by Sharon Page
A domed skylight let moonlight glimmer on the pure white marble floor. Pink marble columns soared, topped with leaves of gilt. The coved ceiling was painted like an Italian church, with ethereal angels, muscular mortal males, and a ring of clouds that opened to a perfect blue sky. It was painted to look as if it disappeared up to the heavens, and she almost lost her balance as she peered at it.
“Ostentatious, isn’t it? My father’s idea. It used to make me stagger and fall when I’d stumble in drunk.”
The duke. His voice held a throaty intimacy as if he were speaking to a good friend. Helena whirled around. Drawn to the fountain, she had not noticed doorways behind her. In one, Greybrooke leaned against the doorframe, his dark hair in tousled disarray. He’d dressed as though he were meeting a friend—in white shirtsleeves and a gray waistcoat. His cuffs were open too, his hands bare.
For some reason, the sight of his naked hands—the long fingers, the strong wrists, the ridges of veins along the back—was shockingly intimate. She remembered what he’d said: Her hands molded children’s futures; his would touch her . . . private place and make her climax.
A soft squeak left her lips. To cover that, she said, “It’s breathtaking.” A part of her wondered if those whispered words were about him, not his ceiling. “It does make one lose one’s balance. This whole room . . . it feels as if I am in Italy.”
“You’ve been?” His brows lifted in surprise.
She laughed. The idea of it: her, impoverished governess, touring the sun-soaked beauty of Italy. That was for young men with inconceivably huge fortunes. “Of course not. It is just how I imagined it would be.”
“Indeed? I’ve toured Italy. I believe a man is just as likely to encounter a lovely, virginal angel in London than in Rome.”
“Why would a man want an untouchable angel, Your Grace?”
“For the fun of making her fall, of course.”
She gave him a disapproving look—then remembered she had agreed to ultimately become his mistress and had offered to take the second step in that shocking path.
Her heart beat frantically, pounding out the question: Are you really going to do it?
Although the duke was joking, there was no smile on his lips. The shadows from last night still clung to his expression, in the lines on his forehead and a grim look in his eyes. Of course, tomorrow he had to meet a blackmailer and surrender two thousand pounds. If she didn’t find evidence tonight, she knew what she must do. Spy on their meeting in Hyde Park, learn what she could. Then she would have to come back, again and again, until she learned the duke’s secrets.
Oh heavens. It was one thing to spy on members on the ton to find out about scandals. It was quite another to conspire to destroy people’s lives.
“You wished to visit a gentleman’s home alone,” he said. “I thought it was my duty to make this experience as decadent as I could. We begin with brandy in the study.”
Brandy? She couldn’t drink brandy—she had seen the effects of it on strong men. Besides, the taste of it made her want to paw the surface off her tongue. But she needed to get into his study. It was one place where a gentleman kept his private letters.
The duke put his hand to the small of her back. She stiffened. Not out of fear of ravishment, out of guilt born from lying.
“Relax, Miss Winsome. I promise to be as well behaved as your best pupil tonight.” He studied her. “I thought you wanted this. A kiss in a forbidden place—a gentleman’s home.”
“I do,” she lied desperately. “It is not easy to undo a lifetime of learning to be proper.”
“If you’d let me, I’d show you how quickly it could be undone.”
It was a typical arrogant rake’s statement, but it didn’t put her back up. She was beginning to believe him.
He offered his elbow, as if he were taking her into supper at a party. He thought he was fulfilling the fantasy of a governess. He had no idea.
Helena expected at least a perfunctory tour as he led her to his study. But Greybrooke said nothing about his house. Nothing about the enormous music room she glimpsed, or the massive portraits and exquisite landscapes that adorned every wall. In fact, he kept his gaze focused ahead as if he didn’t want to look around him.
Acting the part of dazzled governess, she cooed and gasped over many of the things she saw: life-size portraits; an enormous, gleaming pianoforte; a Chinese vase large enough for a child to swim in; a suit of armor by the stairs. But the harder she played her part, the heavier her heart got.
