Deeply In You (11 page)

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.”

“C
ouldn’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 get 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?”

“Just for a while,” she lied. She remembered what he’d said, in the children’s nursery, no less.
Sinful, dastardly, unforgivable as it is—I have to have you.
Yet according to Lady Winterhaven, he did not pursue women like her. Greybrooke tied her in knots. She had thought him a simple rake. He was far more complex.

She couldn’t help it. She hoped, prayed, yearned he was innocent. She must be impartial, but how could she be?

“I am confident I will get my brother married off,” Lady Winterhaven was saying. “But it will have to be a plan worthy of Wellington.”

At the reference to war plans, Helena went pale. Lady Winterhaven said the words as a joke. Was that a clue she knew nothing about treason?

“Good night, Miss Winsome.”

Helena’s thoughts went to the duke as she curtsied to her ladyship.

Greybrooke did not want to kiss. He did not “make love” but had a special club where he went and did wicked things. Was that why he was so determined to not marry?

Cool night air enveloped her, and Helena began her walk toward the door in the rear stone wall as a casual stroll, as if she had no other plan than to enjoy the black velvet of the sky, the whisper of the breeze, the lingering fragrance of a spring garden. A few yards from the house, she lifted her hems and ran. She must get to Hyde Park and watch Greybrooke.

But as she neared the gate, a soft sound stopped her.

Sobs—soft sobs floated through the dark. Her first instinct was to ask who was there, but almost at once she knew how pointless that was. She followed the sound to the corner of the walled-in back garden. A pale statue gleamed in the moonlight, but it was the dark figure in front of the statue who was crying.

“Lady Maryanne?”

Helena’s foot bumped something hard. Lady Maryanne’s stick, discarded on the ground. She bent and picked it up, then put her arm around the young woman. “Oh, my dear, what is it? Whatever is wrong?” She was certain she knew—the girl must be crying over her lost sight. When Helena first came, she was told that Maryanne used to do it almost all the time. Now, it was much less infrequent.

Lady Maryanne lifted her head. Her green eyes were huge, luminous, her blond hair loose and framing her beautiful, oval face. “Be quiet, Winnie! I don’t want my sister to find me out here. As for what’s wrong? I’m in love! That’s the truth—the terrible, terrible truth.” She wiped at her cheeks angrily.

“It can’t be so terrible to be in love—”

“It is for me! I can’t have him. Do you know what that is like, Miss Winsome? To love someone desperately—to have found one’s true love, your only love—yet you can’t have him.”

Helena’s heart twisted. She had hoped Maryanne would find love. She knew it would be the best for the girl. She had feared it would bring heartbreak, but she’d hoped a gentleman would fall in love with Maryanne’s breathtaking beauty. “Does he love you in return? If so, nothing should matter—”

“
Everything
matters!” the girl gasped. “Oh, it’s not because I’m blind. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s what everyone thinks—that no one would have me because I’m blind. But this man doesn’t care about that. It’s not even because Uncle Grey would never, never allow it. That’s not why it hurts so much. It’s because I don’t want to keep secrets from him. I don’t want to lie to him. But if he knew the truth . . . if he knew about what happened . . . Oh God, I would lose his love forever.”

Helena hated to do this, hated to take advantage of Maryanne’s pain and vulnerability. But she must do it—for her family’s sake. “What truth, Maryanne? Is it something that your uncle did? Is it something terrible that Greybrooke did?”

“I can’t speak of it. I promised I would never speak of it. I kept my word and I lost my sight.” Maryanne laughed—a twisted, choking laugh.

No, she must stop now and calm Maryanne. “I won’t ask you anything more. I’m sorry. But I don’t believe your love is impossible. Have faith and hope, Lady Maryanne—” She stepped forward, to hug the girl, to use touch to soothe her.

But Maryanne fled. Hands out, she stumbled toward the house. Fearing the girl would fall, Helena ran after her and caught up. “Let me help you to bed,” she said firmly.

It was only later, when she had Lady Maryanne safely in bed, when she’d solemnly promised she would say nothing of finding the girl crying outside, that she knew it was too late to go to Hyde Park.

“What are you planning to do, Grey? Shoot him?”

