by Sharon Page
A half hour later, Grey was reclining in a leather club chair, a decanter of port on a side table, a tumbler of the liquor in his hand.
A vision continued to haunt him: Miss Winsome with her hands bound in front of her, her head thrown back in pleasure while he slowly brought her to ecstasy by tapping her nipples with a crop.
Damnation. With submissive Ruby, his cock had remained asleep. Now he was rock hard. Over a sexual delight he could never have.
“Since when do you spend the evening at White’s, Grey? No luscious female to dominate tonight, or did you decide you no longer wanted to have chamber pots hefted at you?”
Grey recognized the voice speaking behind him—one hoarse and raspy from the time the man had spent as a prisoner of war in Ceylon. “I’m thinking about acquiring a new mistress,” he casually said to the Duke of Caradon, known to friends as Cary since he’d held the title from the age of five.
“Ah.” Tall, blond Cary settled into a wing chair near him, a glass of brandy in his hand. “Who is the new lady?” he asked. “Or should I ask whose wife she is?”
“She’s unmarried and innocent.”
A brow rose on Cary’s world-weary face. “Not usually your taste.”
“This one is unique. And she is a governess.”
Cary jerked so abruptly in midsip, brandy flew out of his glass and splashed his face. “An actual governess who gives lessons and straps bottoms?”
“Yes, that sort of governess.”
Concern etched into Cary’s face. “Uh, Grey—”
“I know. A respectable virgin is off limits for a man with my tastes. But there’s something about her. Even her name is a temptation—Miss Winsome. What interested me most was that I rescued her before she and my nephew were run down by a carriage, and after I did, she told me off.”
“Sounds like hell. Why then the fascination?”
“The truth? I don’t know,” Grey admitted. “I suspect it’s because a woman with spirit is more intriguing to command.” He finished his drink, set it down. “Anyway, I can’t have her. Ruining an innocent is not something I intend to do. Miss Winsome is far too sweet and naïve to be introduced to my sexual tastes.”
Spotted near Berkeley Square yesterday, very near the home of the Countess of M———, the Duke of G———came within inches of adopting a new style of headgear. Fortunately, your devoted correspondent believes this new fashion has little chance of becoming all the rage. And rage was the operative word when a certain incensed lady flung a chamber pot through an open window, aiming at the handsome head of a certain rakish gentleman—
With a groan of frustration, Helena dropped her pen in the inkwell. Did she dare recount the duke’s near brush with the chamber pot in Lady X’s column? Would he then realize Lady X had to be someone who witnessed the event? Or would it be more suspicious if she didn’t report this scandalous bit of news?
Greybrooke was one of several eligible dukes this Season. Never—in the history of England, it was claimed—had there been so many handsome, wealthy unmarried dukes at one time. The print shops carried many cartoons of slavering young ladies desperate to snag a duke, any duke. In her column, Helena had first dubbed them the “Dazzling Dukes.” But just before the edition had gone to press, she’d realized her mistake. “Dazzling” was a word used by a naïve young woman with hopes of love. A sophisticated woman such as Lady X would bestow them a name that would sell newssheets.
Thus she called them the Wicked Dukes.
Lady X would certainly know about a scandal involving a Wicked Duke. She must give the story to Will to be printed—
Downstairs, she heard an echoing bong. One o’clock in the morning. Helena snuffed her candle and threw on her threadbare cloak. It was time to sneak out into the night and meet the man who was forcing her to spy on the Duke of Greybrooke.
Out the rear kitchen door, across the garden to the gate, then a headlong run down the mews with her cloak streaming back. On the street, a carriage waited, and she hurried up its steps, firmly shutting the door behind her.
The carriage lurched off, leaving the shadows of the mews for the glow of the street flares on Mount Street. Two men sat inside, illuminated by the lamps. One was tall, thin, cadaverous Mr. Whitehall, the man from the Crown who had a skull-like face, had deeply shadowed wells for eyes, and was bald beneath his beaver hat. The other was her half brother, Will.
