by Sharon Page
The punishments had begun when Greybrooke was very young—she’d gathered that from the diary. What would have happened to him as grew up? He would be angry, bitter, hurt. He could become incapable of loving someone, like a dog who was so accustomed to beatings, he snapped at any human. Could all that anger and hurt make him commit treason?
Helena reached the morning room, knocked on the closed door. Lady Winterhaven’s lovely, soft voice bade her to come inside.
There, amidst vases of white roses, white orchids, white lilies—flowers brought fresh from greenhouses every morning—stood Greybrooke. His arms were crossed over his broad chest. The raking light struck his high cheekbones and strong jaw, making him look cold, strong . . . and sensual.
Sensual but intimidating.
It felt terrible to stand in front of them, knowing their secret, while they both had no clue she had spied on them, betrayed their trust. She had not yet told Whitehall. She didn’t want to tell him. This secret was so private, so dangerous and destructive. She feared putting it in the hands of that ruthless man.
“I would like a word alone with Miss Winsome, Grey,” Lady Winterhaven said.
Greybrook leaned his hips against the writing desk, a dainty thing of white and gilt. “It’s not her fault I seduced her. I pursued her with single-minded determination.”
His defense of her touched her heart. Perhaps she was wrong—it wasn’t anger she sensed.
“I am not going to condemn her,” Lady Winterhaven declared, “but I am thoroughly annoyed with you, Grey, for stealing away the most wonderful governess I have ever had. And I really must speak to her alone.”
Greybrooke’s lips twisted in a frown, but he walked toward the door. As he passed his sister, he said softly, “It’s for the best, Jacinta.” Then he left.
What did he mean by that?
“Of course he says that,” Lady Winterhaven complained when he left. “He doesn’t have to hire a new governess. I should make him go and find one. A good one. Now—” Her ladyship crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you understand what you were doing when my brother seduced you?”
Helena swallowed hard. “I—I did know what I was doing.”
“Are you certain? My brother can be very persuasive. One of the maids told me you were looking rather furtive, hurrying out of the house with a box. A gift from Grey, I suppose. What did he give you?”
She could not say shackles. Heat raced down from her hairline.
“Hmmm, I should have known it would be something naughty.”
“It was poetry. And . . . umm, jewels.”
“Grey is very generous. I will say that. But his interest does not last long. That is just the way he is. He usually moves from one paramour to another after a few weeks. Are you certain you wish to surrender your future for something so brief? You are a clever woman, and you could probably live comfortably for life on what Grey will give you. But I do wish you would stay.”
Stay? That startled her. She thought Lady Winterhaven would be scandalized. She had expected to be tossed out in haste. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Not now.”
“The children adore you, Miss Winsome. And you have done marvels with Maryanne.”
Her tongue was so thick and clumsy, it was hard to speak. “There is nothing wrong with Lady Maryanne. She must be treated as a normal girl, that is all.”
“That is very true. However, I still believe you are a miracle worker.”
Lady Winterhaven’s blue eyes looked upon her with a kindness and admiration Helena didn’t deserve, having rifled through her ladyship’s writing desk. “I’ve agreed to become Greybrooke’s mistress. I can’t turn back now.”
“You could, my dear. Just tell me if that is what you want.”
But Helena shook her head.
Lady Winterhaven sighed. “I could kick my brother for tempting you away. You will say good-bye to the children, of course.”
“Oh!” Goodness, she would have to do that. “Oh, yes, of course.”
It would break her heart.
“Why do you have to go, Miss Winsome? Couldn’t you stay? Did we make you go away because we are naughty sometimes? We do mean to listen and do what you say. Truly we do.”
Grey watched Miss Winsome drop to her knees on the nursery room floor and hold out her arms. Michael stood with his small shoulders back, his young chin pointed up, as straight and tall as a man. Beneath his tousled blond hair, his young face was brave. Then his eight-year-old lips wobbled and he barrelled into her arms.
