A Promise by Daylight. Alison DeLaine

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