by Sharon Page
It was like they were joined intimately. That was all she could think of as he commanded her mouth.
With him gripping her hands, she couldn’t put her arms around him like she suddenly wanted to. Fighting her skirt, she managed to hook her leg around his calves, her heel skidding across polished leather.
He’d been right all along. She wanted pleasure. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She, the cautious governess who only wanted to help people, wanted to fling herself into this and take every risk she could. She lifted to him, aching in her breasts, aching between her thighs, on fire everywhere.
Then, as if a devil had taken control of her, she whispered into his mouth. Words he couldn’t hear. But words that terrified her, even as she knew—knew with all her soul—she meant them. I want you, she whispered into his hot, beautiful mouth. I need you. Please. Ruin me.
Greybrooke eased back from her mouth, breaking the kiss.
Oh no. No! Please, please, please don’t stop.
He rose off her, splaying his hands on the bed for balance as he got to his knees, then shifted so he sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes were the ones closed now, his long lashes brushing his sculpted cheeks.
Helena gaped at him, suddenly feeling . . . lost. What had she said? God, she remembered.
Ruin me.
At least she had said it into his mouth, not anywhere he could hear her, but the reality of what she’d been willing to do left her shaking.
But why had he been so reluctant to kiss her? His kiss had been magnificent.
His eyes opened. “Did the kiss please you?” His breathing was oddly harsh.
“Yes. I don’t understand why you said you weren’t ready to kiss. You—you kiss like a god.” This is what she would do with a shy or uncertain child. Give reassurance.
But how could she be equating the rakish Duke of Greybrooke with a vulnerable boy?
His deep laugh rumbled over her. But he said, softly, “This is not going to work for me. The sex I desire is quite different from what you’ve been lead to expect from a marriage bed. I want more than that. I want a deeper connection with you. What I want with you, Miss Winsome, will entwine our souls.”
That stunned her. “But—”
“But what, Miss Winsome?”
She had to understand. “But when you left Lady Montroy’s house, you seemed as if you did not care about her at all. I would not have said your souls were entwined.”
“My affair with her was pure recreation. With you, it will have to be something deeper.” He stroked his fingertip over her lower lip. “There is danger in that.”
The touch made her mouth tingle, aching for another kiss.
She realized she had not really touched him yet. She—well, she wasn’t supposed to, and she’d been afraid of encouraging him. But now she saw that every time she could have touched him, when they’d been sharing a moment of some sort of intimacy, he’d captured her hands so she could not.
Why?
“What danger?” Was he speaking of love? She was not the sort of governess who pretended knowledge she did not have—she was an honest one. “Do you mean love?”
A rueful smile touched his lips. “I’m not capable of it, Miss Winsome.”
“How could you not be capable of love? You might not want to fall in love, but you are obviously capable of it. Look how wonderful an uncle you are.”
“With children, I am very careful not to let my darkness touch them in any way.”
“I thought you were a careless and carefree rake.”
“You are the most intriguingly blunt woman I’ve ever met.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot see you tomorrow night.”
She knew why—it was the night he was to meet the blackmailer.
“Meet me at the bottom of the mews at midnight on the night after that,” he said. “Before you consent to my arrangement, you must understand exactly what I will require of you.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“I’d frighten you, I fear. Seeing it will help you understand.”
It would frighten her? “But you gave me the shackles,” she said helplessly. “Surely, if you can do that, you can describe what you want me to do . . .” She took a deep breath. “How could it be worse?”
“From my point of view—” He grinned. “It’s better. But still I want you to be an observer with no preconceptions.” He stood up.
Suddenly, panic flared. He was going to send her home. This was her chance to search his home, and it was slipping through her fingers.
She had to stall for time. “I have to go to the retiring room,” she said quickly. “I have to use the necessary.”
Greybrooke had looked amused as he directed her here, to the retiring room attached to his dressing room.