Timothy ran at her and collided with her on the other side with such force, he almost knocked her over. It spoke of a sorrow so deep, it stunned Grey. Miss Winsome held his little four-year-old nephew tightly and stroked the lad while he clung to her skirts. “I don’t want to go, Timothy,” she said in a soft but firm voice, “but I have to.”
“But why do you have to?” His voice was muffled. “Mother wants you to stay. So does Father. I overheard them talking. They said they would never find another governess as good as you. They thought you were happy here.”
The last came out as an accusation. Grey knew young Timothy felt betrayed and saw pain in Miss Winsome’s blue eyes. “I am very happy here.” She patted his head soothingly. “I adore you, Sophie, and Michael, but something has happened that requires me to take another post.”
For a lie, it was a good one. But then, she was very adept at lying.
Timothy began to cry, sobbing into her brown wool skirt, so she drew him back. A soft pass of her thumbs wiped away his tears. Grey’s heart lurched and his chest grew tight. When he’d been a boy, no one had ever wiped his tears or held him. Instead, his parents had worked bloody hard to make him cry.
When Grey looked up, Miss Winsome was speaking to Michael. “You are going to go off to school soon, Lord Michael. To Eton. You will have a much grander education than what I can provide for you. I know you are going to be a great success at your lessons. You don’t need me anymore. Lady Sophie is to go to school too. And Lady Maryanne is to go out in Society.”
“Sophie thought you might be leaving to get married,” Timothy declared. “Are you going to marry some day?”
Grey heard her catch her breath. Then she ruffled the boy’s hair. “I don’t know. Someone would have to ask me.”
“If you are not married when I’m grown up,” Timothy said, his gaze level and serious for a four-year-old, “I will ask you to marry me.”
“That is very sweet.” Damn, Grey heard tears in her voice. “But I will be old then.”
Timothy shook his head. “You will never be old to me.”
She hugged the boy tight. “I was so very, very fortunate to be your governess, Timothy.”
He buried his chubby-cheeked face against her neck. “I love you, Miss Winsome.”
“I love you, Timothy. I always will. I love Lord Michael and Lady Sophie too. And Lady Maryanne. I shall never forget any of you.”
Seeing the sadness on Miss Winsome’s face broke his heart. It infuriated Grey. She had searched his desk, damn it. Why should he care about her when she was lying to him?
“Come, Miss Winsome, it’s time for you to go,” he said.
The children cried out in protest, but he wanted an end to this. Since she was lying, taking her away from them was for the best. He was protecting them. So why did he feel like the villain?
The town house was so new, she could smell fresh black paint on the railings. The curving row of three-story homes was pure, brilliant white—the soot of London’s many fires hadn’t yet marred the surface. Rain pattered on her umbrella. Roses grew in boxes at the front steps, a touch of vibrant pink at the end of each tight, green bud.
Greybrooke held out an ornate key. “Your new home.”
Leaving Lady Winterhaven’s house had felt as unreal as a dream. All she’d been able to think of was the children’s unhappiness. The cool key lying across Helena’s palm woke her up. Now she was most definitely Greybrooke’s mistress, and suddenly her enti
re life was different.
Escorted by the duke, she went up the front steps. The house was grander than anything she could have ever dreamed to possess. But then . . . what did the neighbors think? This was a respectable street. What would people think when they had seen a woman escorted inside by a gentleman, and then later discovered she lived alone? They would guess she was a mistress. Would it bother them? Would they avoid her, give her the cut direct?
What was a mistress’s life actually like? Helena realized she had no idea.
The duke rapped on the door, and it was answered by a plain-faced girl in a maid’s dress and snow-white cap.
Helena stepped inside, her half-boots echoing on the marble tile of the foyer. The maid took her cloak over one arm and the duke’s great coat over the other, with his hat and walking stick balancing on top.
Then it was a whirlwind—shock upon shock.
