“Surely Your Grace can find more interesting company than this.”
“I very much enjoy your company, Mr. Germain.”
She paused to survey the stream bank in both directions, shifting her basket from one hand to the other. And now her cheeks were flushed, and she looked more innocent than ever, and suddenly all he could see was her sitting in that blasted tub, candlelight bathing her breasts while he spied on her like the most depraved lecher....
He started to reach for her basket, remembered she was supposed to be Mr. Germain and stopped. A man didn’t carry another man’s basket.
And there was the answer: stop thinking about that bath and continue treating her like a man. Pretend she was a man.
“It occurred to me that perhaps you could use your expertise to help me combat my latest affliction,” he said now.
She’s a man. He made himself look at her nondescript jacket, breeches, shoes. Miles Germain. A man.
If anyone could read his thoughts, he’d be committed to an asylum.
“And what affliction is that?”
“I find myself suddenly accosted by thoughts of a highly erotic nature.”
“Only suddenly? You’ve never had these kinds of thoughts before?”
“Not while I was attempting to follow a healthful regimen.” Which was perfectly true. “But now—since this morning, in fact—I find myself contemplating, shall we say, the fields of Venus.”
“Vastly more interesting than the woods, I daresay.” She continued along the stream, unperturbed, skirting around a pair of tree trunks.
Winston surveyed her legs, remembering how they’d looked in the bath, gleaming wet and bare—
“Oh, there,” she said suddenly, spotting something on the other side of the stream. She turned back, held out the basket. “Hold this, will you?”
Just forget about that blasted bath.
He should already have forgotten it. For Christ’s sake, how many women had he seen in his lifetime? And he could scarcely remember any of them.
But the image of her was engraved in his mind.
He reached for the basket, and at the last moment a devil made him grasp the handle where their hands would touch in the exchange. The brush of her fingers sent heat snaking up his arm.
“It’s comforting to have a man about that I can speak to frankly about these matters,” he told her while she picked her way across the stream on three small stones.
“Would you not find it more comforting to act on them?”
Oh, indeed. He considered what he might say that would be truly shocking. Ruffle her feathers a bit, make her think twice next time before trying to ruffle his.
He watched her crouch down, pick a handful of stems and return to place them in the basket, looking nothing at all like a man, but rather a young woman pleased with her find.
Pink touched her cheeks, and her eyes lit with satisfaction. “Fresh water mint will be just the thing for your evening tea. Not too strong, good for the digestive system.”
His evening tea could go to the devil.
He wanted her.
“I feel as if I could recover much more quickly if I could only put my hands on a fine pair of breasts,” he said now, and immediately imagined what hers might feel like. Taste like.
“Then I’m not sure what you’re doing out here with me, Your Grace.”
He ignored that. “It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve spent myself between a woman’s welcoming thighs. That can’t be healthful, can it? After all, I can hardly spend the rest of my life without ever enjoying a woman again.”
“Rather a leap between a fortnight and a lifetime, isn’t it? But if that is your definition of healthful living, a surgical procedure would do the most good—not a regimen.” She looked up at the treetops. “What an aggravation...it looks as if it could rain at any moment.” Her gaze fell back on him. “You’d better turn back. It wouldn’t do for your bandages to be soaked in a downpour.”
It would be so easy to seduce her. He imagined pulling her with him to the ground, making love to her right here, right now on the grass. And now he wondered what it might be like, pushing inside her virgin body. Watching those eyes widen while he breached her maidenhead, feeling the grasp of her channel as he opened it.
It would be impossibly tight. He’d probably need something to smooth the way, help things along.
“No,” he said roughly. “Wouldn’t do at all.” He imagined having her beneath him. Kissing those pink lips while he thrust inside her.
Are you going to do this again, after what happened with Cara?
“Is something paining you?” she asked, genuinely frowning now. “I should have insisted that you turn around the moment you saw me. It isn’t a good idea for you to be walking about like this.”
And no, this wasn’t a good idea. Hadn’t been from the moment he’d decided to follow her into the woods for no better reason than to goad her.
“It’s fine,” he murmured. “I can hardly feel a thing.” Except for screaming need in his breeches and the pounding thrum of blood in his veins.
She still frowned at him, slender brows in a vee. “I’ll check everything very thoroughly this evening.”
“Perhaps...” Perhaps you ought to check everything very thoroughly now.
That day with Cara reared up in his thoughts—an innocent ride through the woods. That was all either of them had intended. All it was ever meant to be.
All it should have been.
“Perhaps?” Miles prompted.
He stepped back, with his heart thudding so hard he could feel it against his chest.
“Perhaps this evening, indeed,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s someone I need to call on in the village this afternoon.”
“Then, by all means, don’t let me keep you a moment longer.”
He needed to go. Now. Because if he did remain a moment longer, he was going to touch her, and then there would be no question between them that she was not a man and they both knew it.
