Deeply In You (19 page)

“I’m sure you can, if he’s rewarded you with this for tupping him.”

She went flaming red. “I will get what you want, but I will not sit and listen to insults. I do not want you in my house. You are to go—”

“Shut up and think of your family. You’re no better than you ought to be. But now that you’re his mistress, get the truth out of him. I will return in two days.”

“It will take longer than that. And there’s no evidence on paper. I’m sure of it.” It was not quite a lie. There was no evidence of treason in Greybrooke’s possession.

Whitehall stood and took a step toward her.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I have servants, and if you lay a hand on me I will scream for them to come.”

“I don’t need to manhandle you to hurt you,” he said smoothly. Coldly. “Remember that.”

Then he was gone, and she dropped her head into her hands. She could not give this man Greybrooke’s secret. She would not.

A message arrived at midmorning, brief and to the point:

I will visit you this evening. Greybrooke.

Having a full day alone, Helena went to see Will. She told him Greybrooke’s secret, certain she could trust him. When it came to news, she knew Will had great integrity. She told him of her dilemma. She didn’t want to hurt the duke and his family. Will had promised to keep the secret to himself until she decided what to do.

Returning to her town house, she had her lady’s maid, O’Hara, see to the filling of her bath. The tub was huge, and it was glorious to soak in it. In her years as a governess, she had to bathe in metal tubs. She had no idea what to wear though. Did she dress for bed? Was that too contrived? What would the servants think?

Though, really, they had to know why she had this house. Still, she had pride and she put on her prettiest gown—the one he’d called wretched.

As soon as Greybrooke came into her drawing room, he lifted his brow. “That comes off.”

He held out his hand and led her to her bedroom. Helena expected him to tie her up, but instead he undressed her with efficiency. He took off all her clothes, yet he barely touched her skin. To be so close to him and not be touched made her feel balanced on a knife’s edge.

As soon as she discarded her shift though, his fingers skimmed over her naked bottom. She blushed at his caress. She was no longer innocent, but she certainly didn’t feel experienced.

“Bend over your vanity table, love,” he instructed.

She stared at him, confused. So he clasped her hand and led her there, positioning her the way he wanted—with her hands braced on the marble vanity top, her bottom sticking out.

“You are incredibly beautiful.”

Then he took something out from his tall leather boot.

A riding crop.

She flinched, expecting him to strike her. But he caressed the curves of her bottom with it, tracing around and around until her skin became highly sensitive and she moaned.

“Good?”

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “It is.”

Lightly, he tapped her bottom. Then again, in little teasing pats. She focused on every one. Her bottom rippled with each soft strike. Sensation spiraled through her. Then he did one a bit hard, just a touch, just enough to make her truly feel it. He slowly built the intensity until each spank of the crop seemed to vibrate through her quim. Her inner muscles began to clutch, and her clit ached with need.

She was soaked with arousal. Almost in pain with the force of her desire. “Are we—are you—?” She could not quite bring herself to ask if he intended to make love to her.

“You can play with yourself, angel. Make yourself come while I spank you.”

“I—oh—no, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. There’s nothing wicked or naughty or bad about it. You told me yourself that pleasure should make you happy. What I want you to see is that pleasure is not wrong.”

He guided her hand to the damp curls between her legs. She felt her sticky wetness. Touching herself there released her erotic smell.

“It pleases me to watch you,” he said softly.

Her fingers brushed her nether lips. The sensation made her gasp. She rather liked it. And stroked herself again. Her fingers moved higher, and she found her sensitive nub. Oh yes. Yes.

Then she realized he was murmuring words of encouragement. Telling her how sensual and beautiful she was. His husky words wrapped around her, seducing her into pure wanton delight. He spanked her bottom with the crop, and she arched against each stroke, wildly aroused. She played with herself, stroking fiercely.

“Make yourself come,” Greybrooke growled.

And she did. It struck like a fork of lightning slamming into a field. She rocked with it, shuddered with it, sobbed his name.
Greybrooke. Heavens, Greybrooke.

He bent and kissed the nape of her neck. Glorious kisses that made her almost delirious on top of her climax. Then he stopped kissing her, and she collapsed onto the vanity stool.

He picked her up, carried her to her bed, then gave her a robe.

She held it against her, brushing her loose hair behind her ear. Greybrooke prowled across her bedroom. Strange—the room seemed to be filled with tension.

He then sat on her vanity stool, his long legs splayed out. He hadn’t joined with her or had a climax. Instead, he tapped the crop against his thigh, watching her.

“I want to know about you, Miss Winsome. I want to learn everything I can about you.”

Oh no! She could not tell him who she was. “I’m a governess,” she said simply, aware of his focused gaze. She prayed she looked guileless and innocent.

“You had to be something before you were a governess.”

“I was a young woman in need of a future and a position.”

