by Sharon Page
But Grey knew he was taking her because he wanted to be with her. A mad thought hit him: Could he keep her as his mistress forever? Look at Prinny—the prince had carried out an unlawful marriage with his mistress to show he loved her. Grey had no intention of marrying, nor of falling in love. Why not keep Helena forever and be happy?
He had to smile, imagining a seventy-year-old Duke of Greybrooke, shuffling into the theater with his cane, with Helena, his gray-haired and scandalous mistress on his arm.
Thinking of spending his life with Helena was thinking of something very much like marriage. Why now? Why did Helena make him want to change?
Two rows of plush velvet seats filled the theater box, and crimson curtains framed their view of the stage. Elegant members of the ton filled other boxes, and a mass of people milled in the pit below. Burning footlights cast light on the closed drapes of the stage.
Grey led her to a seat. Helena had never been to the theater. She wished this were just a night where he was taking her to see a play, where they were simply lovers and didn’t have to worry about assassins and plots. She wished she did not have to worry about losing Grey tonight, when he discovered the truth.
She wished she would not have to see the pain in his eyes when he learned she lied to him still. It made her heart ache with pain.
She felt beautiful, wearing gold silk. The solitary ruby necklace looked lovely with the gold, and made her skin gleam like ivory.
But all of this was to come to an end. Tonight.
It wasn’t her life as mistress she was going to mourn. It was the wonderful intimacy with Grey. She’d never felt so close to anyone—she felt as close to him as she did with her family.
She’d discovered what it was to be in love. She was going to have her heart broken, and it was her fault. Perhaps she should have told the truth before. Once Grey learned she had continued to lie, how could he forgive her, trust her, want her?
He casually rested his arm behind her. His fingers lazily grazed her shoulder. He touched her with ease and familiarity, which made her feel terrible. “You are beyond lovely,” he said. “Everyone is looking at you.”
Opera glasses were trained on their box. Helena saw male faces tip back, the gentlemen nudging each other. It was true—all of the theater people stared at her. Women whispered to each other behind fans. “They are all looking at me because they want to know who your mistress is. They love scandal . . . and I am one now.”
She wore her mask, which hid her identity. But it would never obscure the truth—she had changed. She could not go back to her old life of being a governess, and not just because Society would never allow it. She couldn’t go back to a life without love or passion.
When Grey found out the truth tonight and threw her out, any other mistress would simply find another protector. She couldn’t.
She didn’t want to go to another man. She wanted Grey.
“You look worried,” he said, looking concerned himself. “Do you have regrets?”
“No—no, I don’t have any regrets.” It was the truth. But there was one thing she did miss.... “I still miss being around children. I don’t think that will ever change.”
He bent and kissed her naked shoulder—her neckline was scooped so low, her shoulders and upper back were bare. “If you want children, I’m willing to give you them.”
She jolted away from his teasing mouth. “You want children?”
“They wouldn’t be legitimate, but I would care for them. I would support them—they would want for nothing, I promise you.” Though he spoke soft and low, she heard every word. It was as if the crowd had vanished.
He bent to her neck, raining kisses from her shoulder to her earlobe. Making her dizzy with yearning. She could have children. But they wouldn’t be legitimate.
That would be a stain, one that would judge and hurt them, and wouldn’t be their fault. She couldn’t do that.
The thought of children with Grey was such a wonderful dream, it hurt so much to give it up.
Grey lifted her hand, and she knew he would brush a kiss to her fingers. She couldn’t bear it—him touching her, spinning a future together that she could not have. “I must be practical, Grey. I couldn’t raise children who would face a lifetime of shame for my choices.”
“What do you want more, angel? Marriage or me?”
“I—I don’t know.” She wanted both, but she couldn’t have both.
The truth was she couldn’t have either. She probably had this one last night with Grey.
“Why are there curtains on theater booths?” she asked, to change the subject. “Isn’t the idea to watch the stage?”