Helena crossed the enormous room set aside for his wardrobes. Six of them lined the walls, each decorated with gleaming gilt and inlaid ivory. A beautiful Aubusson carpet of pale blue and gold covered the floor, and two comfortable wing chairs were placed in the center of the room, which was perhaps as large as all the bedrooms in her family’s house put together. One lit wall sconce gave her enough light by which she could see.
Did she dare sneak down to his study? How could she get away with that? It would take far too long. Besides, the key had sat in the lock of the center drawer. If the key was still there, there couldn’t be anything important in the desk. Certainly nothing Greybrooke wanted to keep hidden.
Where would he keep incriminating papers, if he had any? Could they be in his bedroom, if not in his study? But she couldn’t search it with the duke in it.
Unless . . .
Not unless she . . . let him do things and then he fell asleep afterward. And then, once ruined, she had the presence of mind to get out of his bed and sneak around opening his drawers and his wardrobe.
She couldn’t.
Anyway, he didn’t do such things in his bed. He’d told her that.
The courtesan, Ellie, had claimed gentlemen didn’t kiss. Apparently the girl was right. Helena couldn’t imagine why not—her lips still tingled, her heart still pounded, and if she weren’t so worried about having to search the duke’s things, she would be reliving that delicious kiss over and over.
What was it he really wanted to do with her? And if a man who gave shackles as a gift couldn’t describe them, what was it he was going to take her to see?
Helena opened the door, expecting it to be a retiring room. Some light filtered in from the sconce behind her, illuminating a beautiful writing desk. In this enormous house, the duke had a room in which to write, as well as his study. One room for the business of his estates and this one for his personal correspondence, she imagined.
She crafted her column as Lady X on a tiny table in her attic room by the light of one candle. She had to admit she was envious. Draperies covered the opposite wall, which meant a row of windows let in abundant light in the day.
Now, at night, with only a sconce burning down the hall, it was dark and shadowy in the room. She took tentative steps toward the desk, blocking her own light, reaching out in front of her. Maryanne had to cope with this every day—not for the first time she wondered where the girl found the strength and courage.
One step. Then another. Then . . . bang.
Her shin bumped a table she hadn’t even seen, and she bit her lip hard to swallow the cry. Not only must she prowl through shadow, she must be quiet.
Fortunately, years of going to children who cried out in their sleep had given her at least some capability to function without light. She reached the drapes with no more collisions and drew one back.
Here, by his writing desk, she could smell the unusual scent the duke wore—the hint of cinnamon and bergamot and musk. Did it really linger here, by his writing desk, or was it lingering in her memory?
At this moment, she still had a plausible excuse if Greybrooke caught her—that she’d stumbled into the wrong room. If he found her reading his letters . . . what would she say then
?
Her father had been gentlemanly, her mother a lady—a viscount’s third daughter. Snooping in desks was so horribly wrong she felt a jolt of pain in her heart. Real spies—the ones who worked for king and country—must never have qualms. She could not have them either.
The blotter surface was empty. A clean quill lay alongside a covered bottle of ink. She turned her attention to the deep dockets of the rolltop writing desk.
One folded letter sat in one docket, the others appeared dark and empty. Helena lifted it out.
Even when she’d uncovered scandals, she never felt so guilty or so wrong. There was good in this too. She had to believe that. A traitor deserved to be punished, didn’t he?
In the faint, silvery light, Helena had to hold the letters just inches from her eyes to see the writing. Her heart stuttered as she distinguished the signature: Jacinta, Countess of Winterhaven.
What if there was a clue in one of these. Proof Greybrooke had been a traitor.
She had not thought of that. What if his sister, the Countess of Winterhaven, knew about it?
She quickly set the letter down, as if it were on fire and burning her hand. In her mind, she could see Maryanne struggling to cope with blindness; Timothy valiantly attempting to blow his nose; Sophie reading with serious intensity; and Michael, who was filled with the confidence of an earl already.
What if what she learned implicated the duke and his sister? What would she do?