And because doing that would violate the one standard he’d held for himself all these years, would destroy the one thing he’d done to make up for his sin against Cara and Edward.
“Very well.” He was not going to seduce Miles Germain on any grass—wasn’t going to seduce her at all, ever. “Until this evening, Mr. Germain.”
By which time he intended to have himself firmly under control.
* * *
SOMEONE IN THE VILLAGE, Millie wondered after he left, with a fine pair of breasts and a welcoming pair of thighs?
The possibility shouldn’t have bothered her even a little bit.
She gathered some ground ivy into her basket and told herself it was a good sign that he was having...erotic thoughts. Apparently the painting had affected him more than it seemed to.
She shouldn’t be wishing he hadn’t left. She did, but she shouldn’t.
She found a patch of dead-nettle away from the stream and collected a few stalks, and told herself she was not going to develop an attraction for the duke. She was intelligent. Sensible. She knew her place and was all too aware of his. More than that, she had her eyes open—wide-open—to his ways.
So she simply would not develop an attraction.
The important thing was to encourage him in the right direction and hope he realized how very much he really did want to visit Greece.
But when she returned to the house, she learned that Winston had not gone to the village at all, but had been in the library again. And now she wondered whether he might have been covering up his pain in the woods.
An examination that evening revealed no discernible changes.
By early afternoon the next day, he still hadn’t gone to the village or done anything even remotely erotic that Millie was aware of, so she decided to speak with him again and press him to find out whether he was, in fact, in more pain that she realized.
He was nowhere to be found.
Someone said they’d seen him w
alking outside, and she finally found him at the far end of the gardens in a corner where two hedges came together, grabbing for something one-handed while a small net hung limply in his slung hand. She watched for a moment, but it was impossible to tell what he was after.
“What are you doing?” she called, close enough now to hear him cursing.
He whipped the net from his idle hand and slapped it against the top of the hedge, digging it into the leaves. Cursed again.
She stood beside him, frowning into the bush.
“Almost had the little bugger,” the duke growled. She saw that a book lay open atop the hedge nearby. A page flipped in the breeze, and he reached to flip it back. “‘Leptophyes punctatissima,’” he read from the page. “There’s no doubt in my mind that’s what it was.”
Millie stepped closer and saw a drawing of a cricket-looking creature with long legs. She looked at him. “You’re collecting insects?”
“I can’t think why you sound surprised.”
First tidal flats, now insects... What next, a study of fungi?
“I didn’t realize you had an interest in insects,” she said carefully.
“Entomology is a valid aspect of natural history.”
“So it is. I just didn’t realize you had any interest in it.”
“I have a great many interests,” he said, snatching up the insect net from the hedge where it rested.
Indeed—if one counted all the various parts of the female body. “How long have you been interested in insects?”
“An exceedingly long time, Mr. Germain.”
Bollocks. “I do hope this isn’t a sign of malaise.” She plunked her medical bag on the ground next to the hedge and sighed loudly. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to warn against the dangers of sudden changes of interest. They can signal any number of mental difficulties. Malaise, for example, which could significantly retard your recovery.” She was improvising now, but it wasn’t irresponsible advice. It was perfectly reasonable, in fact.
He peered into the shrubbery once more, net in hand. “I do not have—” whack “—malaise.” He grabbed for the net, inspected it closely. “Bloody hell.”
Empty.
This was the furthest possible thing from erotic thoughts. Yesterday’s discussion in the woods had seemed somewhat productive toward her goal of getting him to Greece. And now this.
“I’ve long wondered how one determines the sex of an insect,” she said now, frowning at the drawing. “Can one tell by looking?”
He looked at her. “The sex of an insect?”
“Indeed. Certainly the female must have...distinguishing characteristics.”
His attention returned to the shrub. “I don’t know.”
“Mmm.” And after a moment, “Do they not have privy parts, then?”
He turned on her. “Privy parts?”
“Yes.”
He studied her rather too long, and his brows ticked downward. “Precisely which privy parts might those be, Mr. Germain? I’m not at all sure I understand what you mean.”
“Well...”
“No, do—describe them to me in detail.”
“I’m quite sure there’s no need to describe privy parts to you, Your Grace. In any case, I only came here to find out whether you were indeed in pain yesterday in the woods, and if perhaps you haven’t been truthful with me about your condition.”
“I assure you, I’ve been entirely truthful.”
“You mustn’t undo your progress,” she lectured sternly, both relieved and frustrated that her attempt to turn his thoughts toward eroticism had gone nowhere.
“My thoughts exactly,” he said, still looking at her too intently.
She swallowed. “You aren’t entirely out of danger. If I’ve given you the impression that you are—”
“Not at all, Miles. I’m quite aware of the danger.”
