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But...it was still dark. The curtains were drawn, and she wasn’t waiting for him with a smile. She wasn’t waiting for him at all.

“Georgia?” A faint moan from the bed had him jolting into motion, fear spiking his heartbeat. “Georgia!”

She was still abed, a small mound beneath too many blankets. He could see only the top of her head, her hair lanky from sweat. “Georgia?” Demon whispered again as he placed his hand against her back.

Even through the covers, he could feel her shivering.

“Go away, Demon,” she moaned, huddling unhappily.

Fook that. He tried to gently tug her around to face him, but she shrugged him off and wrapped her arms around herself. “Are ye hurt?”

“It’s just—oooh.” The moan cut her off, and she panted for a few moments. “Sometimes I hate being a woman.”

His panic was making it difficult to breath. “Are ye hurt?” he repeated. “Fooking Christ, Georgia, did I hurt ye? Last night, was it too—”

She groaned again. “’S not you, Demon,” she said weakly, tugging the blankets up higher. “It happens every month. Some are worse than others.”

Realization smacked him between the eyes.

This was a woman’s issue. He yanked his hand away as if he might cause her more pain, then slowly straightened. “Ye…ye are no’ ill or hurt?”

“I am ill and I very much hurt, but there is nothing to be—uuuuggghhh.” The sound she made was very different from her noises of pleasure last night. She pulled a pillow over her head. “It is always thus on the first day of my—oh, just go away, my lord.”

Christ, he hated seeing her in pain.

More than that, he hated feeling helpless. He always had. While Rourke had been the voice of reason on missions, and Thorne had been easy-going, Demon had always been the one to act. No matter what the situation; he wanted to do something to fix it.

And despite the fact their service had been a lie, despite the fact Rourke had tried to kill him, Demon still felt that way.

“What can I do?” he barked.

“Just…” Georgia’s voice sounded weaker, more pitiful. Muffled. “Just leave me to die.”

Frowning, Demon turned away.

He had no experience with this, but he didn’t want to see her suffer. He had no idea how to make her feel better.

But he knew someone who might.

Pulling her door softly shut behind him, he stalked toward the kitchens.

Sure enough, Mrs. Kettel and Mary were both there, preparing for the day.

“Milord!” blurted his housekeeper in surprise when she saw him. She gestured with her mug. “Would ye like some tea?”

Since he preferred to break his fast with something simple, like yesterday’s bread and butter or an apple, Demon rarely saw his staff in the morning. While Mrs. Kettel’s tea was excellent and her pastries even better, he waved away the offer.

“I have…a question for ye. For ye both.”

Mary lowered the teapot, her expression hesitant. “Aye, m-m-milord?”

“I need advice.” Fooknozzle, this was harder than he thought. He clasped his hands behind his back and locked his gaze on the rafters. “About women.”

“Och, well, milord, gifts are never amiss. A nice piece of jewelry, perhaps? Although Lady Georgia seems the type to already have jewels, her father being an Earl and all that.” Mrs. Kettel gestured with her mug before he could interrupt. “A fur collar, or a lovely new pot—ooh, one with a matching lid! Live hamsters are popular in Russia, I’ve heard, or a pheasant.”

“Nay, I—” Demon dropped his gaze to his housekeeper. “I beg ye—a pheasant?”

“So she can pluck it for its lovely feathers,” Mrs. Kettel explained helpfully. “Although a pheasant pluck sounds a bit rude, if ye ken what I’m saying. Sounds a bit like a pleasant foo—och, never mind.”