMOUS DUKE OF WINSTON’S brush with death had been on every tongue in Paris for days, and as Millicent Germain waited to be shown upstairs to his chamber, she half hoped the crumbling building that nearly killed him might have also damaged his privates.

The duke’s Parisian salon was empty of people but filled with gilded furniture and nudes, nudes, nudes. Everywhere nudes: statuettes, portraits, vast paintings and plasters on the ceiling. There was nowhere to rest one’s eyes.

Winston does like to have his fun, Philomena had laughed, even as she’d waved away Millie’s violent objections to the employment Philomena had found for her. Forced her into, rather, but that was neither here nor there now. The employment would be a disaster—there was no doubt about that—but by the time it was finished, Millie would have what she wanted.

A bawdy statue of frolicking nymphs on a nearby table, and the duke’s renowned penchant for debauchery, mocked Philomena’s description of him:

Intelligent. About what subjects? Copulation?

Respected. By whom? Libertines?

Wealthy. And therein lay the crux of the matter. His money, in exchange for her medical services during his journey to Greece.

Well, in exchange for Mr. Miles Germain’s medical services. She may be desperate, but she wasn’t mad. His Grace’s household was no place to be perceived as female. Thankfully, her simple features became entirely nondescript against the background of a bagwig and coat.

This wouldn’t be the first time she’d passed for a man.

She smoothed her palms across her breeches, anticipating the butler’s return at any moment, and glanced up at a pair of entwined lovers on the ceiling. It seemed almost certain she would be required to witness one disgusting exhibition after the next, all the way to Greece.

Beggars can’t be choosers. And she was very much a beggar. But in a matter of weeks she would be a stone’s throw from Malta and the surgical school that waited there, with enough wages from this employment to begin the life that only days ago she’d believed was lost to her forever.

All she had to do was restore a spoiled, depraved peer of the realm to health. Which would be a simple matter, because he’d probably exaggerated his injuries in the first place.

If he hadn’t, she would end up coddling His Grace’s ego, even as she attempted to prevent his condition from declining, which she could never accomplish if he was constantly indulging in wild fornication parties, as he was rumored to do—

“His Grace will see you now, Mr. Germain,” the butler announced from the doorway behind her.

Millie bolted from the chair and turned to face the tall, fair-skinned man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Harris. There was still time to change her mind, flee to Philomena and beg for help finding a different employment.

You don’t want a different employment. You want to go to Greece.

“Very good,” she said a little hoarsely, and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

She tugged the sleeves of her jacket, glancing down, double-checking that her waistcoat was properly buttoned and her curves were truly concealed. Then she picked up her medical bag and followed the butler out of the salon.

They were halfway up the main staircase, with its elaborate, polished stone balustrade, when a shriek of laughter drifted from somewhere in the recesses of the upper floors.

Mr. Harris didn’t seem to notice.

“I understand the stones from the crumbling building facade resulted in numerous injuries to His Grace’s person,” Millie said to him.

“Indeed,” Mr. Harris confirmed. “His Grace was most fortunate not to have received the kind of fatal blow that other poor soul received.”

“Yes. Very fortunate.” According to the stories, the man walking just behind the duke had been struck directly on the head and died immediately, God rest his soul. “Are you aware of whether any of His Grace’s injuries in particular have...affected his mode of living?”

There was another shriek, louder now that they’d reached the top of the stairs, followed by an eruption of laughter.

Mr. Harris’s pleasant face sank into a frown. “His Grace was abed with fever for three days, Mr. Germain. I can assure you it has affected his mode of living enormously.” He lowered his voice and added confidentially, “I only hope you can aid the situation more effectively than the other physician.”

She heard the voices now—a growing hubbub of them as Mr. Harris led her down a corridor past carved doors of rich, burnished wood.

From the sound of things, the situation had been aided already.

“This way, please, Mr. Germain.” Mr. Harris ushered her through a door and into a room teeming with activity—His Grace’s dressing room, apparently, where a pair of lavishly dressed women were peering at their faces in a glass, a trio of sporting men were making a game of tossing coins into a whore’s cleavage from half a room away, and a man with a laughing woman pinned beneath him was on the verge of tumbling off a love seat and onto the floor.

Mr. Harris led her through another doorway into the adjoining bedchamber just as a familiar shriek and burst of laughter came from a table by the window, where a man with a buxom brunette on his lap was apparently playing at more than just cards. A chambermaid collected dishes, a maidservant poured tea, another fussed with the fire in the fireplace. A monumental bedstead of intricately carved wood and lush midnight-blue draperies dominated the far wall. A man paced near its foot, holding forth in rapid French, while two elaborately coiffured courtesans chatted nearby on a chaise longue.

Finally, Millie’s attention landed on the man who lay sprawled against a mountain of pillows.

“You’d best reform your behavior—” he was laughing, calling to one of the courtesans on the chaise longue “—or I might decide you need a punishment.” His smile was a wicked flash of white teeth in a face that rendered the word handsome entirely inadequate—except for a nasty scrape down his right cheek and faint smudges beneath his eyes. He wore a banyan in blue patterned silk and a pair of trousers that rode up just enough on his right leg to give her a glimpse of dark hair sprinkling a thick, solid calf.

The courtesan fluttered her fan near the edge of her décolletage and smiled at him, leaning forward so that her breasts practically spilled from their stays. “Viens-toi,” she taunted, “si tu peux.”

But the duke made no move to get up and carry out his threat.

Mr. Harris guided her forward and stood with her at the bedside. “Mr. Miles Germain, Your Grace.”

And now, eyes black as sin flicked over Millie with calm disinterest. “I should have known any medic recommended by Philomena would be of the youthful variety,” he drawled, and amusement touched the corners of his mouth. “Tell me, Mr. Germain...do you have any medical experience beyond the careful examinations you’ve doubtless conducted in Lady Pennington’s bed?”

A sharp answer leaped to her tongue. He thought she was inexperienced?

“Your Grace.” She swallowed back her initial reply and bowed, even though he hadn’t bothered with courtesy himself. Her eyes glanced off large hands that had doubtless groped any number of chambermaids and went to his left arm, which lay in a sling. “My condolences for the situation in which you find yourself.”

This self-indulgent profligate could question her credentials all he liked, but she was going with him to Greece.

He accepted a glass of something—cognac, perhaps—from one of the courtesans and let her fuss with some nonexistent problem with his banyan. “How old are you, Mr. Germain?”

“Three and twenty.”

“Three and twenty.” Amusement deepened in his eyes. “I might rather have suspected three and ten, would you not agree, Deschamps?”

The man who’d been pontificating at the foot of the bed laughed. “Tenez, I fear you offend,” he said, gesturing toward her magnanimously.

“Not at all,” Millie said evenly. “Perhaps it will comfort you to know that I served four years as a ship’s surgeon. I can assure you, I’ve tended men in far worse condition than yours.”

“And do any yet live?”

“All that could be saved, Your Grace.” She thought a shadow passed across his eyes, but it was there and gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure.

“Hold out your hands,” he instructed.

Her hands? She did as he asked, holding them palms down in front of her until he bade her stop with a wave of his hand. “At least you don’t shake like the last one. Bloody drunkard—I endured twice the pain from all of his bumbling around.” He grimaced and put a hand to his shoulder. “Come and see what’s wrong with this sling. Damned arm’s been aggravating me all day.”

She could already see the sling was tied too tightly. She put down her medical bag, and the courtesan returned to the chaise longue to allow Millie room at the side of the bed. Mr. Harris withdrew to an unoccupied space by the wall.

“I understand Your Grace has just recovered from a fever,” Millie said as she reached across him. Up close, she could see the thick lashes that framed his dark eyes and the laugh lines that creased their corners as he exchanged a few loaded remarks with the women.

“Give him something to increase his desire,” one of them instructed her in French, laughing.

“You could never endure it if he did,” the duke shot back, and then, to Millie, “The fever? Three days of utter misery. Yes, that’s right.”

“And the wounds? How are they progressing?”

“The wounds are on my back, Mr. Germain. I couldn’t possibly tell you.”

She glanced at him as she loosened the sling. “Did you ask no questions of your physician?” If he was going to act as if she were stupid, she’d be happy to do the same. “He must have given you some report. Is there any sign that pus has developed?”

There was a horrified squeal from the chaise longue.

“Good God, Mr. Germain,” the duke said. “That kind of talk will drive away my company.”

Which had just become her first order of business. She adjusted the sling, eased his elbow out a smidgen. “I don’t suppose Your Grace has considered that solitude and rest might be enormously beneficial.”

He laughed at that. Deep lines cut at the sides of his mouth, and those blackish devil eyes came alive with alarming intelligence.

A sensation whispered through her body: a slight heaviness in her breasts. A faint stirring at the juncture of her thighs.

Dear God.

“Mr. Germain,” he said, “if you were in my place, would you be anxious to rid yourself of this particular company?”

She fixed her attention on his arm. After a moment, the unexpected sensation passed. Yes...it passed completely.

“Were I in your position,” she replied, “my foremost concern would be the fastest possible recovery of my health.” Another quick adjustment, but then—

She leaned closer, sniffing, and frowned.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oil of turpentine.”

“My physician has been using it on the dressings.”

Aha, so he had received a report. “Yes, of course, but...” Still?

“But what?” he said irritably.

“I shall need to see the state of the wounds, but I rather suspect a different ointment would be more to your advantage at this stage. How does the sling feel?”

He shifted his arm the tiniest fraction, frowning. “Much better.”

Suddenly she was more aware of his arm flexing beneath her fingers than she’d been a moment before, of warm muscle and sinew warming her fingertips through two thin layers of silk and linen. A tiny nerve pulsed way down low in her belly.

“I must warn you,” she said in her direst tone, straightening and stepping back from the bed, “that rest is important above all else.” She thought of the only medical volume she owned, a surgical treatise that was tucked away in her bag at this very moment, and how accurately its advice matched her own experience.

“Mr. Germain,” he said irritably, “I’ve been abed these four days.”

“A proper diet and a healthy air are important, as well, naturally,” she went on gravely, still too aware of her own fingertips, “but there should be no excitement of the senses. Nothing to arouse the passions.”

A commotion went up from the card table, and one of the women bolted from her chair on a peal of laughter, only to be brought firmly down onto the lap of one of His Grace’s friends.

“Perish the thought,” the duke said dryly, and reached for his drink.

“I’m quite serious, Your Grace. ‘Disturbances of the mind are great enemies to the health of the body,’” she quoted from the book.

“You medical types are all the same, with your morbid admonishments. But you may rest easy, as nothing would disturb me more than to be deprived of entertainment.” His lip curled a little, and her eye went straight to it, and now she noticed the shape of his mouth in a way she hadn’t before even though there was nothing unique about it—nothing at all.

“And you should know that I cannot work with onlookers,” she added now, in case he imagined she would conduct an examination of his person with all of these people milling about.

He laughed. “No? I’ve been known to perform rather well with an onlooker or two.” He tossed a wicked grin at the women on the chaise longue, then took another drink.

Millie watched his tongue catch the moisture from his lips as he lowered the glass. Realized she was holding her breath.

