Alison DeLaine - A Promise by Daylight

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.”