Whitehall leaned forward as she took a seat. “Do you have it? Have you got proof that Greybrooke is a traitor?”
Helena glanced to Will, who sat at her side. She really considered Will a brother, since Mama had been widowed, then remarried when Helena had been two. She and Will were very much alike in looks, since they looked like their mother, but not at all in temperament. She was cautious and careful; Will threw caution to the wind and believed all would work out. But their lives had been filled with things that hadn’t “worked out.”
Hope was written all over her brother’s handsome face, as well it might, since it was his secret gambling that had gotten them into this mess.
She faced Whitehall, who glared down his beak of a nose with penetrating black eyes. “No, I do not yet have any proof.”
After she had agreed to this “mission,” as Whitehall called it, he had arranged meetings every third night, held in this carriage so they could have privacy. She had to sneak out of her employers’ home, but she was certain no one noticed her slip out the kitchen door, then go across the yard to the rear mews.
“I expected results by now, Miss Winsome.” Whitehall turned to her brother. “I could have employed a courtesan to get into his house. Some trollop with a big bosom would have done better than your sister, after you assured me she would succeed.”
Will looked a bit shocked, but he assured quickly, “My sister will find the proof. There is no one better than Helena at ferreting out secrets.”
“I will find it.” Helena spoke coolly. She held her ground with dukes and earls—she had her rules for the raising of children, and she would not break her rules even at her employers’ command. She refused to be intimidated by Whitehall, even if the man did hold the futures of Will, their newspaper, and their younger sisters in the palm of his hand. If Will’s gaming debts were not paid, their family would be destitute, the newspaper gone, everyone cast into a gruesome, prison-like workhouse. Whitehall had promised to pay those debts, if she found the proof he needed. “But I want to know why you believe he is a traitor, Mr. Whitehall.”
Whitehall stiffened. “It is enough that I know he is.”
“From a very brief encounter with the Duke of Greybrooke, I learned he is a charming scoundrel and a man with very lax morals. At that moment, I did think him capable of betraying his country. But since then, I have changed my mind.”
“I am not interested in your personal thoughts, Miss Winsome. I thought that was clear when you accepted this assignment. You have a job to do, for which you will be generously paid.”
She pursed her lips. “I do not do any task blindly, Mr. Whitehall.”
“Helena, don’t,” muttered Will. His handsome face was pale with worry.
But she had to. There was something very wrong. The duke had been bold and naughty. But now that she’d had a chance to calm down, she realized Greybrooke had been deliberately teasing her.
“Greybrooke saved his nephew’s life, snatching him up before he was hit by a carriage,” she said. “The duke obviously adores his niece and nephews. Would such a man be willing to destroy their country?”
Will put his hand on her arm. “Helena, we must do as Mr. Whitehall asks.”
“But what if we cannot find proof because he is innocent?” she asked. “Will you still save my brother from his gaming debts?”
Pure panic flashed in Will’s eyes. Icy cold radiated from Whitehall’s small eyes. “There is no doubt you will find evidence, Miss Winsome, because Greybrooke is guilty.”
“But why are you certain?” she pressed. “The duke does not se
em to have been impoverished or indebted, so he did not need money. He appears to have no interest in politics.”
“Secrets,” Whitehall said. “There are secrets over which a man can be blackmailed to do anything.”
“Goodness, I’ve heard nothing about any scandals like that in Greybrooke’s life. I know there are rumors about his father’s death. But that would not make a duke betray his country.”
“The Duke of Greybrooke has secrets, Miss Winsome. It is your job to find them. And if you do not succeed quickly, your family will lose everything.”
Whitehall rapped on the ceiling—a signal the carriage was to return to the mews.
“What you need to do, Miss Winsome, is get into the duke’s house. Search for letters. Diaries.” Whitehall’s eyes glittered coldly. “Remember: One of the most expedient ways to get into Greybrooke’s house is through his bed.”