His eyes found hers.

She couldn’t look away.

“Harris,” he drawled, lifting his glass to his lips once more, “show Mr. Germain to his rooms. Find out his fee and pay him a month’s wages in advance.”

* * *

“YOU’LL HAVE A difficult time convincing His Grace to follow a straight and narrow path, even when his health is at risk,” Mr. Harris told her with a knowing grin when they had returned to the corridor. “But I daresay you’ll find his sporting activities lead to any number of beneficial consequences, if you understand my meaning.”

She glanced over her shoulder and through the doorway just in time to see one of His Grace’s friends catch a courtesan around the waist and plant a dramatic bite on her neck.

Oh, yes. She understood all too clearly.

“He keeps less company now than before the accident, I regret to say—” That was less company? “—although hopefully, now that you’re here...”

They exited the anteroom and returned to the corridor, only to be stopped by a footman.

“Mr. Germain’s bags have just arrived,” he said to the butler.

Her bags? “That isn’t poss—”

“And this letter, for you, sir.” The footman handed her a note and bowed.

Millie recognized Philomena’s writing immediately and tore open the letter, skimming fast.

...decided to leave Paris today instead of Thursday...

No. No, it wasn’t possible.

“Put Mr. Germain’s things in the yellow room,” Mr. Harris was saying to the footman.

...certain you will find yourself very comfortably appointed with the duke...

“Very good.” The footman turned back toward the stairs.

Philomena had left Paris. She’d sent Millie’s bags without waiting to learn how the interview had gone, and she’d left Paris. For a moment Millie experienced that same sensation as when a ship fell after rising on a large swell—as if the deck was falling from beneath one’s feet.

Not that she had any intention of throwing herself on Philomena’s mercy again—not when she had done more than was required in securing Millie this position in the first place. But...

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Harris asked.

There would be no question now. “No,” she said slowly, refolding the letter and tucking it inside her jacket. “No, not at all.”

Mr. Harris nodded and led her a short distance away, opening another door. “Here you are, then. These will be your rooms.”

Her attention shot to the left, toward the direction they’d just come from. Her chamber was just down from His Grace’s rooms. Adjacent to His Grace’s rooms, if she estimated correctly.

She didn’t like that. Not at all.

She followed Mr. Harris inside, endeavoring to remain calm. There was no reason not to be calm, really. “Surely there must be accommodations below stairs that I could occupy,” she suggested. A memory snaked in—the reason she’d left service in the first place, and one of the many reasons she’d balked at the idea of returning.

“His Grace has ordered that you be installed here for his convenience,” Mr. Harris said. “You wouldn’t want to be down there, anyhow. The opportunities are fewer and of a quite different caliber.”

She managed a halfhearted smile—it wouldn’t do for him to think her completely uninterested in the opportunities he valued so highly—and looked at the wall she almost certainly shared with His Grace’s bedchamber. There was no adjoining door, but a large curio cabinet stretched across half its length and rose at least seven feet.

“In any case, as I was saying, I’m already seeing signs of improvement, and I expect His Grace’s social calendar to return to full capacity very shortly.” Another grin, this time accompanied by a wink. “Not to put you on the spot, but Sacks and I are counting on you.”

“Sacks?”

“His Grace’s valet. And not to worry...I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty of, shall we say, incentive in it for you, as well.” The footmen returned upstairs with her things—just a small trunk and a bag—and deposited them on the floor in the lavishly furnished dressing room done in three shades of gold and yellow.

She cast her eye about the room, into the adjacent chamber that included a bed draped in gold damask, and suddenly had trouble breathing.

“His Grace asked me to discover your fee,” Mr. Harris said now.

Her fee. Of course. Her mind raced for a figure that might make this all bearable and named an outrageous sum.

Mr. Harris didn’t bat an eye. “Very good. I shall return with your advance wages.”

And then she was alone in her new accommodations, with the sounds of the duke’s entertainment filtering through the wall and not a single alternative in all the world.

She strode to the window. Looked out at Paris with its mishmash of buildings, houses, cobbled streets, wagons, pedestrians, all bathed in a gloomy drizzle. The truth was, she did have an alternative, and she was looking at it now.

The streets of Paris. Penniless, to make her way alone in a city that would show no mercy. Out there, without any references or money, the only position she would find would be in a brothel.

In here, on the other hand...

She looked over her shoulder at the room’s grand furnishings, paintings, statuettes, trinkets. Just one or two of the pieces here would go a long way toward financing her education. Not that she would ever consider stealing from him.

But he had what she needed—money—and he would pay her an exorbitant wage to attend him. Before she left his service, she would make sure that he wrote Miles Germain a letter of introduction, as well.

She tightened her hand around the windowsill, looking out at Paris but imagining the Mediterranean’s great cities: Venice, Athens, Constantinople.

With the duke as a reference, her identity as Miles Germain would be cemented for as long as she could maintain her disguise. She could come and go freely, unaccosted, because all the world would believe she was male.

Within a few years, armed with knowledge from Malta’s renowned School of Anatomy and Surgery, Miles Germain would be a well-respected surgeon in practice for himself, and nobody—nobody—would ever take that away.

All she had to do was continue in his employ and make sure he made a full recovery.

A sudden knock startled her, and she turned quickly from the window to find another of the duke’s servants—a very young man wearing a tidy wig and an expectant expression.

“Monsieur,” he said with a bow. “Je suis à vous.”

But she didn’t want him at her disposal! She started forward. “Merci,” she said, “but—”

“I shall put away your things—” He started toward her trunk and bag.

“No,” Millie said quickly, hurrying to block his way. “No, that won’t be necessary,” she told him in French. “I shall put them away myself.” The duke had assigned her a valet?

“I have been placed at your service, monsieur,” the man said firmly. “You have only to tell me what you need. A change of clothes, perhaps...”

“I don’t need a change of clothes. And I won’t need anyone at my service.”

Just then, Mr. Harris walked in. “Ah, excellent. Bernet has found you.”

Already she was imagining the man lifting away her wig to find her shoulder-length hair stuffed inside—damn and blast, she should have cut it completely off—whisking off her shirt and discovering the cloth she’d wound around her breasts beneath her shift to flatten them, and realizing that a maid, not a valet, was the appropriate help.

“Mr. Harris, I absolutely will not require any assistance. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. In fact, I’m used to it.”

“Of course you are,” Harris said, handing her an envelope that doubtless contained the ridiculous sum she had demanded. “But there’s no need, while you’re here. Bernet’s been only too anxious for an upstairs assignment,” he added with a wink. “I’m sure you’d hate to disappoint him.”

“Perhaps he could look after one of the guests— Attendez!” Bernet was kneeling in front of her trunk with his hands on the latches. She rushed to stop him. “I’ve got half of an apothecary’s shop in there,” she said now. “Very delicate—I shall need to unpack it myself. Truly.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He inclined his head, stood up and backed away.

Now she lifted her chin and summoned a tone she’d heard Philomena use often enough to dismiss servants. “That will be all for now.”

“Très bien,” Bernet said with a bow.

“You may give me a list of any supplies you’ll need for His Grace’s care,” Harris said now. “Otherwise, you have only to ring if you need anything, and Sacks will let you know if His Grace requires your attendance.”

The moment they were gone she dropped to her knees in front of the trunk, jerked the lid open, dug through shirts, waistcoats and pairs of breeches and men’s stockings. Yanked out the shifts she should never have kept. And at the very bottom, a tiny box with a pair of dangling silver earrings, and the two colorful scarves she hadn’t been able to part with. She paused, running her hand over their silken texture, letting her fingers play with the bright blue fringe at the ends, remembering that day at Constantinople’s grand bazaar—she, Katherine, Philomena and India.

The scarves and earrings had been a silly indulgence. She’d never even worn them.

With the shifts and scarves wadded in her hands, she hurried into the bedchamber, threw back the drapery at the back corner of the bed and stuffed them beneath the mattress.

It would do until she could find a better place, which she would have to do before the maid came tomorrow morning to make the bed. She returned to the dressing room

Now what? Would the duke expect her to return to his rooms or wait to be summoned? Would his guests ever leave? And what would happen if they did?

He would be alone, and bored, and may well seek out more company or an impromptu medical examination.

She touched the hilt of the smallsword at her hip. What good fortune that a fashionable man wasn’t dressed without one. But if the duke sought her out at night, perhaps finding his way into her rooms while she was abed and not fully dressed...

That simply could not happen. She would not give up the freedom of her disguise that easily, not even if she had to sleep fully clothed. Still...

She went to the door and turned the latch. But, of course, he would have a key.

She spun on her heel. Surveyed the room: one door led out, another led to her new adjoining bedchamber, where there was yet another door she would need to consider.

Moments later, she dragged a chair over and shoved it against the door that led from the dressing room to the corridor, and then stood back. Tonight, after she’d gone to bed, that might work. But...

She looked suspiciously at the curio cabinet. Some grand houses had secret passageways, or so she’d heard. Furnishings that were merely false fronts. She inspected the edges of the cabinet, running her finger along the seam where it met the wall, finding no discernible space. Muted laughter drifted from the other side. Was not his bed directly opposite? So there couldn’t possibly be any kind of...

Of course there could. The entire house could have a network of secret passageways through which His Grace made surprise visits on unsuspecting guests.

She got another chair, dragged it next to the curio cabinet and climbed up. Reached to the back paneling and tapped—lightly, so she wouldn’t be heard—but could determine nothing. She reached to remove a bronze obstacle but snatched her hand back, seeing now that it was a sculpture of a man with his face buried between a woman’s—

Ugh. Disgusting.

Tap-tap-tap. Did the wall sound hollow?

She moved a benign porcelain horse instead and tried a different section of paneling.

Tap-tap-tap.

Behind her, a man cleared his throat.

She whirled around, losing her balance, grabbing for the cabinet to keep from falling. The duke stood in the doorway to the bedchamber, watching her with amused interest.

“Please,” he said, holding up his hand. “Do not let me interrupt.”

CHAPTER TWO

MR. MILES GERMAIN was apparently debating whether to climb down from the chair.

Yes, Winston had definitely expected someone older. And someone male, which he had a strong suspicion Mr. Germain was not.

Apparently he hadn’t asked Philomena enough questions.

He studied his new medic now—average features, nothing to draw a man’s eye. No hint of breasts. Even lips, plain, straight nose, ordinary rounded chin. Slightly arched brows, thick lashes that weren’t too long, weren’t too short. All of which, set above a modest suit and topped off by an awful bagwig, did little to betray her sex.

But he’d been a breath away from too many graceful female necks not to have noticed the smooth, curving throat when his new medic had adjusted his sling.

And there was the matter of Mr. Germain’s ear.

It was a small ear. Delicate. Dainty, really, with a tiny, almost imperceptible hole in the lobe, which didn’t mean anything—Sir William Jaxbury and his gold hoops were proof of that—but that was no male ear.

“I once had a cabinet fall,” Mr. Germain said now, as if it were the complete truth. “Toppled to the ground. Very dangerous.” He—almost certainly she—even looked Winston in the eye when she said it.

