Deeply In You (5 page)

“You are luscious, you know. No matter how severe and horrible your dress, I can detect the beautiful curves beneath. Your body was made for sex. To deny it is more than just sinful—it’s a crying shame.

“I would devote myself to your pleasure,” he continued. “I could spend an afternoon playing with your delectable breasts. Stroking them, then sucking your nipples. Imagine lying on a messy bed in a sun-filled bedroom, letting me suck on your tits until I make you come.”

A dozen emotions exploded at once. Languorous delight at the thought of lying on a bed with no work to do. Shock at the crude word. A spike of desire at the image of his sensual mouth all over her breasts.

And under it all, struggling to be heard: the voice of good sense.

“I like to take a lady’s seduction slowly, angel,” he murmured. “I’d like to tie you to a bed and lick your cunny for hours, building you to climax again and again, but not letting you get there. Until I finally let you explode in an orgasm that makes you scream the house down.”

She could barely breathe, and she closed her eyes. As for her heart—could hearts race so fast without exploding?

Something stroked her lower lip, sending a shower of sparks through her body. She smelled leather and knew he’d brushed his glove-clad thumb across her mouth.

That was just one little
touch
. Imagine a kiss.

Imagine more!

“No.”

The word came out as such a croak, she thought it was a groan of the house. No, sense still existed inside her and it was clamoring to get out. “No,” she said, more fiercely. She pulled her hands free of his. “No. I can’t. I won’t, Your Grace.”

She expected to see fury in his eyes. Instead, a slow smile curved his sensual mouth. “So I can’t tempt you with steamy sex and abundant luxury?”

“I want to be decent. You must leave me alone.” As soon as she said it, she winced. She was not supposed to demand he leave her alone.

“I’m afraid I will not do that. I want you,” he growled. “Wrong as it is—sinful, dastardly, unforgivable as it is—I have to have you.”

A
fter three days of rain, the sun finally shone again. Thank heaven, for children cooped up for so long turned into wild savages. Helena herded the children—the boys and Lady Sophie—to Berkeley Square. Warmth and abundant rain had brought out all the May blossoms, and she was reading from a book entitled
Improving Stories for Children
when she sensed the children staring at something behind her, mouths gaping, eyes like saucers.

A young footman, with white wig and emerald and silver livery, stood behind her. He bowed with extreme correctness. “Miss Helena Winsome? I have for you a message from His Grace, the Duke of Greybrooke.”

With that, the lad thrust out a letter sealed with a blob of scarlet wax.

Startled, she took it. The footman bowed again, swiveled on his heel, and marched away.

No longer were just the children gaping in curiosity. Dozens of people watched her.

“It’s from Uncle Grey,” Michael declared. “Why would Uncle send you a letter?”

Helena made it a rule to never lie to children. Sometimes, of course, one could not give the literal truth. “I do not quite know,” Helena said, keeping her voice admirably calm. Excitement—and fear—warred inside her.

After the Duke of Greybrooke had declared he had to have her, he had left without another word. Three days had passed where she had not seen him. She was desperate to do so. Because she had to learn his secrets, of course.

“It must be a love letter,” Sophie declared. She dimpled. “Uncle Grey must have fallen madly in love with you when he saw you! Perhaps it is an offer of marriage.”

“Silly,” said Michael scornfully. “Dukes don’t marry governesses.”

They certainly did not. With no letter opener, Helena carefully tore the page around the seal and unfolded the thick paper.

Scarlet rose petals tumbled out, showering over her skirt. Timothy scrambled over to grab as many as he could, which spurred Michael to compete. After shooing the boys away, she finally took a look at the duke’s letter.

Beautiful watercolor drawings surrounded the edges of the page. At the bottom was a lovely rendering of a stream, a meadow, and a dark-haired man like Greybrooke feeding plump strawberries to a blond wood nymph clad only in leaves. The nymph looked just like her.

Surely Greybrooke hadn’t drawn this. It was remarkable. It had to have been the work of an artist....

Wait, one leaf did not quite cover the lady’s breast, and a rosy-pink nipple peeked out. Helena felt her cheeks turn pink. That breast and nipple looked exactly like hers.

He couldn’t know what she looked like
there
. He must have guessed at the size of her breast, the nipple and its coloring must have been just luck as well.

Shocked, she looked down at the elegant handwriting. It was a poem.

It would be a ribald verse, of course. One that would make her blush from her hairline to her toes, she expected. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and began to read.