“The world must be coming to an end. My brother is out of his bed in the morning.”
Ignoring his sister’s playful sarcasm, Grey went to Jacinta, rested his hands on the back of her chair, and lightly kissed the top of her head. She twisted in her seat, her hand on her rounded belly. A stack of folded letters sat in front of her on the blotter of her writing desk. Rain beat against the windows, but a fire crackled in the grate, giving his sister’s morning room cheery warmth. Two lamps were lit on the desk, casting a halo of gold around her honey-blond hair.
Deep warmth always flooded his heart when he was with his sister and her family. Carrying her fifth child and growing close to her confinement, Jacinta glowed. She also wore a suspiciously devilish smile.
Batting her long lashes, she struggled to look innocent. “Did any ladies try to brain you with a chamber pot on your way here, my dearest brother?”
“Fortunately not,” he said. “As for being your dearest brother, I am your only brother. You only call me ‘dearest’ when you’re up to something.”
She tipped her head to the side, widening her green eyes. “Grey, I am not doing anything wrong. I am simply writing invitations.”
Damnation. “What sort of invitations?”
“I am planning a ball—my last before my confinement. I must decide which of the year’s eligible ladies I should invite.”
“Your husband should forbid you from such taxing entertainments. I have a good mind to have a word with Winterhaven myself. He should be taking better care of you—”
“My husband does take excellent care of me. He knows how much this means to me, and because of that, he’s allowing me to do it without complaint. This ball is for you, my wayward brother. Since you are here, you can help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Choose eligible young ladies. You will be dancing with them, so you might want to have a say in which I invite.”
He cocked a brow. “Isn’t that like an executioner asking the prisoner to pick the means of his demise?”
“Hardly a demise! It is time you married, Grey. You are a beloved uncle, but you must want children of your own. Heavens, you are almost thirty.”
“I’m not thirty until December, my dear sister.”
“Thirty is the age where most gentlemen recognize it is time to fill their nurseries.”
A tea tray sat on a low table near Jacinta. He poured her a fresh cup and handed it to her. “Seven months. I still have seven months,” he pointed out.
“Well, you must begin your search—oh, I just felt a kick. Grey, give me your hand. I am sure this one must be a boy too, for he has the strongest kick I’ve ever felt.”
She reached for his hand, and he let her guide his hand to her tummy. A bump pushed up from her stomach and hit his hand. It moved across her belly like a sea serpent gliding across the water, then disappeared.
He stared. “My god, was that—?”
“The baby’s foot, I believe.” Jacinta smiled up at him.
It stunned him. What would it be like to be expecting his own son and to play with the baby’s little foot? To discover his unborn boy had an admirable kick?
God, he couldn’t let his thoughts go there. “Where are the children, by the way? With their governess?” He asked it as casually as he could.
Jacinta nodded, obviously not fully listening, for she was running the tip of her pen along her list of names and frowning at them, with her other hand on the bulge of her tummy.
He should stop this latest bout of matchmaking. He had a very good reason for not marrying: He had no interest in trying to pretend to be a normal, noble English gentleman for an innocent young wife.
“Hmmm, what?” she murmured.
“The children and the governess. I asked if they were upstairs.”
Jacinta tore her attention from her list. “Yes. It is raining today, so Miss Winsome is giving them lessons up in the nursery.”
“I wish I’d had such a delightful governess when I was young.”
Deep, silky, male—the voice startled her, and Helena spun around to find the Duke of Greybrooke leaning against the doorway of the nursery. His broad shoulders, clad in dark blue superfine, spread across the width of the opening. Then he stepped inside, and he seemed to fill the whole room. Framed by the children’s things—small chairs, desks, dolls—he looked all the more large, strong, and male. “Good morning, Miss Winsome.”
“Did you wish to see the children?” she asked, busying herself with picking up fallen wooden blocks so he wouldn’t see the blush that leapt to her cheeks. She pointed to the doorway at the opposite end of the playroom—the room assigned for lessons, with three small desks and chairs. “They are working on their lessons right now, but I suppose an exception could be made—”
“Exceptions are always made for dukes, my dear. But I wished to speak with you.”