Interesting.

Winston glanced at another chair that had been shoved against the dressing room door in an apparent attempt to keep someone out—that someone, he assumed, being himself. “You’ve also had trouble with doors flying open, I see.”

“Occasionally.”

It explained why he’d had to come in through the bedchamber. “Perhaps, to put your mind at ease, you’d like me to call a carpenter.”

“That won’t be necessary.” A small crease appeared above her upper lip—a lip that, on closer inspection, was a bit too full to appropriately frame the mouth of an average male medic.

“I want you to feel entirely safe here, Mr. Germain,” he said.

“I can’t think why I wouldn’t,” she said evenly, finally climbing down from the chair. It was too bad her coat prevented any view of her arse, or his suspicions would certainly be proved.

“If it’s my guests that concern you, a simple turn of the key will deter any unwanted visitors.”

“At the moment, Your Grace, my only concern is for your health. I can’t believe standing is good for your condition. I would advise a hasty return to your bed.”

“I’m hardly an invalid.”

“Obviously.”

He’d irritated her. How intriguing. Although now that he was standing here, he wished he weren’t. The gash on his thigh throbbed, and it hurt like the devil to put his weight on that leg, and his back felt as if someone had taken a knife to it.

“When do you expect we shall depart for Greece?” she asked now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, and leaned against the doorjamb to take some weight off his left leg. “I’m in no particular hurry. I suppose it will depend partly on your assessment of my fitness for travel.”

“Mobile as you are, I expect you will be fit very soon,” she said almost immediately.

He raised a brow. “One might almost think you were anxious to be under way. Are you not enjoying Paris, then? If you like, I could make some suggestions for your entertainment while we’re still here.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure? There are any number of pleasurable hideaways that should not be missed. I suspect you enjoy a good debauch now and then, isn’t that right, Mr. Germain?”

That little line appeared again on the left side of her upper lip, and she gave him a look of grave reproof. “I am in the business of staying free from disease, Your Grace.”

He laughed. “I can think of several ways to do that. One has only to take precautions. Surely a man of your age is well versed in that subject.”

That line above her lip deepened.

“I shall have plenty to keep me occupied looking after Your Grace’s health. I understand that Your Grace is extremely fortunate not to have been more seriously injured.”

He thought of the accident, and a quick, sucking sensation grabbed his chest. “Indeed. Very fortunate.” Thoughts forced their way in—images of the man who’d not been so fortunate, who had died mere feet away from Winston, whose blood had pooled around Winston’s fingers as they both lay on the street.

Her brows dove. “Is something the matter?”

“Not at all.” Nothing except the fact that he did not wish to discuss anything about the accident. “Unless you consider that I’ve lost use of my arm, and my shoulder aches like the devil, and I have a number of nasty cuts. Of course, you’ll be able to determine all the facts upon examination.” An examination that, if her manner in his bedchamber were any indication, she would not hesitate to perform.

And wasn’t that going to be an interesting opportunity.

“Of course,” she agreed.

And he couldn’t help himself. He gestured with his good arm toward a chair by the window. “Perhaps you’d like to perform it now?”

A spark of objection came into her eyes. “I haven’t yet unpacked all of my instruments.”

“Good God. I should hope you won’t need any instruments to perform a simple examination.”

“Mmm, yes,” she said doubtfully. “One would hope. But I have no idea what I might find. I shall want my scissors and probe at the ready, and my incision knife, certainly—”

“Incision knife.”

She looked at him as though he were a child. “I must be prepared to immediately address whatever I might find. Which is why I shall need to wait for the basic supply of lints, plasters and bandages I asked Harris to send for, in case any kind of procedure is required—and even if it isn’t, as Your Grace’s wounds will almost certainly require fresh dressings, if for no other reason than to apply a medicine more appropriate than oil of turpentine.”

“How very...thorough.”

“Your Grace, if you were struck by mortar and stone, there’s no telling what manner of grit could have escaped the eye of the surgeon who first attended you. Given your mobility, and the fact that you don’t appear to be feverish at the moment, I’m inclined to think that all is as it should be. But only when I’ve had a chance to see exactly where the stones struck you and precisely what damage occurred shall I be able to fully—”

“I understand your point, Mr. Germain.” And he’d had more than enough of it. He pushed away from the door frame, and an arrow of pain shot from his shoulder to his left buttock.

“By all means, let us delay the examination.” He bowed. “Until later, then.”

* * *

HIS ENTIRE BODY ached as he returned to his rooms. It was tempting to toss everyone out and go to sleep.

He eased himself back onto his bed and replied to a ridiculous political assertion Favreau was making, laughed at a joke Perry tossed out from the card table, called to Seville in the other room to inquire whether Linton had arrived in Paris yet.

“Doctor’s a right young piece of stuff, isn’t he?” Perry said, wandering over from the card table. “You know who’d like him...Kern. Always did enjoy that sort of thing.”

“If Kern tries to distract my medic, he’ll answer to me.” And he would be very disappointed once he discovered that the protrusion at the front of Mr. Germain’s breeches was just for show. He smiled to himself, thinking of it now.

His woman doctor may not have any discernible breasts, but she was bloody well hung.

Just then, Harris came in and leaned close to his ear. “She has been found, Your Grace.”

The room seemed to fade, and Winston fixed his full attention on Harris. “Where?”

“A small house at the edge of town.” Harris hesitated. “It is my understanding that there are five children.”

Bloody hell. “You’re certain?”

“It’s been confirmed.”

Five children and a widow. Winston rubbed the back of his neck. “See that they receive a hundred pounds,” he murmured. “No. Five hundred.”

“Very good, Your Grace. I’ll see to it straightaway.”

Winston exhaled, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but that only made the problem worse. That face was always there—those sightless eyes staring at him while the man lay lifeless, his head cracked open by a piece of masonry that could just as easily have struck Winston. He could hear the screaming, the chaos of those crazed moments.

Now, a female hand smoothed over his chest. “Ça va?”

For a moment the courtesan’s perfume cloyed nauseatingly in his nostrils, but then he opened his eyes, drew his finger lazily across the top of her bosom. “Oui.”

She smiled and eased a hip onto the bed next to him.

Everything was fine. Or it would be, as soon as they were under way to Greece. He imagined the heady taste of Mediterranean wine, the even more intoxicating distraction of Grecian women and the exotic fantasies they would bring to life.

You vowed to put an end to all that.

Indeed. That was the other part of this entire debacle that would not let him alone: his private vow to reform. By God, I’ll be the man Edward wants me to be. The vow had exploded through his mind as he lay there in fiery pain, while people ran frantically around him, and even more masonry broke loose from that blasted building, crashing to the ground.

As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of stone hitting the street inches from his head.

He forced himself to smile when Hélène joined Marie on the edge of his bed, exchanged a few loaded remarks with the two of them, considered several possibilities for other ways they could entertain him.

Instead, he told them his side hurt. Told everyone he needed to rest. Instructed Harris to turn away any new visitors.

Ten minutes later, his rooms were empty. And now he lay there, irritated, wishing everyone back.

This was ridiculous. It was a freak accident—anyone could have been passing by that building when the facade fell. That falling masonry was not a sign from above. It was not a heavenly indictment of Winston’s life. The danger of those moments had gotten the better of him, that was all.

He’d made the kind of vow sailors made in a hurricane. The kind soldiers made on the battlefield.

They weren’t the kind of promises a man was meant to keep.

He was being superstitious. His best friend had been admonishing him since school days. Little surprise there, given that Edward was a vicar and couldn’t be expected to know about real life—the pleasures to be had that were just pleasures, nothing more, but made life worth living.

Consider your ways, Winston. That’s what Edward had always said. For God’s sake, what did that even mean?

Only a saint could live up to Edward’s standards.

He ought to have Harris summon his company back. Now, before he could change his mind again.

Instead, he called Sacks. “Bring Mr. Germain,” he said irritably. “I want my bandages checked.”

He thought of those pursed lips and almost smiled. Perhaps there was entertainment to be had, after all.

* * *

BY THE TIME the duke’s valet came to tell her that His Grace required her assistance, Millie had decided that if the mere mention of an incision knife was all it took to make the duke recoil, it would be a simple matter to keep the advantage over him for the remainder of her employment.

Mr. Sacks, the valet, was a short, brawny man with giant hands and dark bushy brows, and he stood expressionless as he waited in the doorway. Millie gathered up her medical bag and followed him to the duke’s rooms.

Where—unbelievably—the duke was alone.

Wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Mr. Germain, Your Grace,” Mr. Sacks announced unnecessarily.

“Excellent.” Reclining against his pillows, with a glass of liquor in his hand and the tails of his shirt covering him only to midthigh, the duke smiled. “That will be all.”

Mr. Sacks withdrew, and Millie plunked her medical bag on the card table by the window and reminded herself that the duke was just a man like any of the sailors she’d doctored aboard the Possession—no more, no less.

“A number of cuts and an immobilized arm that isn’t broken,” she recounted briskly from their earlier conversation as she dug through her bag for heaven knew what except a few moments to delay the inevitable. “Is that the complete list of your complaints?”

“Hardly,” came his cognac-roughened voice from the bed. “Among other things, there isn’t a single comfortable method of copulation.”

She paused for only a second. And, for that, she deserved a medal.

“I shouldn’t think there would be a single comfortable method of eating, sleeping, defecating or any of the body’s other natural functions, either, in your condition,” she said matter-of-factly. If he thought the young Miles Germain would be startled by the duke’s excesses, he would soon learn otherwise. “But I was asking about your injuries, Your Grace.”

“Forgive me—when you said complaints, it was my most pressing grievance that came to mind.”

“As well it should.” She turned from the card table. Hardly a surprise that he considered slaking his lust a more serious issue than an immobilized arm.

“Bad enough that a woman has two breasts while I only have one good hand,” he complained.

She smiled, tight-lipped, because a man would smile at such an idiotic statement. And she approached the bed, hoping that if she didn’t encourage him further they could be finished with talk of copulation and breasts.

One of his legs was severely bruised—black and purpling, wrapped in two places with bandages.

Without all his clothing, she would have thought he’d seem smaller.

“Of course,” he mused, raising his glass to his lips, “there is much one can do with a breast and one’s mouth.”

And no, of course they weren’t finished with lewd talk. Because they were supposedly two men, and men were never finished with lewd talk.

“What a miracle that your injuries have not entirely kept you from enjoying your company,” she said in her blandest tone.

“But they have kept me from enjoying it in an entirely satisfactory way, if you understand my meaning, Mr. Germain.”

“Perfectly, Your Grace. But you needn’t fabricate the situation to me.”

“Was I fabricating?”

“The body is less able to respond to stimulus when it is putting its efforts into healing itself. But rest assured that as the healing process continues, you’ll find yourself once again able to copulate to your full ability.”

“Oh, but you misunderstand, Mr. Germain. I don’t have a complaint of ability.”

She let her brows edge upward, as if just comprehending something new. “Oh. I see.”

“Good.”