“Let me show you.” Grey moved to the curtains, giving her a glorious display of his strong back, wide shoulders, long legs. He drew the drapes closed. Then he undid the falls of his trousers and shoved them down. They shot to his knees and his cock bounced upward, gloriously stiff.
“We can’t do this in the theater!” she gasped in a quiet exclamation.
He turned, eyes twinkling. “With the curtains closed, we can do anything we want.”
“But people will hear me moan.”
“Thought of that.” With a quick flick of his hand, he pulled something black from an inside pocket. It was a strip of black leather with a leather ball in the middle.
“What is it?”
“Trust me and open your mouth.”
Helena let her lips part. He put the ball against her lips, holding each end of the strap. He drew it into her mouth. Her teeth sank into it, and it filled her mouth. She couldn’t speak around it.
But she was doing this with Grey, which made it erotic.
He adjusted the strap behind her head, until the ball sat comfortably between her lips. She felt creamy between her legs already, just from the gag.
Grey gently bound her hands in front of her—just before he eased down her low bodice and her shift and corset until her breasts popped out.
This was his game, but Helena didn’t think of it that way anymore. She wanted it too. She liked both—she liked ordinary sex where she could hold and caress him, and she liked these marvelous games where he surprised her with erotic delights and she was the focus of all his attention. These were now their games.
She glanced toward the curtain. Just two strips of velvet kept the gentlemen of the ton and their mistresses or wives from seeing the scandalous things she was going to do with Grey.
His fingers slid lightly along the side of her face. “I would love to have children with you. It would be like a family.”
Like a family—but he refused to have one for real. She could see raw longing in his eyes, a flash of it before it was gone, swallowed up by the look she knew—the one that looked hot and penetrating and meant he was thinking up erotic games.
He helped her slide off the seat, holding her bound hands. She let him turn her so her bottom faced the curtain and the balcony wall of their box, and her bound hands were placed on the back of the seat.
He pushed her skirts up to her waist, baring her legs, her rump, her cunny. She prayed those curtains really did hide everything as his strong hand slid between her legs, and his fingers stroked her clit.
She moaned, but the ball drank up the sound.
Her cunny was soaked, literally dripping with juices. She knew he would go inside her from behind, his groin would collide with her bottom, his erection going so deep he would touch her womb.
Something rough brushed her bottom. He parted her cheeks and slid two lengths of coarse rope between them. His breathing was fast, but his hands moved steadily. He twined the rope around the tops of her thighs and crossed them over her clit—which was aching, swollen. It felt as if one brush would make her explode like a firing pistol.
He crossed it again, artistically, then drew the ropes around her waist. The tug of his hands on the ropes tightened them, made them scrape along her clit.
Her legs almost buckled. She whimpered with pleasure around the ball, rocking h
er hips.
He brought the ropes up, then tied them with fancy bows to iron rings attached to her gag. She lifted her head tentatively. That tightened the ropes, sawing her nub with them.
Goodness, she could make herself come just by moving her head. It was a struggle to not make herself climax. But she wanted to make this anticipation last.
That was what Grey did. He seduced her with anticipation. He made her yearn for the future—even just for a few minutes of future when he would do naughty, impossible things and gave her blinding pleasure.
Helena moved, the rope slid, and she sagged onto her arms as a jolt of pleasure shot through her. Her quim began to pulse, and she feared she was going to climax before she wanted. She made desperate noises around the ball—
Grey came to her from behind again. His cock nosed between her nether lips and sank inside her bubbling passage in one swift stroke. She felt his legs rock as he drove deep, as if the sudden engulfing in wet heat had shocked him completely.
His hands rested on her hips, holding her steady. He drew back, bracing her, then thrust deep again. He was holding her up more than he was holding her steady.
She pumped back against him, urging him to please her.