“Shh.” She straightened and put her finger to her lips. Tried to look calm, though her heart pumped wildly. Riding crops. Tying her up!
But Whitehall’s warning rang in her ears. If she did not succeed quickly, her family would lose everything.
She crooked her finger for him to follow her into the children’s bedroom. “We must not disturb the children,” she admonished softly as she pushed open the door.
He put his hand over hers on the knob. His fingers were long. Even through his leather glove and her thin cotton one, the warmth of his skin seared her.
Watching the children to ensure they stayed at their work, Helena led the duke into the nursery room, and stopped in between the two rows of neat little beds.
Even this—just being alone with him in this room—could see her cast out of her job without a character. A few moments alone could ruin her forever. But she had to take the risk.
The moment she closed the door behind her, he clasped her hand and turned her, and before she had a chance to be prepared, he raised her bent fingers to his lips. “Beautiful hands.”
She tried to pull her hand free but she couldn’t. He gently brushed his mouth over her fingers. A jolt, like a strike of lightning, leapt through her body from her hand. “How can you know? I’m wearing gloves.”
He kissed each finger, making her shoulders quiver with the sheer thrilling sensation rushing through her. “I love slender hands that are small and nimble. These hands dry tears, wipe noses, show children how to form their letters and numbers. These hands forge futures, and that is more than mine have ever done. The only useful thing my fingers have done is tweak nipples and stroke cunnies until ladies scream.”
“Your Grace.” Her tone was one of severe reprimand. But his words about her hands had been so sweet, she was stunned.
“All right, my dear. I won’t say anything naughty. Disappointed ?”
His index finger rested on her chin. He lifted it slightly, and she tipped her face up. Then she realized she’d obeyed him, and she jerked back. But now she couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. They were the most beautiful green—this close she could see that his irises were emerald but rimmed in gold, like priceless jewels in a precious setting.
His lower lip was lush and full, softening now into a seductive pout.
“Why did you come here?” she said desperately.
“I came to apologize. But I have to admit, there is something about you that goads me into behaving like a devil. I know I should keep away from you. My tastes are too dark for a sweet, innocent woman like you.”
He spoke as if she were the one in the wrong—for simply being decent. “I take it you mean the riding crops and spanking? I cannot imagine what such things have to do with love affairs. Your tastes are too—too inappropriate for any lady, I think. Really, Your Grace, should you not try to behave your—?”
She stopped. Her tongue had raced away on her. To save her family, she was supposed to flirt with him. To get into his house, she must encourage him.
“You’ve done it again. Insulted me and yet intrigued me.” A slow smile came to his lips, and as it lazily unfurled for her, she felt her knees wobble. “Now you see my problem. You should be untouchable for a man such as me—too proper, too respectable, too decent. Yet I have to have you. At any price.”
Fear gripped her. She was supposed to agree! She always remained in control; she was always in charge. But that was far easier with children and not a fully grown, immensely powerful duke.
“W-what if I am not for sale?”
“Aren’t you? I would be willing to give you the world, my dear. A house of your own. One for you to keep after our affair ends.”
“You told me that before.” She stepped back. “ ‘A house, gowns, carriage, jewels,’ you said. Why would you spend so much just to have me?”
The duke followed, moving close to her again. Her quick breaths flooded her senses with his masculine smells—that heady scent of bergamot, a subtle spiciness, the earthy aroma of leather.
“I wish I knew,” he said softly, a wry look in his eyes.
She planted her hands on her hips. “I think I know. You are piqued because I’ve refused you. You are like a child who desperately wants what he cannot have. But if I gave in, if I said yes, you would quickly become bored and cast me aside. But I could not just forget you. If I were . . . with you, I would care about you. You would give me a house, but it would be a place for me to hide within. My heart would be broken, my reputation ruined. I would lose everything.”