Grey frowned at Caradon, who walked at his side along the Rotten Row, into the shadowy expanse of Hyde Park. He carried two pistols in the deep pockets of his greatcoat, and they bumped heavily against his legs. In his boot was a secreted blade. “Unfortunately I can’t,” he growled. He explained the blackmailer’s threat. “If I kill him, his knowledge will be published in the newssheets. However, if I can make him believe I’m angry enough to shoot him anyway, I may get the upper hand.”

“Where’s the meeting to take place?”

“Just beyond the trees, near the Grosvenor Gate. Keep to the shadows. I want you to hide when we get close. I’m supposed to arrive alone.”

They approached the spot, which was deserted. Moonlight fell on the ground between long shadows cast by the trees. A wind flicked their coats around them. Caradon let out a breath. “So where the hell is he?” he asked softly.

“Not here yet. We’re early. Take a position behind the trees over there,” Grey directed. Then he went to the arranged meeting spot and stood with arms crossed over his chest. After a while, he began pacing. He was certain the blackmailer would show. He had the two thousand pounds, and the man had appeared smugly confident. But while he waited, his thoughts went back to the moment last night where he’d drawn Miss Winsome into his kiss. He didn’t kiss. Ironically, in sex, he liked to keep his distance.

She’d kissed with such innocence, but she had parted her lips to take his tongue into her warm mouth. She’d touched her tongue to his. Every sensual move he’d made to pleasure her, to devour her lush mouth, she had countered.

Kissing her had been sizzling and had given him an agonizing erection. But he’d been cautious through it. Careful. He knew the danger of letting his guard down, of giving in to a woman’s touch. He wanted her, but on his terms. Her eager kiss had been a sensual treat, making him think of lush, hot, sweaty sex. But he couldn’t let himself be vulnerable with her. Not in any way—

Something moved in the shadows. He had to stop thinking about Miss Winsome. Grey eased his right hand toward his pocket, curling his fingers around the pistol grip. “Show yourself.”

Moonlight fell on a stooped figure that shuffled out from behind the trees. The bluish light revealed a lined face and glinted on silvery hair. The elderly man moved slowly, limping on his right leg. “Are ye the Duke of Greybrooke?” he croaked. The voice was weak, raspy, as if the man spoke through a lungful of smoke.

“I am. Who are you?”

“Messenger for the man ye were to meet tonight. I were told to pick up what ye’ve got and take it to ’im.”

Hades, he’d been tricked. His pistols were useless—he had no intention of shooting a lackey. Unless this man was more than that. “Give me your name.”

“Don’t see as ’ow ye need to know it, Yer Grace.”

“Are you this man’s accomplice?” At the blank look, he clarified, “His partner.”

“I were paid just to be messenger.”

“Do you know the man who paid you?”

“Never seen ’im before. In fact, I never saw ’im. ’E met me outside me favorite tavern and ’e wore a cloak and a mask.”

“All right, I’ll make you an offer,” Grey said. “You help me in this and I will help you.”

“ ’Ow would ye do that?”

“Payment. I could give you enough money to live comfortably. Perhaps you have family to take care of.”

“I do, and they will be taken care of, Yer Grace. If I don’t do as I’ve been told, it’ll be me daughter and her brand-new babby who’ll be ’urt. Please, Yer Grace, just give me the message I’m to get, and let me be on me way.”

“This man threatened your family.”

The elderly man had blanched white. “Aye. ’E knew me name and told me ’e knows where me daughter and her new babby live. If I don’t ’elp ’im, the fiend will ’urt them. Kill them.”

A crunching sound came from behind the thick trunk of an oak.

The old man looked terrified. Then glared angrily at Grey. “Ye were supposed to be alone, Yer Grace.”

Caradon appeared from behind the tree. “He did come alone. I took it upon myself to follow my friend. Now, enough of your tales. Tell us the name of the man who hired you. I believe you recognized him—you wouldn’t be so afraid of his threats if you didn’t know who he was.”

“The man’s frightened, Cary,” Grey growled. To the elderly man, he softened his tones. “I understand you’ve been forced into this. I give you one more opportunity to give me your name. I can help you, your daughter, and her child. This I promise you. I will give no sign you’ve helped me—you will be allowed to leave here unobstructed, and I will not interfere with your meeting with this man. But give me your name and I will help you.”

The man hesitated. Grey had to admire him for wanting to protect his daughter and her babe. A tenderhearted parent would have been a foreign thing for him, if he’d never seen Jacinta and her husband with their children.