Oh, he did. With thrusts that lifted her off the ground and made her feel the deep penetration of his huge member. With tweaks of her stiff nipples, kisses and bites on her bare shoulder. Steam poured out of her dress. She rocked against him, so close to coming—
She needed this orgasm like she needed air.
Wait. He had not paused to put on a French letter.
Panic came too late. Pleasure burst inside her, taking her on a whirling, wonderful dance. God, it was so good. She wanted to squeal and shriek, but the ball kept her from hollering at the top of her lungs and letting the entire theater know she was coming.
Grey withdrew, and she felt his staff bounce up as it came out.
He hadn’t climaxed. “I want to wait,” he said. “I want to balance on a knife’s edge of orgasm all night, while I pleasure you. Until we have the chance to track down our quarry.”
First he undid the ropes and removed the gag. Then he patted her chest with his handkerchief, drying her dewy perspiration, before cleaning her between her thighs.
She wanted to say something about the French letter, but what could she say? He had promised to look after any children. But he’d said it before finding out the truth.
Still a bit in shock, Helena sank down on a seat. Grey opened the curtains, then sat at her side. He leaned to her, his breath tickling her ear. “I want to keep you as mistress for a lifetime.”
The man who never kept a mistress for more than a month was offering her a lifetime.
But she would not have it.
The lights of the house had been turned down, leaving only the burning stage lights to illuminate the actors, and they were in the middle of the play.
After a few moments, she gasped, “It’s a shocking play.”
At her side, Grey laughed gently.
“Well, it is,” she said defensively.
A man dressed as a woman with enormous breasts was cavorting on the stage with a man, fooling the “young buck” into believing he was a wanton lady. He was singing a ribald song about having decided it was time to pluck his “flower.” The young “man” was a girl dressed up, with a codpiece between her thighs that stuck out at least twelve inches.
“It’s meant to be titillating, Helena.”
The young “buck” wore skin-tight breeches that revealed every curve of the actress’s shapely legs. The men in the audience hooted as she approached the edge of the stage. The actress cupped her mouth, as if about to whisper a secret.
“I am Rosalind,” she declared. “It is my intent that the lovely ‘Desiree’ will actually become the bride of the evil guardian who wants to marry me.” Desiree was the man in the woman’s clothing. The evil guardian? Had one come on in the first scene, while Grey had made love to her in that scandalously delicious way?
A chubby servant ran onto the stage from the left, bedraggled clothes wafting around him. He looked to the audience. “Me master’s angry because he broke his favorite whip on me arse. Where should I hide?”
The servant jumped in the air as if he saw a monster chasing him. When he landed, his trousers fell down. Women in the audience screamed, and men roared with mirth.
A tall, cadaverous man stepped out of the shadows on to the stage. The small orchestra played a piece of music that made Helena shiver with apprehension.
The man wore a tall, black hat pulled low over his face and a gentlemen’s clothing. He carried a whip with half the lash broken off.
The servant hauled up his trousers and scuttled off stage, holding them with both hands. The ominous villain strode out to the center. He demanded to know where Rosalind was. The audience booed him.
The villain barked at them all in false rage. He pulled off his hat, but Helena already knew who it would be even before she saw the skull-like face with its jutting cheekbones.
It was the man who had pretended to be Whitehall. She turned to Grey, but she didn’t need to tell him. He was already on his feet and heading for the entry curtain to their both. From Flossie’s description, he had recognized the fiend at once.
“Stay here,” he growled. Then he was gone, the curtain at the back of the box flapping in his wake.
But she couldn’t stay there. Grey was racing in pursuit of a man who might be a murderer. Helena ran after him as wildly as she had pursued Michael in Berkeley Square. Equally as terrified of disaster.
With his long legs, Grey was already nearing the stairs that led from the upper tiers of boxes down to the stage level. Helena sucked in desperate breaths. She couldn’t give up.
The ruby necklace bounced on her chest and hit her chin as she ran. She passed startled footmen who waited by the curtained entrances to the boxes.