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the letter back up. She prayed they were innocent and that was why they were kept in an unlocked writing desk. Exactly the opposite of what she should want.
This is for king and country, she thought, and she read the beginning of the letter. Lady Winterhaven did not, as most women did, believe in subtle or gentle openings to her letters. Certainly not with her brother. It appeared she’d plunged right in.
I am concerned about Maryanne and I am at the end of the rope over what to do. The poor child is consumed with guilt. She is tormented by fear and she cannot put those horrible events of the past behind her. You have told me how admirable you find me because you believe I have forgotten, that I have found happiness. Yes, I have found joy, but I will never forget.
There is a way, even when haunted by those terrifying memories, to find happiness. I believe it is love. I believe it would save you. I know it would help Maryanne. She is nineteen now, and she could marry, but while you are strong enough to find love if you want it (you simply choose not to do it), she is too frightened to even try. We must help her. We are both to blame for this. It is up to us to make amends for the damage we did by giving Maryanne her future.
There was one more paragraph: a promise that Lady Winterhaven would craft a list of eligible ladies for Greybrooke.
Two thoughts whirled in Helena’s head. What was this frightening thing that Greybrooke and his sister were responsible for? This thing that haunted them all and scared Maryanne so terribly? From what did the duke need to be saved? Could it be treason?
The other thought? Lady Winterhaven was acting as matchmaker to Greybrooke.
Why did that thought even matter? Why did it nag so much, pushing the far more important question away?
Helena hurriedly folded the letter and put it back. Why did he have a desk filled with dockets, yet he used only one of them? Tentatively she eased open the drawers, one by one, and felt around in each well of darkness. In the bottom drawer, her fingers struck a leather cover. She drew the book out.
It was a journal.
Footsteps—she was certain she heard soft footfalls echo on the polished wood floor of the hall. Nerves exploded. She couldn’t walk out in front of him with his journal. She put the book back in the drawer, closed it, then she ran to the door—
Bluish moonlight fell in square patterns on the white door in front of her.
The drapes! She whirled, ran back, and pulled the curtain across the window. She fumbled through the dark to the doorway.
There was no one there. No doubt her guilty imagination had supplied the footsteps, but it didn’t matter. She had been “in the retiring room” long enough. She had to go back to the duke.
Moments later she stood at the door that connected the dressing room to the duke’s bedroom.
Greybrooke had removed his coat. She was looking at him in his shirtsleeves—shirtsleeves that bulged over the muscles of his arms.
He’d undone his cravat, the trailing ends lying against his broad chest. His shirt collar lay open. There was bronzed skin in there, a small vee of it, yet it was like a toy to a child—she couldn’t draw her gaze away from that glimpse of tanned skin.
His throat was beautiful. No wonder gentlemen wore high collars, cinched into place with their complexly tied cravats.
She wanted to stroke the duke’s neck. After kissing him, she wanted to touch her lips to that skin—bronzed, dark with a light coating of stubble.
Madness!
“Come,” he said. “I will take you home. You will meet me two nights from tonight?”
Helena was not sure if it was a question or a command. He really must take her home now. Before she lost all control and surged forward and really did try to kiss his throat. “Yes,” she said.
“Good.” His voice was a throaty growl. She felt it as if her skin was attuned to sound. She felt it all over. “I want to show you my world, Miss Winsome.”
7
“Couldn’t you sleep, Miss Winsome?”
Helena bit back a small scream. She spun around, her hands on her hood, to face Lady Winterhaven. She’d intended to slip out in the night, make her way to Hyde Park—dangerous for a female to do alone, but she needed to know why Greybrooke was being blackmailed.
“No, my lady. I thought I would walk for a bit in the back garden, until I grew tired,” she lied, hating having to do so yet doing it with calm competence.
She’d showed no competence today with the children. She had spilled milk on the plate of biscuits. She had read one sentence of a book over five times, utterly forgetting she’d said it at all. She had tried to dress Michael in Timothy’s coat and had dazedly wondered how he’d grown so quickly.