“In that case, I shall prepare a concoction straightaway. We should foment the organ very often—perhaps even apply a poultice in a suspensory bandage—and with a strict regimen, things should clear up for you eventually—”

“Mr. Germain, that is not the issue.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed. And rest assured that should there be anything present that requires lancing, I will use my knife most delicately.”

“You will not come near my privates with a knife, Mr. Germain. Is that clear?”

She almost smiled. “Certainly.”

“And there is nothing in need of clearing up. Or...lancing.”

“I trust your word completely, Your Grace. And you may trust me not to reveal this conversation to a single soul. We shall simply pretend nothing was ever said about it.”

“Nothing was said about it,” he said with a hint of frustration.

“Exactly.” She continued her cursory examination, close enough now to detect a spicy kind of musk on his skin and feel the whisper of breath on her cheek as she leaned forward to check his sling once more. And there was that sensation again—a quiet response to him, stirring in a deep, intimate place. She inhaled to cleanse it away, only managing to breathe in more of him.

“It’s a miracle no bones were broken,” she said, focusing intently on his shoulder.

She could sense him debating whether to press the point about the state of his manhood, but instead, “Indeed,” he said shortly.

“I shall need to see the wounds.” She backed away from the bed. He would have to sit up to remove his shirt.

When he did, he would be nude.

One male body is the same as the next. God knew she’d tended enough of them aboard the Possession.

He reached to set his glass on the bedside table, and his shirttails edged upward on one powerful thigh. A sudden frisson of anticipation had her turning toward her medical bag. But then, before she realized what he intended, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Turned his back to her. Grabbed his shirt with his good hand and pulled upward, revealing a solid pair of buttocks.

“Mr. Germain...”

“Of course,” she said quickly, tearing her eyes away from where they should not have strayed, helping him off with his shirt, seeing now that his other physician had dressed a handful of wounds down the left half of his back and his left thigh. Much of his torso was wrapped completely around with bandages and plasters to keep the compresses in place, and where the skin wasn’t covered, it was badly bruised.

Dear God.

She lifted the edge of a bandage on his back and sucked in a breath at the ragged wound beneath. He had to be in considerable pain. Gently she checked the others, found thankfully that the first was the most serious. “What a miracle none of the pieces struck you on the head or neck,” she said, more sincerely than she’d intended, and felt him tense.

She touched his skin, lightly, and heard him hiss. “How long before I’m fully recovered?” he asked.

“Weeks, certainly.”

“Weeks. What can you give me to hasten the process?”

“Only the natural course of time and healing will do that, I’m afraid.” Assuming the wounds didn’t fester and bring on a new fever.

Holding up his shirt like a shield in one hand, she moved around him and reached up to press the back of her fingers to his forehead. “Have you felt warm? Any sign that the fever is returning?”

“No warmer than usual,” he said.

She let her hand fall. And now she became too aware of his bare chest, the dark hair dusted across it, the bare hips visible on either side of the shirt hanging limply from her fist.

She looked him in the eye. “When was the last time you were bled?”

“Good God. Yesterday.”

“Hmm.” Perhaps she ought to bleed him again, just to be safe. But if it had only been yesterday...

She moved behind him again, leaned close to sniff the poultices. Yes, definitely turpentine. “I’d like to re-dress the wounds, as I suggested earlier. But I’ll need to prepare the dressings first. It shouldn’t take long.” She ran her fingers along a length of gauze that stretched across his lower back and heard him inhale sharply.

She pulled her hand away, and a warm sensation skittered up her arm.

His hand reached back. “My shirt.”

She gave it to him. Had to help him again, because he could not put it back on one-handed. He walked a few steps to the bedside table, keeping his back to her, and picked up his drink.

“Prepare the dressings,” he said a bit shortly. “I shall be ready.”

* * *

AND WHEN SHE RETURNED, Winston thought as she left, his body would have stopped responding to her touch and begun responding to the liquor he would need in order to bear the pain when she changed the bandages.

He glanced down at his tented shirttails and knocked back a swallow of liquor, a little disgusted with himself. He’d sent away all the beauties, so his anatomy was making do with what was available.

And what was available was a medic whose cheeks had pinkened during the examination, who had inspected him with eyes averted from his crotch, and whose small, capable fingers were too easy to imagine wrapped around his cock.

Or around a surgical knife. Good God.

He’d do well to dismiss her. Today, now, before she could do any damage.

But already he preferred her methods to that Parisian doctor whose thoughtless handling had nearly hurled him into unconsciousness from the pain. And something in her tone had him suspecting that whatever she planned to use on his wounds actually stood a chance of having some effect.

Miles Germain would stay. He would take her to Greece, perhaps even continue to entertain himself at her expense. But he’d be damned before he’d let her near his privates again.

CHAPTER THREE

“THIS ISN’T LIKE HIM, you know,” Harris said early that evening, taking a quick sip from a glass of wine before lowering himself into an armchair in Millie’s dressing room. Across the room, Millie busied herself arranging her medical supplies inside a small cabinet whose contents she’d transferred to the cupboards below the bookcase. “Not like him a’tall, and it’s making me bloody nervous.” He stretched out his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “And you getting to be upstairs. Wish he’d put me upstairs. Make it a good deal easier to access the side benefits.”

It wasn’t difficult to imagine what those side benefits might be.

Sacks, the duke’s valet, refilled his own glass. “You’re certain he said no visitors?” Sacks asked.

“No visitors,” Harris said emphatically, sipping his wine and frowning. “What can he be about?”

“Only let that princess present ’erself below, and ten to one ’is Grace would—”

“None. He said no exceptions.”

Millie smiled to herself as she arranged her new lints and bandages. Apparently His Grace was finally taking her advice seriously. He’d been appropriately clothed when she’d returned to change the dressings—at least, as much as was practical, given that he’d needed to disrobe almost entirely in order for her to remove and replace all the bandages. But there had been no more talk of copulation. In fact, he’d scarcely talked at all.

He’d flinched only a little and, during the worst parts, she’d heard him hiss.

“Perhaps,” she said over her shoulder to the two manservants, “what he’s about is rest. His wounds are quite serious,” she said. “They’ll be some time in healing, and I’ve advised him against all activity.”

“And all company?” Harris sat forward. “Good God, man, you’ll drive us to the madhouse!”

“Understand,” Sacks told her, putting his glass down and walking to the chamber stool in the corner, “’tis more than just the injuries. He hasn’t been ’imself.”

Millie turned back to her medicines when Sacks reached for the front of his breeches.

“His Grace not being himself is bound to have a negative effect on my own self,” Harris groused.

Sacks made a noise while he rearranged his breeches. “Side benefits are bound to be significantly reduced. You’ve got to restore ’im quickly,” he said to Millie, as if it were that simple.

“I’m not a miracle worker,” she said.

“’Twas your news about the widow that got ’im started on all this,” Sacks accused Harris now.

“I could hardly keep the news from him,” Harris said irritably.

“What widow?” Millie asked.

“Wife of ’im that died in the accident,” Sacks told her. “’Is Grace keeps asking after them. Finally learned her whereabouts today—her and ’er five young ’uns.” He shook his head. “Pity, that is.” And then, to Harris, “But you could’ve waited a day or two.”

“The burial is tomorrow.”

“He’s not going anyhow.”

“But we couldn’t have known that, could we?” Harris snapped. “He ordered five hundred pounds sent this afternoon.”

“Five hundred!” Millie exclaimed, and almost knocked over a bottle of linseed oil.

“His Grace seems fixated on that accident,” Sacks said. “And now—” he shot a frown at Harris “—on the widow and young ’uns. If you ask me, it’s interfering with ’is recovery. What if he decides to go to that burial, after all?”

“His Grace will not be attending the funeral of an accounting clerk,” Harris said irritably, then tilted his glass toward Millie. “And you mustn’t allow him any manner of activity that will prolong the healing process.”

“Get him back to ’imself quickly,” Sacks said, “and you’ll have no end of interesting pastimes in these rooms.”

“I haven’t the least—” She caught herself and, instead, raised her brows in what she hoped was a semi-interested expression.

“No need to worry about the dangerous side of things. Just look in that drawer there.” He pointed to a side table with one small drawer. “Go on,” he grinned. “Find all the armor you need, just in case His Grace’s entertainments conveniently spill over into the adjoining rooms.”

Millie opened the drawer. Found a slender case containing—

A protective sheath for an anatomical organ she did not possess.

She snatched her hand away before thinking better of it, glanced over her shoulder to find Sacks grinning at her.

“Got a feeling our young medic ’ere is a virgin.”

Oh, dear God—it would never do for these two to think that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said evenly, and gave the sheath another look for good measure. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.” She smirked and replaced the cover. “Much obliged.”

“You won’t be sorry you took this employ,” Harris said, leaning back in the armchair, raising his wine-glass to his lips. “And if you can return His Grace to his former spirits quickly, neither will we.”

* * *

WINSTON LAY WITH a glass of cognac in his hand, nary a sound in the entire house, thinking about the accident, that bloody vow, that dead man’s widow and fatherless children.

He looked at the vast room—empty chairs, bare tables, closed drapes.

This is what it would always be like if he became the man Edward wanted him to be. Every bloody night for the rest of his life, if he kept that promise.

He got out of bed, took his drink off the night table and limped across the room to the card table. Sat down. Reached for the cards, shuffled, dealt a hand of solitaire.

Lost.

Lost again, and then a third time.

Finally he snatched the cards off the table and tapped them into a neat deck, knocking back several swallows of cognac, looking angrily around the room.

This was what considering his ways would entail. He would have to abandon his women, his friends, his entertainments. He stood up, felt a painful tug beneath his bandage and had to sit down again.

Devil take it.

He’d always done as he damned well pleased—every night, if he had a mind for it, which he usually did. Nobody even knew about that vow, least of all Edward. It wasn’t as if he’d pledged his support to a bill in the Lords or promised to protect a friend’s indiscretion. He’d merely made a tiny vow. One only he really knew about.

He was being nonsensical. A nonsensical, superstitious faux-puritan with a raging desire for a woman.

He stood up again, more carefully this time, and called for Sacks. He would dress and go out. Perhaps to Madame Gravelle’s. Plenty of opportunity there, and if he found himself a quiet corner—perhaps lounged himself on a chaise longue—he could indulge in any number of satisfying pastimes without risking further injury.

But struggling into his evening jacket was a devil, and standing made the wounds on his leg throb, and even after he sat down they continued to ache, and he finally had to accept that there would be no going to Madame Gravelle’s tonight.

“Call Mr. Germain,” he snapped, breathing deeply against the pain, sitting in an armchair in his dressing room after Sacks had removed the jacket.

His prune-lipped doctor appeared moments later. When she saw him, her expression softened in a way she would need to learn to control if she wanted her disguise to be effective for any length of time.

“What have you done?” she asked with something like irritation.

“I shall be doing nothing, as it turns out.”

“You can’t possibly have imagined you’re fit enough to go out. Oh, for heaven’s sake. You should return to your bed at once.”

“I need some entertainment.”

“Entertainment is the last thing you need. Rest and abstinence is what’s called for, and you’ve made an excellent start by getting rid of your guests.”