He only wants to use you for carnal pleasures. She reminded herself of that. It should make it easier to betray his trust, shouldn’t it?
Finally he pushed open a door of dark oak, and she stepped into the most important room she needed to see. Greybrooke left her to pour brandy, and she drank in everything.
Books lined two walls. A huge fireplace stood in the center of the third, surrounded by sketches of horses and hounds. The outer wall was a line of windows, overlooking the lawns of the rear yard, and the tall, stone back wall. A desk occupied the corner, placed on the diagonal. She walked toward it as if fascinated by the view from the windows behind the desk. A key rested in the lock of the center drawer. Her heart pounded. So close, but she couldn’t open drawers with the duke watching her.
He held out her brandy, poured in a huge balloon glass, the plump curve engulfed by his large hand. “You seem more fascinated by my room than you are by me.”
“It tells me so much about you,” she said quickly.
He raised his glass. “A toast to my adventurous governess.” He took a long swallow.
She took just a sip . . . and swallowed fire. She coughed. Sputtered. How did he drink this stuff so quickly? She knew of course: He’d done it so often he was immune to the effects.
They drank in silence—he with his healthy swallows, she with dipping her tongue into the fluid like a timid rabbit.
“Come here, Miss Winsome.” The burn of the liquor had turned his voice husky.
She swallowed hard. She knew how to deal with children, with their titled parents, with her brother. She didn’t know how to deal with dukes to whom she’d promised a kiss—to whom she’d intimated she would be a mistress.
Once she let him kiss her, there was no turning back.
Inspiration struck. “Not here. I want something more daring.”
“Really, angel? You won’t even drink brandy.”
“I am drinking brandy.”
“Like a kitten lapping milk, love. Though the sight of your little pink tongue is arousing.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m being honest. Isn’t that one of the lessons governesses teach? To own up to one’s sins?”
The brandy made her cheeks feel hot. “Yes. You must have had a spectacular governess. You seem to enjoy owning up to sins.”
“I do. Sometimes I even make some up so I can admit to them. Things I’ve never even had the pleasure of actually doing.”
“You are most definitely making fun of me, Your Grace.” She couldn’t quite understand him. Sometimes he seemed so arrogant and commanding. Other times there was a naughty, devilish little boy inside him. One who couldn’t help but make her smile.
“No,” he said softly. “And call me Greybrooke.”
“All right, Greybrooke. I wish to see your bedchamber. That is where I want to kiss you.”
Utter silence. Broken only by the lick of flames in the fireplace and the slosh of fluid as Greybrooke drank a long draught of his brandy.
She’d thrown the words out as if he’d goaded her into being daring. In truth, she’d taken this bold step because she actually did need to see his bedroom. Besides, if he were in his bedchamber, no one would be in his study. So if she could find a reason to sneak back down here alone, she could get at his desk.
Why did he stare at her without saying a word, with his brandy glass almost tilting over in his hand?
“Your Grace?”
&nb
sp; “All right,” he said slowly.
“I’ve never seen a strange gentleman’s bed,” she said with breathlessness that wasn’t all faked.
“Well, I am certainly a strange gentleman. Let’s not keep you waiting, my curious angel. Since you express an interest in seeing my bed, do you want to actually see me in it?”
Was he just calling her bluff? He watched her intently.
She said, as coolly as she could, “Perhaps.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed. I never do anything as pedestrian as have sex in my bed.”
What in heaven’s name did he mean by that?
Of course she was too shocked and cowardly to ask.
Helena steeled her shoulders as Greybrooke held open the door to the bedroom for her; she’d been in Will’s bedroom before, but never in the most intimate room of a man who was a stranger.
There was no hint on the duke’s face that he intended to throw her on his bed and ravish her. But surely she might as well have screamed, “Ruin me! Ruin me!” at him the instant she asked to see his room.
Except he’d said, quite casually, he never did his ravishing in his bed.