And so was she, suddenly—but of a very different kind. And the fact was, it was too late. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she realized suddenly that she’d already developed an attraction for him. Sensations coursed through her veins, pulsed in her nerves, spread hotly across her skin.
She.
Millicent Germain.
Feeling...desire? It couldn’t be.
The breeze flipped the page in the book, and something caught her eye. “Look.” She turned away from him, feeling her pulse in her throat. “There’s writing on the back side of the plate.” She held the page down and read aloud. “‘Discovered in hedges at far end of garden, past third pond.’ It’s in a child’s script.”
He slid the book from her grasp and closed it. “And in the hedges is exactly where the little devils will stay. I’ve had enough of this.”
Past the third pond...
“Is that your writing?” It was. She could tell by the way he was avoiding looking at her as he collected his net and turned away from the shrubs. And hadn’t he mentioned insect collecting when she’d asked him what he enjoyed as a child?
She tried to imagine him at age ten or eleven but honestly couldn’t.
“I really can’t recall,” he said.
* * *
HE MANAGED TO avoid his medic for the rest of the day.
Endured her evening examination by pretending to be utterly exhausted.
By bedtime, it was obvious that what he’d told Miles was true: he was taking things too far. Considering his ways could not mean adjusting to a life of abstinence and boredom. Two weeks of monasticism certainly proved the depth of his sincerity. Perhaps, now, a quick trip to London was in order. It could be a discreet trip. Just a few days, just enough to take the edge off.
There was plenty in London to make him forget what he’d seen through the crack in that panel.
Yet he didn’t call for his carriage. This was his home, for God’s sake—there must be some source of entertainment here that would be acceptable.
Yet the best source of entertainment—Miles—was also the most dangerous. The amount of effort it was taking to keep from touching her was stretching the limits of his endurance.
This morning, he would try again to do something constructive. He’d remembered overnight that Finchley was always talking about hours of satisfaction spent in his conservatory studying plants—and he knew Finchley well enough to know that was not an innuendo for anything.
Winston went to the library, searched until he found a suitable book. Plants and their Parts, Explain’d. It sounded about as enthralling as the tidal flats of Devon.
Hopefully the title wasn’t referring to privy parts.
Inside the conservatory, two paths made from paving stones extended in either direction, with plants growing along the glass and in the wide middle section. Trees and shrubs grew so tall and thick it was impossible to see to the ends of the conservatory.
What in God’s name did Finchley do in a place like this?
Miles would probably know. There were times when she seemed to know just about everything.
Well, not everything.
But he didn’t dare think about that.
Without the least idea where to begin, Winston made his way along one of the paths, looking for a plant that seemed suitable for a beginner—how the devil could a person tell?—pausing to consult his book, when up ahead he saw Miles.
He stopped. She hadn’t noticed him. She was seated on a bench, book at her side, with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.
He felt something in his chest at the sight of her. Was she that unhappy about being here?
Of course she was. She’d thought her employment would take her a stone’s throw from her ultimate destination, and instead he’d brought her even farther away.
There was a moment of indecision—did he try to leave before she noticed him, or did he say something?—but it seemed worse if she noticed him while he was walking away, so he walked a little closer.
“Mr. Ger—”
He didn’t get the entire word out before she bolted o
ff the bench, whirled toward him and whipped her smallsword from its sheath, ready in a heartbeat for battle—until recognition lit her eyes, and her posture eased.
Her reaction had his own hand shifting to the hilt of his sword, but now he let it fall. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He knew only one other woman with a sword arm like that, and she’d nearly cut off his vitals once.
She sheathed her sword with no more than a glance at the scabbard. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Obviously.”
“Is everything all right? Do you require attention?” Her eyes dropped to his shoulder, and she frowned.
“No...no. Nothing like that.” Perhaps she hadn’t fabricated the story about serving aboard a ship. It would certainly explain how she possessed such facility with a sword that he wondered who would have come out the victor had she tried to engage him.
“Was there something else you wanted?” she asked now.
Something very particular leaped to mind—something he had no business wanting from her—and he tried to shove it away.
“I thought I’d have a look around the conservatory. It seemed like a healthful pastime— Of course, I didn’t realize I would end up at sword point.” He raised a brow. “At least I don’t have to wonder if you can defend yourself should the need arise.”
“I am as capable of looking after myself as the next man, Your Grace,” she said with a bit of indignation. “Despite my stature.”
“Rather more capable than the next man, I might venture.” He smiled a little.
And damnation, there was that response—that flicker of desire in her eyes that was so clearly unintended. He needed no other clue to determine that her romantic expertise lay at the opposite end of the scale from her expertise with a sword.
Good. Excellent. Only let her inexperience be on display at every moment, and these licks of desire that attacked him while she looked after him would cool, because nothing could be more tedious and uninspiring than the thought of an inexperienced miss who assumed he wanted to have his way with her.
Give him a woman who would demand her way with him. That was the kind he liked.
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