“Rest and abstinence are the problem,” he snapped. “My existence has become downright monastic in a matter of hours.”

“Do monasteries have statues of copulating couples?”

Those words, coming from her prunish lips, nearly made him laugh. “Now there would be a cruel form of torture,” he said irritably. “Poor bastards.”

He tried to imagine himself truly living a monastic life. For God’s sake, even Edward didn’t live that way. He had Cara, and—

Christ. Cara was the last person he wanted to think of now.

He stood up, starting for his bedchamber, his bed, but got an idea and veered toward the card table instead. “Sit,” he ordered.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Why does anyone sit at a card table?”

“I don’t wish to play cards.”

“I do wish to, and you are the only one here aside from Sacks and Harris.”

“I’m quite certain either of them would be happy to oblige.”

Sacks and Harris were happy to participate in most any kind of amusement, but that was hardly the point. Winston paused. Stared at her. “You are in my employ, are you not?”

“Indeed I am, Your Grace, but I’ll not allow you to win away my advance earnings.”

“Ah, I see.” He pointed across the room. “Go look in that box. Bring it here.” He sat down and shuffled the deck, letting himself watch her legs as she walked over to the side table and retrieved the gilt box where he kept his coins. He watched her peek inside, thought he saw her physically react to the sight of the contents.

Interesting.

“We’ll use those,” he told her. “I shall even allow you to keep your winnings.” He would probably do well to let her win a few rounds, if only to avoid upsetting the person who held the incision knife. “We’ll consider it extra wages.”

She carried the box to the table, struggling visibly with its weight in a way a man would not have.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” she said sourly as she took the seat across from him.

He gestured to her to cut, and he followed, cutting the high card. Dealing put him at a disadvantage, but that was no matter in this case. “Tell me, Mr. Germain,” he said as he dealt the cards, “what exactly are the supposed benefits of your strict regimen of boredom and sexual frustration?”

“If you’re frustrated, it’s only because you surround yourself with reminders.” Her eyes stayed on her cards as she deftly sorted her hand. “Put away your knickknacks, and you will forget all about whatever you might be missing.”

“Much as they do in monasteries, hmm? I have to wonder how effective that strategy really is. Lust is a powerful force—certainly you’ve found that to be the case.”

“Indeed.” Her gaze fixed on his face, and he found her directness a bit unnerving. “I’ve found it can quite consume a man whose mind does not naturally lean toward substantive lines of thinking.”

He felt his lips twitch. “Perhaps you could share some examples of substantive thinking.”

“I would never presume to advise you on that subject.” She selected three cards from her hand, placed them facedown, and drew three replacements. “Certainly you are creative enough to find ways to occupy yourself until you’ve recovered.”

“Mmm.” He exchanged four of his own cards, deliberately discarding one that might have proved helpful. “Yes, I would say I’ve been described as somewhat creative.”

She raised her eyes from her cards. “Healthful ways of occupying yourself.”

“Such as?”

“I cannot pretend to know how men of leisure amuse themselves, but no doubt they have any number of interests and pastimes. Reading, for example.”

“Indeed. I read an amusing little novel last week about a young woman who fell prey to a libertine’s seduction and found a new life that she enjoyed to the fullest—although read may not be precisely the right word. There were an abundance of illustrations.”

“Some men read about scientific topics,” she said sternly, “or they read literature.”

“Do they.”

“Or they engage themselves in political subjects. You must have any number of political obligations demanding your attention.”

“I suppose I do, occasionally. It would seem you know more about men of leisure than you thought, Mr. Germain.”

“Some men enjoy horticulture, collecting insects, observing the fauna of a particular region,” she continued, completely ignoring his remark. “You could make a study of the natural world during your journey to Greece.”

“And yet I’m told at every turn that my efforts to...study the natural world are detrimental to my health and my soul.”

“There are any number of fascinating birds that dwell around the Greek isles.”

He couldn’t resist a grin. “Or on them.”

“I was not speaking with a double entendre, Your Grace.”

“Pity.”

They finished the hand. She came away the winner—and would have done even had he not exchanged that high card. On the start of the next hand, she had the dealer’s disadvantage.

She dealt the cards with an efficient familiarity, and he decided perhaps he would keep his advantageous cards this time.

“Tell me, Miles—you don’t mind if I address you as Miles, do you?—despite your disapproval of lusty pursuits and the double entendre, I’ll wager you’ve enjoyed a few women while you’ve been in Paris.”

“That isn’t something that I normally discuss—”

“Confess. At least one Parisienne has welcomed you to France with open thighs.”

“Not one, sir.”

“Not one? I find that very odd for a man of your obvious youth and vigor.”

“Not every man is entirely preoccupied with women—”

“Ah, I see. You prefer men. I do wish you’d told me before I sent Perry away. He had some thoughts about a possible companion whose company you may well have enjoyed—”

“That is not what I meant.” And now her temper was starting to rise, and her brown eyes that seemed so plain earlier took on a tigress sort of luster. “If you must know, in fact, I have enjoyed a woman or two in Paris.”

It was a blatant lie, of course, yet the very idea of it sent a lick of flame through his groin. He’d wager his entire collection of statuary that she’d never even enjoyed a man, let alone— Good God.

He reached for his drink. “Well, well, Miles, I daresay all this puritanical advice of yours is hypocrite’s talk.”

“Medical advice,” she corrected. “Besides, I am a man, after all.”

No. She was a woman, and a fairly young one, and despite her apparent skill at cards, almost certainly an untried one. Which meant he would not be having any real entertainment with her—not that he had any real desire to—because contrary to popular belief, he did have a code of ethics: no virgins.

It wasn’t as if he was seducing his way through England’s crop of young hopefuls and leaving a trail of ruination in his wake. Which was more than could be said of any number of men he knew.

The truth was, he was already a moral citizen. Edward ought to have been praising Winston’s restraint all these years instead of quietly suggesting that Winston reevaluate his priorities.

Change—and that vow—were entirely uncalled-for.

They finished the hand, and once again she bested him. Four more, and she’d won the game. Utterly trounced him.

She watched him with impassive eyes as he pushed a pile of coins across the table.

He raised a brow at her. “It would seem you learned more than just sailing during your four years at sea, Mr. Germain.”

* * *

IT WAS LATE when Millie finally returned to her room with a pocketful of coins.

The house was quiet, all the servants asleep.

But there was one person who was not asleep. She stared at the wall of her dressing room and imagined him just on the other side, preparing for bed, and a sensation fluttered deep in her belly.

She should have absolutely refused the card game. Two hours of bantering with him, of watching him from across the table, with that wicked smile that hypnotized her every time it touched his lips—watching him watch her with those dark eyes that glittered like obsidian with a wit and intelligence far deeper than his bawdy talk would suggest...

She went into her bedchamber, dumped the coins on the bed and counted them briskly, pushing away the image of him in her mind.

There was nothing deep about the duke. Quite the contrary. It was only too clear that she’d accepted employment with another Lord Hensley, after she’d sworn she would die before she would enter service to another disgusting lecher.

Disgusting? That’s not what you were thinking moments ago.

What she’d been thinking moments ago, she told herself sternly, was that this time she wore breeches, which would be a fair sight more difficult to reach into than her skirts had been to reach beneath—and this time, she was not the fearful, compliant girl she’d been while in Lord Hensley’s employ.

If His Grace attempted anything like what Lord Hensley had done, she would use her incision knife, and in a manner he would not soon forget.

She finished counting and sat for a moment with her hands around the coins, silently adding the sum to the wages she would receive.

With enough time in the duke’s employ, perhaps she could recoup the sums she’d lost. It made her ill just to think about all that money, gone. Five hundred pounds, stolen, ripped from her very hands. Slightly less than that left hidden aboard the Possession. And she would not be able to retrieve it, because she would never again be allowed to set foot aboard the ship.

Guilt stabbed her hard, and she squeezed her eyes shut against a past she could never undo. Friends betrayed. All of them—each and every one.

There was no one left.

For a moment the pain drove so deep she couldn’t breathe. But then she managed to inhale—a thin, reedy breath that barely filled her lungs.

She didn’t need anyone. She could survive on her own—she’d done it before.

Besides, a man wouldn’t need anyone to help him survive.

She scooped the coins into her hands, slid off the bed and carried them to her trunk, hiding them in the secret compartment at the very bottom. And then, snuffing the candle, she climbed into bed fully clothed. The wig felt lumpy and hard between her head and the pillow. But if she put on a nightshirt, and the duke had an emergency and found his way into her rooms...

Even a man’s nightshirt wouldn’t conceal the truth.

It wouldn’t be long. Only a matter of weeks before they arrived in Greece. And already, things had changed for the better because she’d left Millicent behind and become Miles. Miles Germain would not have to endure men taking lewd advantage. Miles would be taken seriously. He would be able to come and go freely. Miles would be welcome at the School of Anatomy and Surgery.

How much more would she be able to help people if she truly understood the body? If she could only see it—dissect it, explore it—so much more would make sense. Mysteries were hidden there. Treasures of knowledge that she wanted more than anything. All she had to do was imagine being at the school, participating in learned discussions about the latest medical theories, having access to thousands of texts, observing the dissection of cadavers—perhaps even participating in those, too—and she knew she could do anything the duke required of her.

If she were fortunate, she could make connections through the duke that would help establish her reputation after she’d finished at the school. Miles Germain, learned surgeon, would earn a handsome wage and be respected for his skills.

And when that day came, Millie would have no more reason to be afraid.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I MUST ADVISE against carriage travel, Your Grace,” Millie warned the next morning as she followed the duke down the main staircase. His greatcoat sat around his shoulders like a cape, unable to be worn properly because of his sling.

“Advice noted,” he said.

“Your wounds could easily be aggravated in a way that could cause your condition to worsen and your journey to be further delayed.”

“Advice noted, Mr. Germain.”

They exited the front door and climbed into the waiting coach—the two of them, alone, sitting across from each other as the coach lurched into motion. Millie grabbed for her medical bag to keep it from tumbling to the floor.

“If you must have your entertainment, then I highly suggest you have it at home,” she said irritably. If he thought he could drag her around Paris and force her to attend him at the city’s various houses of pleasure, he was very much mistaken. “I never agreed to provide my services at a brothel.”

He looked at her—expression blank, eyes inscrutable—and returned his gaze out the window, dark and pensive.

The coach clattered through the streets, grand and ornate with velvet cushions that felt like being seated on a cloud. She watched him brood in silence, noticed his jaw clench each time the coach hit a rut.

For heaven’s sake, what entertainment could possibly be worth what he must be suffering? The damage he would likely do to his wounds? She’d read about this kind of abnormality—men for whom no pleasure was ever enough, who exposed themselves to any kind of danger in pursuit of ever greater stimulation, until...

The coach slowed.

The duke’s lips thinned.

The coach came to a stop—

Next to a cemetery.

“Wait here,” he ordered when the coach door opened.

Dear God. Harris and Sacks had been mistaken. Lord Winston was attending the burial, after all.

