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.
“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