Greybrooke knew the house already. He walked with familiarity across the gleaming tile and opened the first door in the foyer. Following him, Helena stepped into a drawing room. A breathtaking room. White orchids filled it. The wallpaper was butter yellow, all moldings painted pure white. A settee of pale blue faced the windows, surrounded by plush-cushioned wing chairs. By the fire stood a dainty feminine chair and a sturdy masculine chair of dark brown leather. She caught her breath—he had chosen the chairs for them both.
Did that mean he intended to spend a lot of time here?
“My secretary has engaged three maids, a lady’s maid, a cook, and a groom,” Greybrooke said. “However, from here forward, staffing decisions are yours to make. I advised on the decoration of the house, but I want you to put on your personal stamp. Change what you wish.”
He named the figure of her monthly allowance, and she almost collapsed at the knees.
“All this just because I—I will be your lover?”
“All this because you do it on my terms,” he said.
At first he had sounded matter-of-fact about all this. Now she shivered at a trace of coldness.
From the drawing room, they went to a music room, complete with an exquisite pianoforte. There were entertaining rooms, which surprised her.
“Sometimes I expect to give parties, attended by friends,” he said. “I will let you review the kitchens and the staff yourself.”
“Of course. Thank you.” Her parents had kept a small staff, but even so she knew how to manage servants.
“This is one of my favorite rooms.” The duke opened a door of robin’s-egg blue and revealed a morning room, positioned on the front corner, where it would be bathed in light on sunny days. She now possessed her own delicate white-and-gilt writing desk. Which brought a crippling spurt of guilt.
You know his secret—what are you going to do?
She didn’t know.
He was putting on a damned good act.
Ever since he’d been a child, Grey had never trusted anyone, except Jacinta, Maryanne, and his niece and nephews.
He watched Miss Winsome’s face as he introduced her to her house. Watched her with cold anger that he fought to conceal. He saw many emotions: surprise, delight, sadness.
Had she deliberately arranged their first meeting in the park? Was she an accomplice of the blackmailer, hunting for secrets to use on him? Why else search his desk and read his letters?
He was going to seduce the truth out of Miss Winsome, use sex to overcome her defenses. That was his reason for acquiring this house, for behaving as though he just intended to make her his mistress.
She stood at the window of the morning room, looking out over a small rose garden. Tears glittered in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I was just thinking of the children. I thought I would be the one who was sad, not they.”
Grey’s heart lurched. Damn, remember you can’t trust her. “They loved you very much.”
Her hand clutched the edge of the curtain. She didn’t answer.
“Miss Winsome?”
She turned to him, wearing a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say a word because I have an enormous lump in my throat. I will miss them terribly. But I’m sure Lady Winterhaven will find a good governess.”
He didn’t understand. Miss Helena Winsome was underhanded, cunning, devious. She had manipulated him with brilliance. But the children loved her. With them she had been good, kind, patient. The way she had calmed Maryanne’s tantrums was remarkable. How could a woman who lied so easily, who was so damned deceitful, be so good with the children?
It was the same question she’d asked him. Essentially how could he be incapable of love when he was so good with children?
It was time to start seducing her. “Come with me to the bedroom. You can’t cry—or feel sad—when you’re in the middle of a toe-curling climax.”
12
Helena almost sank to her knees at the sight of the huge bedchamber.
This was hers? This enormous bed with its soaring canopy of rose silk? Pillows and bolsters were mounded upon the bed; the counterpane was rose with gold flowers embroidered all over. Another writing desk stood near the window, and a settee was placed in front of the fire.
“I wanted this room to be sinful and decadent and indulgent. I wanted you to be filled with desire the moment you stepped within.” Greybrooke stood behind her, his fingers stroking her neck, then he began to flick open the fastenings of her sensible dress. Shivers tumbled.
“Then, it’s up to me to pleasure you,” he added.