She watched him climb out, clearly in considerably greater pain than when he had climbed in. A footman opened the cemetery gate, but he waved the servant away. Beyond, among the headstones, a group of people was already gathered. A fine mist put a sheen on every stone and blade of grass.

A woman dressed in black sank into a curtsy the moment he joined them. The duke reached out to stop her and pull her gently upright. Nearby, five children huddled together.

He ordered five hundred pounds sent this afternoon.

And now he was here, standing out in the drizzle with his injuries doubtless paining him like the devil, clasping his hands in front of him while a priest spoke at the edge of the grave.

Millie watched through the coach window. A slow bead of moisture skidded down the outside of the pane. Next to the grave, the widow held a handkerchief to her face.

When he finally turned back toward the coach, Millie scooted away from the window and opened her medical bag, pretending to be preoccupied with the contents.

He climbed carefully back into the coach. Settled against the seat. Inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “Sodding, bloody state of affairs,” he muttered as the coach rolled away.

“My condolences,” she said.

“I didn’t even know the man.” He stared out at the passing streets as they clattered back toward the house. “He left a widow and five children.” And that upset him. The distress was plain on his face.

“It was kind of you to think of them today,” she said.

“Kind.” The word shot from his lips, and his eyes shifted to her. “Kindness never raised the dead, Mr. Germain.”

“Perhaps not, but it shows them respect, and it comforts the living.” Which he already knew, or he would not have risked his own health to attend.

“He was an utter stranger. The entire debacle was complete happenstance—matter of timing. He died, I didn’t.” He said it flatly, matter-of-factly.

But a shiver touched her deep inside. “I see.”

His hooded gaze said she could not possibly see. And his attention returned to the window.

The man seated across from her was not the man she’d met yesterday in his bedchamber, surrounded by highflyers.

“How are your injuries?” she asked.

“A man is dead, Mr. Germain. My injuries are nothing next to that.”

“They will be if they fester and leave you dead, as well.”

“Perhaps that would only be perverse justice.”

It took a moment to credit his words. “Forgive me,” she ventured slowly. “Of course your own death would put everything to rights.”

“Mock me again,” he said sharply, looking at her once more, “and you’ll return to Lady Pennington minus your wages.”

The coach hit an especially deep pothole, and he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment she could almost imagine she felt his pain herself.

“Is there anything I can do that will help?” she said, more gently than she might have.

Those dark eyes opened, fixing on her with a shadow of pain that no compress could touch. “Are there any medicaments you can prescribe that will undo the past, Mr. Germain?”

* * *

IF THERE WERE any such medicaments, she would gladly take them herself.

After they returned to the house, Millie applied fresh dressings and compresses to his wounds and gave him a concoction to drink, and then there was nothing left to do for him except leave him to rest.

Downstairs in the library, she scoured the shelves for anything medical, and finally found a French volume about the nervous system that had been published in the past century, tucked in a row of books wedged between bookends formed like a woman’s bottom and thighs.

She sighed and slipped the volume from the shelf. It was better than nothing.

For a moment she stared at those bookends, thinking of the man who owned them. If he’d been contemplating pleasures of the flesh this afternoon, he’d given no hint of it.

All around, the ornate library testified to his decadent mode of living. Here, as in the salon where she’d waited yesterday, the ceilings boasted vast paintings of colorful and illicit love affairs, edged by intricate plasterwork decorated with gold.

The furnishings were lush, befitting his rank, yet scattered about the room in an almost careless manner that seemed to perfectly reflect the man himself.

And yet...

Was it possible the accident truly had affected him? Could this afternoon have marked the first inkling of changes to come?

Her gaze landed on a Grecian plaque depicting a variety of ancient sex acts. Of course not, Millicent. A man like that doesn’t change.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the memory of his demeanor in the coach—his troubled eyes, his silence, as if perhaps he truly was grieving the death of a stranger.

There was no knowing, so she ordered tea, went upstairs and locked herself away in her dressing room to study until he awoke and required her attention again.

Within two hours’ time, she began to hear noise through the wall. Five minutes more, ten, fifteen, and the noise and laughter coming from His Grace’s suite of rooms had grown to a crescendo.

She stared at the bookcase. He had company again? So much for the inkling of changes to come.

She continued trying to read, but concentration became impossible. Plugging her ears only proved distracting. She caught herself clenching her teeth and finally stood up, glaring at the bookcase.

What she wouldn’t give to march in there and evict the entire lot at pistol point.

Apparently all that business in the carriage this afternoon was nothing more than self-pity. And to think she’d begun to feel sympathy for him. Well, the sooner that debauched devil of a man recovered from his injuries, the better.

But not too soon. She needed all the money she could get from him.

A volley of laughter battered the wall.

She narrowed her eyes at the bookcase. Perhaps she would go over there. Make a big fuss about his health—more of a fuss than was strictly necessary—and if nothing else, give herself the satisfaction of interfering with his pleasure-seeking.

She grabbed her medical bag and went to her door, only to hear a knock. She opened it to find Sacks—

“His Grace is asking for you, Mr. Germain.”

—summoning her.

“Now? Surely he can’t be asking for medical attention.”

Sacks grinned. “I believe it’s more of an invitation, you fortunate cur.”

“An invitation.” That was a different situation entirely.

“Play your cards right, and you’ll be readying for bed with company.”

An invitation. She forced her lips into what she hoped was dry recognition of the possibilities. “You have a point.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sacks laughed. “You’ll learn the way of things ’round here.”

Oh, the way of things around here was already perfectly clear. And suddenly she was angry—furious that he could pretend such distress and then, a few short hours later, act as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Invitation or no, she kept a firm grip on her medical bag and walked down the corridor and into the duke’s apartment.

And there he was, on a sofa in his dressing room with a courtesan on either side of him, the afternoon’s burial apparently forgotten.

“Ah, here is my new medic now,” he announced when he saw her. The quality of his voice told her he was feeling his liquor—and the tilt of his smile told her he wasn’t thinking of any widow and children now. The woman to his right wore an elaborate blue gown cut so that it concealed...very little. The duke had his arm around her, laughing, drinking deeply from a glass in his other hand.

Almost immediately a young Parisienne appeared at Millie’s side. “Bonsoir,” she said, taking Millie’s arm with one hand and resting her other palm flat against Millie’s chest, smoothing it a little across Millie’s lapel—dangerously close to a place Millie did not want her to touch for any number of reasons, the least of which being that the binding around her breasts was not completely effective, and she relied on the drape of her clothing to conceal what the binding could not.

Thank God her own breasts were not as generous as this woman’s, or all would be revealed regardless of disguise.

“Bonsoir,” Millie murmured, removing the woman’s hand, too aware that she had the duke’s full attention.

“Bring Mr. Germain a drink,” the duke said, drawing lazy circles near the top of his companion’s breasts.

The tormented man in the carriage was gone.

“No, thank you,” Millie said firmly, approaching the sofa where he sat, lowering her voice. “I’ve only come to remind Your Grace that all this activity may not be wise.”

“When did wisdom ever lead to entertainment?” And he might be laughing, but now she saw that his mouth was a bit strained and the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Lack of wisdom could easily lead to a sudden decline,” she countered, and a servant placed a glass into her free hand while she spoke.

“Perhaps you’d care to join a game,” he suggested.

“A medic and a gamer, eh?” an Englishman called over from one of several gaming tables. “Do, do! We’ve just finished and are about to begin another.”

Across the room next to the duke’s curio cabinet, a gentleman was tying a blindfold around a laughing woman wearing only her stays and petticoats.

Hmm. Perhaps joining a game could be advantageous—both for her purse and her desire to be rid of these revelers.

“I do believe I shall,” she said, and Lord Winston grinned.

“Have a care with my medic, Perry,” he called over to the card table. “I’ll not have him taken advantage of.”

Millie glanced at him as she seated herself at the card table and realized he found this entire thing amusing.

Her new female companion perched on the edge of Millie’s chair, leaning so close that her bosom practically spilled into Millie’s face.

One of the men at the table laughed, and too late Millie realized she had leaned away.

“Say, Winston—I daresay your medic here is only too ripe for an education, both at cards and at women.” And then, to Millie, “But never fear, young lad. Mademoiselle Hélène will give you any experience you like.”

Now Millie’s face was inches from the woman’s bosom, and she was staring directly into a deep cleavage that would have had a real man salivating like a hungry dog.

She moistened her lips and hoped it made her appear at least a little bit tempted.

“I’m feeling a bit...warm,” the woman whispered suggestively in French. “Perhaps you can help me, monsieur le médecin.”

Little did she know. “Perhaps I can at that,” she murmured, hoping she sounded genuinely interested. “Only let me collect some winnings first, hmm?”

“Oh, ho!” the man named Perry laughed. “Our young medic is more confident than he first appeared!”

The men at the table laughed, clearly believing they would fleece her of every last penny in short order.

They began the game, and Millie made a few mistakes on purpose, throwing the first round. And then, slowly, she began to change her tactics.

“Tiens, Monsieur Germain,” one of the men said after a few rounds, by which time Millie had collected a sum about equal to that of everyone else at the table, “Perhaps I only imagine it, but Winston appears a trifle piqued.”

Now the one named Perry glanced at the duke, who was engrossed in conversation while a woman nuzzled his neck. “Not as well as he’d like us all to believe, eh?”

“On the contrary,” Millie said. “His injuries are progressing nicely.”

And now, like a golden egg dropped in her lap, was the opportunity she’d been looking for.

“Wears on a man, that sort of thing,” Perry said, shaking his head. “So difficult to imagine— Ho, Blanchet! Almost had her that time!”

Millie glanced over her shoulder and saw the object of Lord Perry’s amusement—a man playing a game of undress-me-if-you-can with one of Winston’s strumpets. “Exhausting,” Perry said now, shaking his head, and she realized he was once again speaking of Winston.

“Mmm,” she agreed, and played a card. “Especially with the— Well, he wouldn’t want me to speak of that.” She rearranged her hand and looked up to find Perry’s attention torn between his own cards and her little “slip.”

“Has he got something more than the injuries?”

“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. His Grace’s conditions are a confidential matter between him and me. You understand, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Le pauvre,” the woman perched on the edge of Millie’s chair said, looking at the duke. Poor thing? Hardly. “I think I shall go comfort him.” How she would find room on the already crowded sofa was a mystery.

“That might not be...” Millie paused and shook her head. “No, I doubt he’s contagious.”

“Contagieux,” one of the others said sharply under his breath. “How could it be that a few cuts and bruises are contagious?”

“Do forgive me,” Millie said. “I should not have said anything. Please—let us not speak of it further.”

As if divinely preplanned, the duke sipped his drink and coughed—twice, three times—and all eyes at the table shot in his direction.

Millie frowned thoughtfully at the Frenchman seated to her left. “I do believe it’s your turn?”

His eyes dropped to his hand. “Oui. Bien sûr.” He played a card.

Millie lowered her voice and murmured to the woman sitting beside her, “I suppose I would be wrong not to ask...none of you young women have been...” She trailed off again, shook her head once more. “Ah, well. In any case, what’s done is done.”

Worry tugged at the woman’s carefully groomed brows. “Quoi?” she whispered urgently. “Dites-moi.”