Her head had been full of Greybrooke.
Lady Winterhaven suddenly stumbled, putting her hand to the wall for support. Helena caught her arm. “Let me help you up to bed, my lady.” Then she blinked. Lady Winterhaven was not in her nightclothes, yet it was well after midnight. “You should be resting—”
“Oh, I am like you, Miss Winsome. I cannot sleep either. I’ve ordered tea to be brought to my parlor upstairs. Would you join me for a cup?”
Helena was startled. And anxious, for she must get to Hyde Park. But she nodded. And minutes later she held a cup of steaming tea in her hand.
Lady Winterhaven sipped, then gave a gusty sigh. “Do you have any idea how many eligible dukes there are, Miss Winsome?”
The very word “dukes” made her lips tingle, as if Greybrooke had materialized out of thin air to masterfully kiss her. She couldn’t help it—she relived every wicked moment. The soft, firm tease of his lips on hers. His tongue! He’d slipped his tongue between her lips, coaxing her mouth to open. They’d kissed so very, very intimately. . . . A blush heated her face.
She prayed her ladyship would never guess the reason for her red cheeks. She took a quick breath and stuttered, “S-several. I’ve read Lady X’s columns about the Wicked Dukes.”
Lady Winterhaven rolled her eyes. “Yes, that woman certainly does enjoy making sport of England’s latest miracle: several eligible dukes who possess fortunes, charm, and brilliant looks. And who are all at ages where they should be seeking brides. I am sure all the other dukes will wed first, but I pray there will be some eligible girl left over for my brother.”
Helena’s eyes almost fell out of her head. “I’ve heard the Duke of Greybrooke requires a cane just to beat a path through admiring ladies.”
“But he keeps saying no. Eventually, most women give up. They do have to g
et settled. And Greybrooke is the most unsettling gentleman I know.”
How very true that was. Helena was a jumble of heat, nerves, and worried for him. But she was astonished that Lady Winterhaven was discussing this with her. It showed how anxious her ladyship must be.
Then Lady Winterhaven waved her hand. “No, I’m wrong. He’s not unsettling, he’s infuriating. He is such a good man, but he does not see it. When Maryanne was so terribly ill—the illness that stole her sight—Grey never left her side. He barely slept or ate. He watched over her, bathed her with cool water, fed her broth. He became terribly sick himself and almost died. But he only gave in to his illness when he was certain she was getting better.”
“I—I didn’t know,” Helena whispered.
“Marriage would be the making of him, Miss Winsome. But he’s too scared to face that. He’s like every gentleman I know—deathly afraid of change. We females survive on shifting sands every day. Men have no idea how to cope.”
“Shifting sands?” Why would a countess feel she spent her life in instability? Was her ladyship speaking of treason—that would mean a lifetime of fear, wouldn’t it?
Lady Winterhaven had always looked so happy. Yet now there were shadows in her eyes, lines where her mouth was taut and her forehead crunched. As if making a great effort, her ladyship forced a bewitching smile. “I am just being maudlin. I am sure I’ll convince my brother to marry, somehow.”
“I am sure you will, my lady.” But her heart gave a painful pang at the thought of Greybrooke with a lovely, gently bred fiancée. Heavens, what was wrong with her?
“It will have to be a devious plan. He was supposed to attend a musicale with me last night, and he cried off at the last minute—” Lady Winterhaven broke off. Peered at Helena closely. “This is the third time you have blushed while I’ve discussing my brother.” Her brow rose. “He is not doing anything naughty, is he?”
“No. No, of course not,” Helena cried.
“Good. He has never been the type to seduce governesses, but sometimes I worry about him. Even though he is a true gentleman, sometimes he wants to do the most dangerous things.” Her ladyship yawned. “I think I will go to bed. Do you wish to walk still, Miss Winsome?”