Only to discover she was wrong.

The duke hadn’t penned naughty rhymes after all. The verse was lovely, all about the wonder and knowledge she imparted to children.

He must have hired a poet to write something touching and sweet and beautiful. For her.

Timothy peered at her. “Miss Winsome, you’ve turned every color in the rainbow.”

“No, she hasn’t, silly. She’s not gone green or blue,” argued Michael.

Timothy stuck his tongue out at his brother. “She’s been white, red, and pink. Maybe she will go yellow and green.”

“It is a love letter, isn’t it?” cried Sophie. “It’s making you blush.”

“Nothing ever makes Miss Winsome blush,” said Timothy. “I’ve tried.”

“Uncle Grey knows how,” Michael said.

Uncle Grey knew quite a lot of things. She did not believe the words truly reflected how he saw her. This was a scoundrel who caused women to tip chamber pots on his head—who had said bold, naughty things to her. Who had claimed it was unpardonable that he wanted her.

She could not reconcile that man with this one who had so cleverly understood what would touch her heart.

She had to remember that nothing he said was real. It would be so easy to preen and believe she had captured the duke’s heart with her good character, or her quiet beauty, or her kind heart.

But she would never forget her sister Margaret, and all the wonderful things Mr. Knightly told Margaret when they’d all believed Mr. Knightly intended to marry Meg. But all those things had been lies spun to convince Meg to go to his bed and he’d ruined her.

That afternoon, while the children napped in the nursery, Helena wrote a letter of her own. She folded the poem, tucked it within her letter, and sealed it with a blob of wax. Having a few minutes to herself, she took it and the countess’s letters and popped out to post them.

As she walked back to Winterhaven House, she was consumed with one question: Could she keep Greybrooke’s interest while not allowing him to seduce her?

Nothing was brought to her in Berkeley Square the next day. Worry nipped at Helena’s heart. What if she’d offended Greybrooke by returning his poem?

Perhaps she should have kept the poem, which would have given him hope and encouraged him to approach her again—

“I’m hot!” Michael’s whine broke in on her thoughts.

It was unseasonably warm for May today. A tug at her sleeve—it was Lady Maryanne. Gazing blankly ahead but wearing a wistful expression, Maryanne whispered, “It’s been years since I’ve gone to Gunter’s for ices. I miss them so! It’s so cold on your tongue and it can make your head hurt with the pure iciness of it! But then it melts away and it tastes sweet, and sometimes like fruit. Could we go?”

“Could we?” Timothy echoed.

Lady Maryanne possessed green eyes like Grey’s, huge with dark lashes. But her hair was as golden as her sister’s, Lady Winterhaven. With an oval face and full lips, she was beautiful.

Maryanne’s blindness had been a tragedy, but Helena wanted to give the girl as much normalcy as she could. Maryanne had been spoiled, had learned to give in to tantrums. In just a month, Helena had made great progress with the girl. She had insisted Maryanne go out to public places, and her plan was working.

Helena opened her reticule. If the children shared two treats, she might be able to afford the ices. It would take her mind off her failure with Greybrooke. She nodded. “We shall go.”

Soon, she herded the children to a table in the shop, praying she did have enough money. But the moment they sat, enormous bowls filled with every flavor of the famous ices were brought to the table.

Panic hit her. She couldn’t afford this!

An elderly footman came forward and bowed to her. “With compliments of His Grace, the Duke of Greybrooke. He spied his family within and wished to present them with a treat.”

Helena’s heart wobbled. He had come to her rescue again and done something wonderful for the children. “That was very generous and kind, but it is a bit too much of a treat,” she said in her governess tones. Then through the window that looked out to the street, she spotted Greybrooke. His roguish grin speared her. He nodded. To her? Why?

Not to her. His footman came forward once more and presented her with a small, black velvet box. “This is for you, miss. From His Grace.”

Heart pounding, Helena pried open the lid, just a little, for she didn’t want anyone else to see. She frowned. It looked like a ring of clear, sparkling ice....

Heavens, not ice. Diamonds. A bracelet of them. The glittering fire in the box came from the most precious gems imaginable.

The jewels winked at her from the gleaming gold setting. Gunter’s shop seemed to tip and tilt around her, like the blob of ice from Timothy’s cup that was sliding across the table. Timothy put his tongue to the table and licked up his wayward lemon-flavored ice. Normally, she would check him at once for such bad manners.