“I’m quite sure, as long as you don’t plan on any further intimacies with him...”

“Mais, non,” the woman assured her, eyes fixed on the duke. “Definitely not.”

“I’m almost certain you needn’t worry,” Millie reassured her.

“I do believe,” one of the players said to the others at the table, clearing his throat, “that the Comte d’Anterry had an entertainment planned for this evening.”

Just then another of the duke’s friends approached the table and leaned close to Perry. “You look disturbed. Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“It’s probably nothing.” Lord Perry looked to Millie for confirmation. Mille only raised a brow.

The player to her left leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “We have just learned from Monsieur Germain that Winston is contagieux.”

“Dieu.” The man straightened sharply. Glanced over his shoulder.

“It’s likely nothing,” Millie told them. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. His Grace would be furious with me. Please—you mustn’t say a word.”

“Mais, non,” the new man said, still looking surreptitiously at Winston. “Of course not.”

One of the men at the table set down his cards and cleared his throat. “I do believe I never made proper excuses to d’Anterry. I’d best put in an appearance.”

She watched the man walk over and make his excuses to the duke—from a safe distance, of course—and exit the chamber with two of the courtesans at his side.

Within fifteen minutes, fully half the room had emptied.

Within twenty-five, the room was unoccupied except for herself and the duke. He still sat on the sofa where he’d been since she arrived. She still sat at the card table, alone now with another—albeit much smaller—stack of winnings.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me,” Winston drawled, “what you’ve said to all my guests that has left me once again without company.”

“I assure you, I am just as disappointed in the company’s departure as you are. Just when I was holding out hope that the lovely Mademoiselle Hélène might be agreeable to a few moments of diversion.”

“Were you?”

“Only with Your Grace’s blessing, naturally.”

“Naturally. Perhaps we could call her back. You could tell her you were mistaken about whatever you told them and have your entertainment, after all.” He pinned her with that dark devil-gaze. “I hate to see you disappointed.”

After what she’d just witnessed, she refused to be intimidated. “You are too kind. Unfortunately, my duties as your employed medic must come before my own pleasure. If I’m to ensure that Your Grace is in a proper condition to endure the strain of a journey to Greece, then moderation is in order.”

“Did you tell them I had some kind of disease?”

“Good heavens, you don’t have any disease.”

“A mysterious fever?”

“You’re not feverish, Your Grace.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he bit out. “A pox? Is that what you told them?”

She swept the coins from the table into her hand, then dumped them into her coat pocket. “Your Grace has already assured me no such condition is currently present.”

“No such condition has ever been present, Mr. Germain.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t say anything about a pox. Or a rash.”

“You told them I have a rash?”

“I said I didn’t tell them that.”

“I don’t have a rash!” he exploded, just as Harris came through the door. Harris paused, hesitating.

“Mademoiselle Hélène is inquiring after her wrap,” he said.

Millie spotted it on a chair in the corner and took it to Harris. “Please give Mademoiselle Hélène His Grace’s assurances that her wrap has not been contaminated with any rash.”

“Assure the woman of nothing except my continuing regard,” the duke bit out sharply.

“Naturally, Your Grace.” Harris bowed and left with the wrap.

* * *

HE OUGHT TO dismiss her.

Winston stared at Miles Germain across his now-silent dressing room and contemplated his options—which, of course, were many.

“Let us have one thing very clear between us, Mr. Germain,” he said now, not getting up from the sofa, but only because he didn’t want to. Not because his leg hurt like the devil and the beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. “You are here to administer medical care, by which I mean compresses and bandages and the like.”

“Which will do little good if you do not follow my advice.”

“If I want medical advice, Mr. Germain, I will ask for it.”

And there was that line above her lip.

Devil take it. He’d been doing perfectly well ten minutes ago. But now that everyone was gone, the day’s events—his entire life’s events—were returning to torment him with a vengeance.

Attending that burial was a mistake. Ordering her to accompany him doubly so.

“If I want to entertain guests, then I shall. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Without interference of any kind.”

“As you wish.”

“And that, Mr. Germain, is something you’d best remember. As I wish. Not as you wish.” Yet even now he doubted her capacity to comprehend that basic reality.

The question now was how best to undo the damage she’d done. By now the news of his rash—or whatever the bloody hell she’d told them—would have made its way to half the salons in Paris.

He should dismiss her. And if her ministrations weren’t having an effect already, despite his disregarding her advice, he would dismiss her. But even a man as stubborn and reckless as he could tell that the switch from turpentine to whatever she was mixing was helping.

He would have to hire a reputable physician to give him a clean report and then not so discreetly let it be known that the young Mr. Germain’s assessment had been mistaken.

He rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Perhaps you ought to return to your bed,” she said now. And then, quickly—sarcastically?— “Forgive me. You’ll need to define ‘advice’ so that I understand very clearly what recommendations I am allowed and which I am not.”

“Any recommendations pertaining to my choice of entertainment,” he ground out, “are strictly forbidden.”

“Then advice to take to your bed, depending on the circumstances, may or may not...” She trailed off, furrowing her brows even as a spark of triumph in her eyes made it clear she was toying with him. Still. Now.

Standing there in her bagwig and breeches, she probably fancied herself immune to seduction.

If he were willing to show her his hand and reveal that he had seen through her disguise, it would take all of five minutes to prove to her she was mistaken. And then they would see about that advice to take to his bed.

If he were willing to seduce a virgin. Which he was not.

The reason why not snuck in like a cold draft on a winter day, carrying his vow with it, and now he pushed himself off the sofa, keeping a hand on its back for balance against a sudden light-headedness.

“There’s been a change of plans,” he told her now, hearing himself as if listening to someone else.

Consider your ways, Winston. It was the only thing Edward had ever asked in the face of Winston’s sin against him so many years ago.

“We shan’t be traveling to Greece, but to my estate.”

“Your estate.” Her words shot across the room.

It was a ridiculous notion that wouldn’t change anything. The past was as immutable as the names on the headstones in that cemetery this morning. His sin against Edward—against Cara—could never be repaired.

Denying himself would not change that.

Keeping that ridiculous vow would not change it, either. And yet...

“Yes.”

“But the understanding was we would be traveling to Greece,” she said sharply.

Her eyes shot daggers at him. And...fear? “Indeed, it was. But circumstances compel me to return to my estate instead. I will still require your services for the journey.”

“But I can’t go to England.”

“No?” he asked irritably. “Are you in exile?”

She inhaled visibly. “What I meant to say was that I did not expect to go to England and I do not wish to go to England.”

“Much, perhaps, as I did not expect or wish for my medic to drive away my acquaintances by implying I am a threat to their health.”

She took a few anxious steps forward. “I shall tell them all I was mistaken. That I lied, even.”

Her sudden turn toward desperation was fascinating. “I haven’t changed my plans because of that, Mr. Germain.”

“Then why?”

Why, indeed. In those moments on the street, when a piece of that building could have fallen and smashed his own skull, he hadn’t actually made a promise to Edward. Hadn’t made a promise to anyone. They were just words, uttered in a moment of terror.

By God, I’ll do it!

It was more an oath than a promise, anyway. But he’d made a decision about Greece, and he would probably regret it, but it bloody well wasn’t Miles Germain’s place to question him. By withdrawing to his estate, removing himself from temptation, perhaps he would miraculously become the man Edward wanted him to be.

“Was there a reason you had hoped to go to Greece?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said quickly. It was obviously a lie. He watched her thinking, contemplating the change of events, weighing her options—which, if he didn’t miss his guess, were few.

He already knew she was hungry for the wages from his employment. But her counting on Greece, as well...

Mattered not one whit to him.

“The journey to Greece would have been much longer than a simple jaunt to England,” she pointed out now. “The change will have an effect on my wages.”

“You needn’t fear for your wages,” he told her. “I intend to keep you in my employ at my estate until I make a full recovery, at which time you will be free to travel anywhere you like.”

And by which time he would doubtless have proved once and for all his own folly and the imprudence of reading too much into a single, random incident.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY ARRIVED AT the estate in the moonlight, amid the loud clang and clatter of carriages and the shouts of footmen as they pulled to a stop in front of a palatial house ablaze with whale oil and candles. Outside lanterns around the grand entrance cast V-shaped spills of light against the smooth facade, and already the main doors were being opened, and through them Millie could see servants crossing this way and that in a glittering entrance hall with red-and-white marble floors, preparing for His Grace’s midnight arrival.

“I think the wound on my thigh is bleeding again,” Winston said as he prepared to get up.

Of course it was. They should have stayed in Paris, where they should have been making leisurely preparations for Greece.

“Fysikά,” she said under her breath. Instead, they’d made a reckless and hasty journey here. To England.

He looked at her sharply. “Pardon me?”

“Naturally,” she repeated in English, and much more deferentially. “I shall inspect it the moment you’re settled.”

“Did you just speak to me in Greek?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. We are in England, Your Grace.”

Those devil eyes narrowed at her. His humor had deteriorated steadily the closer they’d come to his estate—a ridiculously hard push of travel aided by a full moon and perfect weather in the channel, which had put them here in less than two days.

He had required her presence in his coach in case he needed her, but had spent most of the time trying to sleep, and she had spent most of the time trying to read. Harris and Sacks and a few others came in the carriages behind.

A footman opened the coach door. Winston stepped out, and Millie followed without being handed down, as any man in service would.

The house seemed to extend as far as the eye could see in both directions, the farther reaches of it covered by the shadows of night. Beyond loomed great murky masses of trees. It seemed to have hundreds of windows, all framed by carved stone, many flickering with light. Nobody was counting candles here. Above, silhouetted against the sky, dozens of chimneys testified to an enormous number of rooms.

Only imagine how many nude statues a building of this size could hold. The wild debauches that must take place here and that would no doubt begin immediately now that His Grace had returned.

Indeed, Millie thought as she was swept through the grand entrance on a wave of activity in His Grace’s wake, Lord Winston’s country estate was everything a ducal residence should be.

There was only one thing it wasn’t.

Greece.

Inside, Harris began giving instructions to half-a-dozen servants, and footmen carried trunks up a massive red marble staircase that curved in two directions. Winston exchanged a few words with Sacks, and then with a woman who looked like she must be in charge of the house.

The entrance hall alone was so vast one could probably build a ship inside it.

The walls were deep red, the ceiling covered with murals and edged with gold plasterwork. Five chandeliers blazed with candles.

And that was when Millie realized there wasn’t a nude to be seen save for the paintings on the ceiling. There was hardly any artwork at all. Few statues—a bronze horseman in a corner of the entrance hall, and through a doorway she could see the bust of a man on one side of a hall that looked as if it was made of gold and extended for a mile.

There were no paintings, few sculptures.

After what she’d seen in Paris, it didn’t seem possible.

And then Winston was climbing the stairs, and Harris came to tell her that she would be taking a room on the same floor and in the same wing as Winston’s so that she could properly attend him, and soon Millie was shown to another apartment, this one twice as grand as the one she’d been given in Paris, and ten times larger.

Footmen brought her trunk plus another that held all the medical supplies she’d collected in Paris and carried for the trip.

