A Promise by Daylight. Alison DeLaine

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