She prayed Grey did not do something daring—and crazy—out of anger.
Holding up her skirts, she grasped the banister and rushed down the stairs. As she reached the bottom, she blinked. One brilliant lamp lit the space, and it briefly dazzled her.
There were two corridors. One led to the main entrance of the theater. Down the other, she heard pounding footsteps, and she followed them. They grew fainter—the distance between her and Grey increasing. Curtains stood ahead of her at the end of the corridor. She plunged through into a dark, quiet space. Brightly painted scenery lurked along the wall. She was backstage, in a room used to keep equipment. Ropes lay everywhere, and she looked around wildly for a weapon. Something she could use to protect Grey.
A fake executioner’s axe had been propped against a papier-mâché castle front. It was made of wood, but it weighed a ton. Struggling, she lifted it to her shoulder. Then, wavering with the weight of the wretched axe, she crept through the curtain at the other end.
She stood in another small room filled with scenery, and at that moment the weight of the axe overtaxed her arms. It thudded to the floor in front of her.
While she had no weapon, she certainly had the attention of Whitehall and Grey. They stood near the stack of painted scenes. Grey wore the ruthless expression she had seen on his face when he’d thrown himself at his two armed attackers. His eyes were cold like brittle glass, his mouth distorted in a harsh snarl.
With Grey’s height, broad shoulders, and muscular frame, he would overpower Whitehall easily. But as the men paced around in a circle, she saw why Grey didn’t attack. Whitehall had a pistol.
“The Duke of Greybrooke. What a delight to finally make your acquaintance.” Whitehall’s skull-like face turned to her. “And Miss Winsome. I doubt your improvised weapon would have served you. Stand still, you little tart, and don’t move. So you did become his mistress. I knew such a beautiful and prim creature would turn out to be a whore at heart.”
Helena flinched. She had to stop this. She didn’t want Grey to find out who she was like this. “Put down your weapon. Yo
u will never get away, and if you take our lives, you will be hanged.”
While Whitehall laughed, Grey swivelled to meet her gaze. “This man is the one who pretended to be an agent of the Crown?”
“Is that what she said? I sent her to spy on you, Your Grace. She went willingly to help me. Even seduced you to do it.”
“You were working with this fiend and with Turner? You lied all along?” Pain glinted in Grey’s eyes.
“No, it was not like that! He is lying. What I told you was the truth.”
Whitehall laughed—a nasty laugh. “So she gave me up, did she?”
“You knew who he was when you heard Flossie’s description,” Grey said softly. “But you said nothing then.”
And that was the truth that damned her.
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, “not until I saw him.”
But she saw Grey flinch. He hadn’t done so when faced with pistols. But he did in the face of her lie. Inside her chest, her heart trembled. She could not stand it any longer. “Grey, I am sorry. I couldn’t tell you the truth. Not all of it. I couldn’t let you find out about my brother—”
“Doesn’t His Grace know that your brother is William Rains, that it was Rains’s debts you’ve been rogering him to pay? He doesn’t know you’re the famous Lady X?” Whitehall asked mockingly.
This was her nightmare. But she knew what the fiend was doing. Distracting them. Getting them to fight together so he could escape. Did that mean he would not shoot Grey?
Grey stared at her, his face white. “Your brother is Rains? That is how he got those stories—from you.”
“No,” she began, but Whitehall laughed.
“Her brother assured me his sister was excellent at ferreting out gossip. And she was. She gave the stories to her brother, and he gave them to me. I gave him instruction to put them in the paper—”
“Shut up,” Grey barked. He glared down his nose at Whitehall, as if he were the one holding the weapon. “I see now this was set up like a play, by you and Richard Turner,” Grey said darkly. “But what was the purpose of this ridiculous farce to have me discredited as a traitor? Why in hell did you murder Lady Blackbriar? I swear I will rip you apart unless you give me the truth.”