And still the question remained: What were they doing here? She never should have said a word to his guests that night. If only she hadn’t opened her bloody mouth and sent everyone away, giving him the opportunity to think. With all that distraction, he would never have considered returning to his estate.

If she’d known it was a choice between his ribald entertainments or this monumental setback...

She’d barely unlatched her trunk when the duke’s sharp bark shot faintly down the corridor.

“Mr. Germain!”

Devil take the man, anyway. She’d never known a person to change their mind as erratically as he did. And now here she was. In England.

She went down the hallway to the duke’s bedchamber and found him seated on the edge of a chair with his breeches around his knees and blood seeping through the bandage on his thigh.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered.

“You say that as if it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault. This never would have happened if we’d gone to Greece.” It was the kind of statement that could get her dismissed, but after crossing the channel and riding nonstop over rutted roads deep into the night, she was too aggravated to care.

“I don’t want to hear another word about Greece,” he said as she crouched in front of him and began unwinding the bandage. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Polú.”

“And I do not want to be spoken to in Greek.”

“Bene.”

“Or Italian. Or any foreign tongue.”

She tucked the bandage back in place for the moment. “I’ll have to bring more lint and fresh bandages. Lie down and elevate the leg on a pillow, and I shall return momentarily.”

There was no reason he could not have continued to recover in Paris. No reason at all.

Within a quarter of an hour, she’d stopped the bleeding, applied fresh dressings and bandages, and the duke was resting comfortably.

Except that he wasn’t.

“Devil take this blasted sling.” He shifted, reaching behind his shoulder, tugging on the strap. “I can’t quite seem to...”

“Stop fussing and let me do it,” she said, and leaned across him.

“I’m not fussing.” His voice feathered her jaw as if he spoke against her skin, even though he was inches away.

The front of her coat grazed his chest as she adjusted the sling.

Her hip pressed against his arm.

And it didn’t matter how many times she’d done this for him... Little sensations shot through her, tickling her lungs and tripping through her belly.

He stopped struggling—seemed to stop everything, even breathing, while she worked at the strap.

And then it was finished, and she stepped back. “Better?”

“Yes.”

She turned to her medical supplies even though there was nothing she needed.

“What in God’s name am I supposed to do now?” he muttered behind her, as if it wasn’t the wee hours of the morning.

“May I suggest sleeping?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She turned back to find his gaze shifting about the room as if he’d never seen the place before. “I’m sure there will be no need for that question once your company arrives,” she said.

“There isn’t going to be any company.”

She looked at him. “No company?”

“Rest and solitude,” he said shortly. “That is your prescription, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” And that was why he was here? For rest and solitude? “Although I seem to recall Your Grace referred to it as my strict regimen of boredom and frustration.”

He grunted an unhappy acknowledgment.

She clenched her jaw. Now he wanted to follow her advice? Now that her entire plan was in tatters? Bloody nobles and their whims—and she was the one to pay the price. Greece or England...what could it possibly matter to him?

And now, looking around, she saw that his apartment was just as free from lewd knickknacks as the entrance hall had been. There wasn’t a breast or phallus to be seen. “Is this where you always come to withdraw from entertainment?”

He looked at her. “Quite,” he drawled, and his lip curved a little in that semi-amused smile that made him look impossibly wicked. “I’ve always liked to think of Winston as my refuge from all things carnal.”

* * *

MOMENTS LATER, OUTSIDE Winston’s apartment, Millie found Harris and Sacks conferring tight-lipped at the top of the stairs.

“Everything’s been put away,” Harris told her in an alarming tone when she joined them. He took a pinch of snuff and scowled down the staircase. “The paintings, the sculptures...I’m told a letter arrived from Paris only this morning, instructing that everything of a certain nature be put away in the attic.”

Everything of a certain nature?

“Even the portrait in ’is bedroom is gone,” Sacks grumbled. “Princess What’s-’er-Name from Prussia. I’ll miss that portrait,” he said, irritated. “She was a damned ripe one.”

Refuge from all things carnal, indeed. And yet... “He instructed them put away?” Millie asked.

Sacks took his turn at the snuff, sniffed, rubbed his nose and nodded. “The whole lot of it.”

“When he decided to return to Winston,” Harris said, “I was convinced that all was finally becoming as it should be. After all...” He gestured lamely toward the staircase.

“After all,” Sacks said, “there’s never any lack of sporting activities ’round here.”

There wasn’t, was there?

“So I am to understand,” Millie said slowly, “that His Grace normally entertains while he is in residence.”

“Entertains!” Harris barked, then hushed his voice. “This house has seen routs that would redden a harlot’s cheeks.”

Of course it had. Millie stared down the corridor toward the duke’s apartment. Rest and solitude. Apparently he had gone to great lengths to achieve it. Because of his health?

If she’d realized that, she would have taken special care to emphasize the benefits of a warm climate.

“It can’t be permanent, can it?” Harris asked her. “His Grace’s lack of interest?”

“He seemed interested enough in Paris, didn’t he?” Millie snipped.

“That?” Sacks lowered his voice. “He hasn’t interested himself with a single one—not since the accident.” Suddenly his monstrous dark brows knitted completely together. “The accident didn’t—” he gestured in front of his crotch “—damage his vitals...?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “No.”

“He spoke of nothing but Grecian orgies for weeks before we left for Paris,” Harris told her. “He spoke of little else in Paris, as well.”

“Well, now he says he doesn’t want anything to do with Greece,” Millie said. “He says he wants rest and solitude.”

“Rest and solitude.”

She didn’t believe it for a minute. He was being flighty, making more out of his injuries than he needed to, and costing her the price of travel from England to the Mediterranean in the process.

If he’d just gone to Greece, the trip would have cost her nothing, and she would have been collecting wages the entire time.

“We ought to bring the whole bloody lot down from the attic while he’s sleeping,” Sacks grumbled. “Let ’im wake to that magnificent pair of Prussian breasts and see if it doesn’t restore ’im to full operation.”

Millie looked at him.

Sacks shifted his gaze to Harris, who frowned. “We couldn’t simply...” The idea hung in the air. “Couldn’t we?”

“Indeed,” Millie said slowly, considering the possibilities. “In fact, I might even recommend it. As a restorative measure for his health.”

As changeable as the duke clearly was, a bit of encouragement could be all it would take for him to abandon this plan and set out once more for Greece.

“That is to say,” she went on, “it’s never a good sign when a person loses interest in his usual activities.” That much was true. And it wasn’t as if the duke weren’t capable of enjoying himself—hadn’t Paris proved that?

It had.

Now Sacks was nodding. Harris raised a considering brow. And Millie could not believe she was suggesting this, but if it would work...

“A dose of his usual mode of living,” she said authoritatively, “could be just the curative he needs.”

* * *

WINSTON STOOD IN his library the next morning, staring at the empty spot above the fireplace where a carved wood panel from India used to hang, and contemplated ordering his bags packed for Greece, after all. Or at least Paris.

What the devil was he doing here?

He needed company. Women. In his bed, on top of his desk, against his bloody wall, and he needed them now.

This was folly. Changing his entire existence because of a freak accident...

Because it could have been you.

But it wasn’t.

And because of Cara and Edward.

Devil take it. One incident fifteen years ago—something that couldn’t be changed—had no bearing on the present.

He treaded lightly toward the windows, careful not to disturb his freshly bandaged leg. The empty house felt like a tomb. Looked like a bloody monastery. At the very least he could order all the adornments taken from the attic put back in place.

He didn’t even know what to do with himself.

One very particular activity leaped to mind, and God’s blood, this was what it had come to? Fantasizing about pleasuring himself?

Reading, Miles had suggested. But all his favorite books had been stored away in the attic with the rest.

He paced a few feet to the nearest bookcase, built between two windows, and pulled a book from the shelf. Flipped through its pages. Slammed it shut.

He didn’t want to read. He wanted to do something very, very different from reading.

His hands tightened around the book.

He breathed deeply. Forced himself to remember the accident. The burial. The widow and her five children, standing in the gray drizzle while the priest tossed clumps of mud into the grave. The way those clumps had hit the coffin with a soft splat.

He would do this. He would sit his arse down and read this goddamned book and he would not think about any of the things he wasn’t doing, because the man in that coffin wasn’t doing them, either.

He sat. Opened the book cover. Fauna of the Tidal Flats of Devon.

Perfect.

He leafed through the pages, found a plate illustrating a clam digging through mud. And damnation if the clam’s extended foot didn’t look exactly like a man’s—

“Excuse me, Your Grace. I thought I should see if you require anything for your comfort.”

Miles’s voice cut into his thoughts and nearly startled him. She stood there looking...younger than he might have liked. His comfort? Oh, indeed—but not at all in the manner she meant. “Thank you, Mr. Germain. I’m doing well enough at the moment. Are you settling in?”

“Yes.”

“And everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

Somehow that was no longer a surprise. He watched her wander into the library and wondered if she realized how much her face gave away as she stared at the vast shelves.

She had a hunger for these books that he could scarcely fathom.

Her lips were parted a little, and he studied them, only now realizing that he knew their curve and color by heart.

He returned his attention to the book. “There are some who find my estate quite comfortable, believe it or not,” he said, feeling unaccountably grouchy.

“No doubt they do.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her move closer. He shifted his eyes, watching her legs as she moved. “What are you reading?”

His gaze snapped back to the page. “A treatise about tidal flats.”

“Have you a particular interest in tidal flats?”

“Yes.” He’d never thought about tidal flats in his life. “I find them fascinating.”

“Indeed? I never would have guessed.” She didn’t sound pleased.

“I can hardly keep my eyes from the page.” He started to read aloud. “‘The lugworm is a creature that buries itself in the soft, wet sands,’” he began, then wished he hadn’t, because the concept of being buried in anything soft and wet was not helpful. He skimmed ahead. Ah, yes. “‘It feeds on detritus left behind by other creatures, such as the fecal matter of clams and other burrowing mollusks.’” He looked up at Miles and smiled. “Fascinating.”

That line appeared above her lip. “Such a marked change from your interests in Paris, which as I recall, were—”

“I am quite aware of what they were.” He looked up now, straight into her eyes—good God, he knew those by heart now, too, with their deep brown streaks set in rich walnut—and held her gaze on purpose, but she refused to look away. “As I’ve said, this house is my retreat from the world.” Starting yesterday, anyhow. “When I’m here, I indulge all of my quieter interests.”

“Such as reading.” She said it doubtfully, as if she wondered whether he could read at all.

“Among other things, yes.”

“What other things?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Any number of things. Was there something you wanted, Mr. Germain?”

Because the longer she stood there, the more there was something he wanted, and he could not start down that road or there would be no end to the torment. He was alone in this blasted house, and the only women here now were the servants, whom he refused to turn to because he wasn’t running a brothel...

And her.

She smiled tightly. “Not at all, Your Grace. I shall leave you. Happy reading.”

Oh, indeed. He let his eyes follow her as she walked out—her legs, anyhow, encased in their breeches—and thought of something that would make him incredibly happy, and it had nothing to do with reading.

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