But no words could come out.

All she could do was stare into her box, opened less than an inch. All the glitter dazzled her. She must have looked so stunned that she finally took Sophie’s attention away from her treat.

“Miss Winsome, what are looking at? What has Uncle Grey sent you? Is it another letter?”

“It’s nothing.” She snapped the lid shut. She didn’t dare put it on the table. Children could move quickly when they wanted to look at something they were not supposed to. “Just something silly. Of course, though he is trying to tease me, I cannot accept it.”

“Why not?” Sophie frowned.

“Your uncle is playing a joke, but it is not proper for me to take a gift.” Not a gift like this. Clutched in her hands was a king’s ransom of diamonds. They were worth more money than she could imagine. More than she would ever see in her lifetime.

What would it feel like to have dozens of diamonds sparkling around her wrist? Would they be heavy? Blinding?

Madly, she wanted to take them out and try them on. She wanted to keep them, so sometimes she could fasten them around her wrist and dream—

Really, what was she thinking? When would she have the need to drape herself in diamonds while wearing sensible wool gowns and herding children?

But they could be sold for a fortune....

No, she must send them back. At once.

The footman left, and the children devoured their treats. The afternoon passed in a blur. It was as if the diamonds weighed five hundred pounds. They were all she could think of.

The problem with the diamonds, she discovered, was she could not send them back by the post. What if they got lost? She had to wait until the children were napping, then she slipped out and walked the few blocks to Greybrooke’s house, which was on Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park. A priceless gift had to be returned in person.

The duke’s house was swarming with servants, as usual. But the duke was not at home.

Grey opened the box, tossed it on his desk. The bracelet spilled out and landed on his blotter. He glanced up at the young footman. “This was my gift to the lady. A gift that was not to be returned,” he growled. “You should not have accepted it from her.”

The young man swallowed hard. “She took it out of a wicker basket, pushed it into me and told me to tell ye, Yer Grace, that she couldn’t accept anythin’ so valuable, and she stalked away.”

“Stalked?”

“Er, I think that’s the word, Your Grace. A sort of angry march like me mum used to do when I got into trouble.”

Grey picked up the jewels, fingering them. They were damned exquisite. How many women would not be tempted by such a gift? There couldn’t be many, but Miss Winsome was one.

He grinned. Never had he known a woman so stubborn. He’d tried appealing to her heart with poetry, for he guessed there was something behind that firm, practical exterior she showed the world. He’d tried blatant temptation.

On to his next plan of attack: finding the wanton inside Miss Winsome.

He dropped the jewels back into the box. “I have another piece of jewelry on order for Miss Winsome,” he instructed the footman. “Fetch it from Bond Street tomorrow morning. My usual jeweler.”

This was the most unique piece he’d ever had made. It had cost a king’s ransom, but it would be worth it.

While the children had biscuits and milky tea at eleven o’clock, Helena tidied up the lesson room. She frowned at a box that sat upon the desk in which she kept her notes on the children’s studies. It had not been there earlier, when she’d gathered the children at the table to eat.

To the winsome Miss Winsome,
the card read.

Greybrooke was unconscionable! How had he got this gift here? Instinct jerked her gaze to the doorway, but it was empty. Could he have brought it himself and she hadn’t noticed?

Her stomach lurched. What if he’d asked one of his sister’s servants to bring it to her? How could
that
be explained?

Was this a clue he really was a spy and a traitor? He obviously liked intrigue and games.

She knew he was as daring with his own skin—according to gossip he’d been involved in a half dozen duels.

Helena undid the ribbon and pried the lid off the box.

A note on a cream-colored card sat on top. His crest and title—the Duke of Greybrooke—were embossed in gold. Across the card, in a bold hand:
Meet me tomorrow at 2. Hyde Park.

Tomorrow was her afternoon off. Greybrooke must have learned that from his sister. Or one of the children. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Helena lifted the note.

Beneath was a pair of bracelets. Capturing one with her fingers, she took it from the box. The other came with it, for a thick gold chain connected them. They were gold, set with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds. She fiddled with them, for they seemed to have a moving part.

A part that clamped around the wearer’s wrist. Helena glanced at the door, ensuring the children were still at their table, eating biscuits. Her heart beat faster. She opened one hasp, then put it around her wrist. Velvet lined the metal where it touched her skin. She had seen men in chains before—prisoners—and these were very much like . . .