She didn’t know what to say. She quivered, surrounded by his scent as he drew her gown down her body. Muslin skimmed over her skin. Her senses were filled by his nearness. The sight of his hands—the memory of what they’d done—made her legs feel as solid as pudding.
This must be what it was like on a wedding night. The bed stood in front of her. She knew what must happen. She half wanted it, and half wanted to hide due to tremendous nerves. She’d done naughty things with him. But this was the thing.
Greybrooke undid the lacings of her stays with quick, firm tugs.
“What are you going to want me to do?”
His lips skimmed over her neck. Was it possible for skin to catch fire? “Submit to me and enjoy yourself,” he murmured.
“That’s far too mild a word. I’m all—” A thousand emotions tumbled around in her. “All in a whirl.”
“I like making you that way.” His voice was sin. His hands stroked through her hair. Heavens, even her scalp felt sensitive and aroused. He took out her pins, then fanned her hair to make it fall down her back in waves.
“Your hair is so beautifully tempting.”
His voice was so tempting. Helena kept holding her breath, as if the very act of breathing might make this all dissolve. The vanity mirror showed her the lush sensuality of the moment. She looked wanton in her white stays and petticoats with golden hair spilling loose, he elegant in his dark clothes but snow-white shirt.
He helped her out of her stays, her petticoats, leaving her in her stockings and slippers. Her hands went to her breasts. She wasn’t cold—a wonderful fire burned in the enormous, marble fireplace. But she was exposed to his gaze, and it still felt strange.
This was going to be the most intimate moment of her life, and she was falling into that intimacy.
The duke held up his hands. The shackles dangled, jewels reflecting light, dazzling her. She let go of her bosom and obediently she held out her hands. She saw the heat in his green eyes as she bared herself to him.
Oh goodness, once she’d thought of marriage. Of going to bed with a husband, the way one was supposed to. Not this wicked heat and sensuality, not this feeling that all she was made of was desire and sensitive skin and need. The shackles closed around her slim wrists, and the moment they did, she felt a twinge of need deep inside her. Having her wrists bound together in front of her meant something now. It meant delirious pleasure was coming soon.
Greybrooke set his hands on her waist, lifting her. The way he fo
cused only on her made her breathless. A smile curved his lips, and her heart soared. He looked happy. Perhaps his coolness before had been nerves over facing his sister, or concern over the blackmail, or something that had nothing to do with her. She felt a distinct victory at his smile. There, she had made him feel happiness in bed.
Goodness, he was lowering her onto her bed—about the size of a carriage, and so comfortable, it was like sinking into a cloud.
“Hands over your head,” Greybrooke commanded.
He had his velvet ties, of course. Oh God, did she want to be made love to, all tied up?
Yes, yes, yes. She was squirming with need at the thought. Greybrooke was going to be in command, doing all the things to her that felt so wonderful.
She thought she’d feel some fear at having sex, at giving up her virginity, but she thought of all the pleasure he’d given her. If he said it would give her pleasure, she certainly believed him.
Soft velvet skimmed over her ankles, and he pushed her legs apart. She watched as he tied the ropes in loops around her ankles, then secured them to the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He tied two more ropes to the columns at the head of the bed.
“God, you are beautiful,” he said.
“Are you going to undress?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Not today.” He watched her, his head cocked. A wistful look touched his eyes, just for a moment, then vanished, and he bent to graze her nipple. His tongue flicked out, stroking her.
Just the slightest touch to her nipple made an intense tug in her cunny.
His lips nuzzled her nipples, teased them, played with them, while he tied the ropes to her shackles. She was completely tied to the bed, unable to touch him.
At his mercy.
And merciless he was proving to be. Opening his mouth, he took all her nipple inside and sucked. Each tug . . . oh, she literally writhed on the bed with pleasure.
He suckled her nipples, licked them, scraped his teeth across them. Then, daringly, bit her left nipple gently while his strong hand cupped her naked breast.