His bedroom was gold—literally everything in it was gold, gilt, or opulently shimmering. It was like a sultan’s room. An enormous bed stood in the middle, surrounded by curtains of gossamer-sheer gold lace. Every piece of furniture was richly stained in a dark red, and decorated in so much gilt, they shone. Gold decorated the fireplace, gleamed in the drapes, reflected firelight from the dressing table mirror.
“This is like a sultan’s room.”
“Again, my father’s taste.” He grimaced the way she had when brandy touched her tongue. “I never bothered to change it.”
“If you don’t like it, why didn’t you?”
“I spend very little time in here. Besides, my mother hated it.”
He added nothing more, but she understood his meaning—he’d kept the room like this to anger his mother. She frowned. That seemed a petty thing to do, and Greybrooke had appeared to be anything but petty. His mother had passed away almost seven years ago, soon after his father had died. So if he still kept the room this way, he must hold grudges for a long time.
Harboring grudges was a foolish waste of time. Fixing problems, not brooding over them, was what a person should do.
He sighed. Still holding his brandy, he flopped down on the bed. The liquid sloshed precariously in the glass, but didn’t spill. Then he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Sit here. Beside me.”
The moment of truth. Yet she couldn’t think of any plan except stalling and evasion. “I don’t know. I think it would be too easy, too tempting, to lean back onto the bed.”
“But nothing will happen to you, Miss Winsome.”
It wasn’t when he teased her that he caught her off-guard, dumbfounded and startled her. It was when he threw out something that seemed to have far more meaning behind it than just the words he spoke.
Why would he not have his intimate relations in this enormous, lavish bed? “Where do you do it, then? If not in this?”
His brows lifted. “I acquire houses for my mistresses.”
“You don’t have more than one at once, do you?”
“Sometimes, I have done. I don’t believe that complication would occur with you, Miss Winsome.”
“I should hope not. I thought, since I would be surrendering so much, that it would be exclusive. If you expect it of me, I expect it of you, Greybrooke.”
He laughed. “I love to see you sputter with indignation. I promise, then; when I’m clandestinely fucking you, I will not even look at another female. I believe you will capture all my attention.” His language shocked her.
Slowly his smile faded and his mouth softened and he looked at her . . . differently. With an expression she couldn’t describe. Not lust. Longing? Something that spoke of desire and hunger but in a way that drew her to him instead of pushing her away.
What would it be like to sit on his bed, so close to him? Daringly she took a step toward him. He caught her hand and helped her lower to the soft mattress.
Her bottom sank into pure comfort. She put her hands on the mattress and bounced on it.
A grin broke on his face. “Feel free to bounce, love. Play around. Enjoy yourself.”
She stopped and straightened her back, sitting properly.
“Miss Winsome, I think you have a devilish streak also. You fight hard to restrain it, don’t you? Now I know how you work wonders with Jacinta’s children. You know what the boys are going to get up to, because that’s how your mind works.”
“It certainly is n . . .”
Her voice faded as the duke suddenly put his brandy on a side table, then lay back on the bed, stretching his arms over his head. Did he think she would lie—?
A white pillow sudden launched through the air and smacked into her side. He’d thrown a pillow at her. He sat up quickly, armed with another pillow in a white silk case, grinning at her.
But she had the first one, the one that had bounced off her shoulder, and she clutched it with both hands and swung. It slammed into Greybrooke’s face, and he let out a howl of surprise and fell backward. She threw so much of herself into the attack, she lost her balance. Next thing she knew, she had fallen on the bed too. Only she couldn’t move, not on the soft mattress, held prisoner by her wretched dress.
Wild laughter bubbled up. Who knew triumph made you feel so exhilarated? So giddy! And such a silly triumph—smacking an unsuspecting duke with a pillow.
“I knew it,” Greybrooke growled. “You are naughtier than I, Miss Winsome.”
