A Promise by Daylight. Alison DeLaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
of a man with his face buried between a woman’s—
Ugh. Disgusting.
Tap-tap-tap. Did the wall sound hollow?
She moved a benign porcelain horse instead and tried a different section of paneling.
Tap-tap-tap.
Behind her, a man cleared his throat.
She whirled around, losing her balance, grabbing for the cabinet to keep from falling. The duke stood in the doorway to the bedchamber, watching her with amused interest.
“Please,” he said, holding up his hand. “Do not let me interrupt.”
MR. MILES GERMAIN was apparently debating whether to climb down from the chair.
Yes, Winston had definitely expected someone older. And someone male, which he had a strong suspicion Mr. Germain was not.
Apparently he hadn’t asked Philomena enough questions.
He studied his new medic now—average features, nothing to draw a man’s eye. No hint of breasts. Even lips, plain, straight nose, ordinary rounded chin. Slightly arched brows, thick lashes that weren’t too long, weren’t too short. All of which, set above a modest suit and topped off by an awful bagwig, did little to betray her sex.
But he’d been a breath away from too many graceful female necks not to have noticed the smooth, curving throat when his new medic had adjusted his sling.
And there was the matter of Mr. Germain’s ear.
It was a small ear. Delicate. Dainty, really, with a tiny, almost imperceptible hole in the lobe, which didn’t mean anything—Sir William Jaxbury and his gold hoops were proof of that—but that was no male ear.
“I once had a cabinet fall,” Mr. Germain said now, as if it were the complete truth. “Toppled to the ground. Very dangerous.” He—almost certainly she—even looked Winston in the eye when she said it.
Interesting.
Winston glanced at another chair that had been shoved against the dressing room door in an apparent attempt to keep someone out—that someone, he assumed, being himself. “You’ve also had trouble with doors flying open, I see.”
“Occasionally.”
It explained why he’d had to come in through the bedchamber. “Perhaps, to put your mind at ease, you’d like me to call a carpenter.”
“That won’t be necessary.” A small crease appeared above her upper lip—a lip that, on closer inspection, was a bit too full to appropriately frame the mouth of an average male medic.
“I want you to feel entirely safe here, Mr. Germain,” he said.
“I can’t think why I wouldn’t,” she said evenly, finally climbing down from the chair. It was too bad her coat prevented any view of her arse, or his suspicions would certainly be proved.
“If it’s my guests that concern you, a simple turn of the key will deter any unwanted visitors.”
“At the moment, Your Grace, my only concern is for your health. I can’t believe standing is good for your condition. I would advise a hasty return to your bed.”
“I’m hardly an invalid.”
“Obviously.”
He’d irritated her. How intriguing. Although now that he was standing here, he wished he weren’t. The gash on his thigh throbbed, and it hurt like the devil to put his weight on that leg, and his back felt as if someone had taken a knife to it.
“When do you expect we shall depart for Greece?” she asked now.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, and leaned against the doorjamb to take some weight off his left leg. “I’m in no particular hurry. I suppose it will depend partly on your assessment of my fitness for travel.”
“Mobile as you are, I expect you will be fit very soon,” she said almost immediately.
He raised a brow. “One might almost think you were anxious to be under way. Are you not enjoying Paris, then? If you like, I could make some suggestions for your entertainment while we’re still here.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure? There are any number of pleasurable hideaways that should not be missed. I suspect you enjoy a good debauch now and then, isn’t that right, Mr. Germain?”
That little line appeared again on the left side of her upper lip, and she gave him a look of grave reproof. “I am in the business of staying free from disease, Your Grace.”
He laughed. “I can think of several ways to do that. One has only to take precautions. Surely a man of your age is well versed in that subject.”
That line above her lip deepened.
“I shall have plenty to keep me occupied looking after Your Grace’s health. I understand that Your Grace is extremely fortunate not to have been more seriously injured.”
He thought of the accident, and a quick, sucking sensation grabbed his chest. “Indeed. Very fortunate.” Thoughts forced their way in—images of the man who’d not been so fortunate, who had died mere feet away from Winston, whose blood had pooled around Winston’s fingers as they both lay on the street.
Her brows dove. “Is something the matter?”
“Not at all.” Nothing except the fact that he did not wish to discuss anything about the accident. “Unless you consider that I’ve lost use of my arm, and my shoulder aches like the devil, and I have a number of nasty cuts. Of course, you’ll be able to determine all the facts upon examination.” An examination that, if her manner in his bedchamber were any indication, she would not hesitate to perform.
And wasn’t that going to be an interesting opportunity.
“Of course,” she agreed.
And he couldn’t help himself. He gestured with his good arm toward a chair by the window. “Perhaps you’d like to perform it now?”
A spark of objection came into her eyes. “I haven’t yet unpacked all of my instruments.”
“Good God. I should hope you won’t need any instruments to perform a simple examination.”
“Mmm, yes,” she said doubtfully. “One would hope. But I have no idea what I might find. I shall want my scissors and probe at the ready, and my incision knife, certainly—”
“Incision knife.”
She looked at him as though he were a child. “I must be prepared to immediately address whatever I might find. Which is why I shall need to wait for the basic supply of lints, plasters and bandages I asked Harris to send for, in case any kind of procedure is required—and even if it isn’t, as Your Grace’s wounds will almost certainly require fresh dressings, if for no other reason than to apply a medicine more appropriate than oil of turpentine.”
“How very...thorough.”
“Your Grace, if you were struck by mortar and stone, there’s no telling what manner of grit could have escaped the eye of the surgeon who first attended you. Given your mobility, and the fact that you don’t appear to be feverish at the moment, I’m inclined to think that all is as it should be. But only when I’ve had a chance to see exactly where the stones struck you and precisely what damage occurred shall I be able to fully—”
“I understand your point, Mr. Germain.” And he’d had more than enough of it. He pushed away from the door frame, and an arrow of pain shot from his shoulder to his left buttock.
“By all means, let us delay the examination.” He bowed. “Until later, then.”
*