Deeply In You (10 page)

“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.”

H
is 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.

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.

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?