Then he was over her, braced on his arms, limned by the candlelight. Eyes a dazzling green, wickedly mesmerizing. She couldn’t look away. She was floating into them. Falling up into them.
He caught hold of her hands and held them against the bed. Capturing her.
“Never, Your Grace.” Her voice was a throaty purr, and she almost quaked at the pure eroticism it held.
No one had ever looked at her like this. As if she were the only thing in his entire world.
“Now I suppose you want your kiss,” he said, and his beautiful mouth looked softer and silkier and plumper than the pillows on his bed.
Ever since the moment in Berkeley Square when he’d rescued her and leaned close to her, she’d tried not to think of how tempting his mouth looked. Now she wanted to feel what it would be like to have her lips press against his.
One dreamy kiss. A moment of something special, monumental, sweet. She got ready: eyes closed, lips puckered. Her heart thundered.
Time ticked by—she could hear his mantel clock measuring each passing second as if weighing the tension in the room. Why was nothing happening?
The bed creaked. He released her hands and she felt him move. Slowly Helena opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on the sides.
Confusion bit her. Shock stunned her. Humiliation began a slow burn that ignited in her cheeks, then washed all over her.
He, the most famed rake in London, hadn’t kissed her. He’d run away from her.
He looked at her with haunted eyes. “My apologies, Miss Winsome. Kissing is something I normally do not do.”
6
His next words stole her breath completely.
“The hell with this,” Greybrooke muttered. “I can kiss you, Miss Winsome.” Then softly, as if to himself, he bit off angrily. “Damn it, I can do this.”
Before she could move, he shifted to her side, leaned over her. This time, he took her hands captive again, but threaded his fingers through hers. His long, graceful fingers dwarfed hers. Green eyes gazed at her, determined but also vulnerable, shrouded by a fringe of black lashes.
That vulnerability froze her to the spot. Helena didn’t understand. He was a rake and rogue. How could the prospect of a kiss have made him react this way?
Then his arms dipped, his mouth neared hers, and she knew this time it was going to happen.
; Her eyes shut. But he commanded, “Open your eyes,” before his lips brushed hers, sending a shower of sparks to dance through her like fireflies.
Her lids lifted and she caught dizzying glimpses of his face. His lashes were half-closed, giving his eyes a languorous beauty. His dazzling pale green irises glowed, brilliant as lanterns. His stubble lightly scraped her skin and made her tingle. His high cheekbones had wells of shadow beneath. And his mouth—his hot, gentle mouth took her lips and coaxed them to open in a carnal and intimate way.
She was speared by shock. She thought kisses were done with the lips closed. They were tidy and polite and spoke of love.
She’d no idea they were so raw and primitive. His lips played with hers, pressing against them, stroking them, caressing them, tugging them.
His back blotted out the light. She could see, even in his coat, the exaggerated vee shape of his back. How powerful and large his muscles must be.
It should scare her, shouldn’t it? He was so strong, and she was really his enemy.
But deep inside her, in somewhere primitive and wanton, she wanted his strength. In that deep, hungry place, she ached for him.
He shifted, deepening the kiss. Warm, big, he moved over her, his weight pressing lightly into her. How could it go deeper? But it did. She sank deeper into the cloudlike cocoon of his bed; she was falling up into his glorious, wicked kiss.
Heat bubbled up inside her.
For a governess, this was wrong. For a spy, this was danger. She didn’t care. For years she’d been the teacher, now she was learning. Learning how a man kissed. Learning how a woman kissed back. Learning so much, so quickly, it made her head spin.
Kisses weren’t sweet. They weren’t monumental . . . because that would mean one was enough.
Kiss me forever. She cried it desperately in her head.
Then his tongue caressed her lower lip, swept over it and slid inside her mouth.
Goodness!
Her senses filled with his taste: the bite of brandy; the slightly bitter, raw taste of smoke on his breath; the warm, erotic flavor of him. His tongue played with hers, and each stroke of it in his mouth sent a pulse of pleasure through her body.