Greybrooke’s eyes narrowed, and Helena knew she could not evade his questions without infuriating him. Could she lie? She didn’t want him to know of her connection to the newspaper, or to have any suspicion she was spying on him. But if she told a blatant lie and he found out the truth . . .

“I don’t know who I really am.” She
hated
telling more lies, so what she was going to do was twist the truth. “I don’t remember my father. He died when I was just two. My mother remarried and had more children—those are my half siblings. Then she died—” Well, she had lost Mama, though much later.

“Who was your family?”

“My mother was a viscount’s daughter. But she’d married against her father’s wishes and was turned out of his house. When she was widowed, she had nowhere to go.”

She had been too young to understand the danger they faced—starvation or a workhouse. Then Mama had met Arthur Rains, and their lives had abruptly changed from disaster to happiness . . . at least until the sadness of losing Margaret, then their mother, then her stepfather. She believed Margaret’s death had hurt them both so badly that they had not lasted long afterward.

It had all been long ago, but her chest was getting tight, her throat felt sore.

But Greybrooke might want to know about her stepfather. She couldn’t talk about him without revealing too much. “When my mother died, I was sent away. I went to live with one relative after another. So many I don’t remember their names. At sixteen, I made my way to London.”

Greybrooke got off the stool. Concern drew lines in his forehead and etched them around his mouth. “What did you have to do to survive here?”

“I didn’t get dragged into a brothel or anything like that. I became a governess at once.”

“You are a viscount’s granddaughter.”

She supposed she was. She hadn’t thought about it, since the man had no place in her life.

Was Greybrooke satisfied? How much did he need to know about her?

She must distract him, so she ran her tongue slowly over her lips. Saw his body tense at the gesture and she felt his awareness. “Would you make love to me now?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said gallantly. He stood up from the vanity and strolled toward her bed. He carried something now—there was a spill of color in his hand.

As he reached her, she saw what it was. Four silk scarves.

Hours later, Helena woke suddenly with a gasp and sat up. She had gone to sleep! Were mistresses allowed to do that? Where was Greybrooke—?

She blinked. The duke sat on her vanity stool, a book resting on his knee. She saw the pencil in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing your likeness, angel.”

Curiosity drove her to scramble out of bed and go to see, though first she pulled on her robe. His gaze followed her as she approached, holding her robe closed over her body. He watched her until she came to stand at his side and look down on what he’d done.

“You drew this?”

Greybrooke nodded. “You look very lovely when you sleep. I enjoy drawing, and your beauty was so tempting, I had to capture it.” Then he frowned. “Is something wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” It was exquisite. It was her likeness exactly. He had captured her in quick, soft lines. Though she thought he’d made her look prettier than she really was. “It’s remarkable.... I had no idea you were so artistic.”

“You didn’t? I think my rope work is highly artistic and creative.”

She forgot herself. She gave him a very governess-like look of disapproval. Then softened her expression quickly. “No one ever mentioned you draw.”

“No one knows I do it. My father thought it worthless and effeminate. After all, ladies sketch and do watercolors.”

“What about the great male artists?”

“My father believed they preferred the company of other men.”

“So you were not allowed to draw.”

“Let’s say I was discouraged.”

She hated that. She believed talent should be nurtured. The drawings gave him pleasure and what was the harm . . . ? Oh! She remembered something. “You made the drawings around the poem you sent.” She flushed. “Your depiction of my breasts was shamefully accurate.”

His mouth quirked in a smile. “I know that now. It was just a guess at the time. In addition, I decided to bestow you with a bosom I would find remarkably appealing. Funny how you ended up looking just like that.”

Helena floundered. He was telling her he had fantasized about her, and apparently she’d lived up to his dreams. He had far outdone the wicked dreams she’d had about him.

“You are sleepy, my dear,” Grey said gently. “Thank you for today.”

Then he left Miss Winsome. He had plans for his day. He had nefarious reasons for sketching her, but she didn’t know it. He wanted to show the picture to Orley. Then take it around the rookery where Orley lived, in case someone recognized her.

But by the end of the day, Grey had nothing to show for his work. Orley didn’t recognize her, nor did anyone in Orley’s slum.

For Helena, her life as a duke’s mistress had truly begun.

For the first fortnight, Greybrooke visited her three times a day. As he’d said, she could spend her time as she wished when he was not visiting her. She went to the museum, to bookshops. She did all the things she did with children, even though she no longer had children to educate and entertain.

Shopping took a great deal of time. She’d had no idea how arduous it really was to be fashionable. Endless sittings for the seamstress who created her new, lacy, exquisite underclothes; measurements and fitting for gowns; purchases of bonnets and shoes. Greybrooke would make a request, and she had to ensure it was filled at once: She bought corsets of red lace and black satin, gossamer-thin stockings with exotic embroidery, garters in scandalous colors.

He either made love to her while she was bound or spanked her with his riding crop, pleasuring her to insanity while he did.

He fixed a swing in the special room, hanging from the ceiling, and when she sat on it, he would tease her quim with his tongue and his lips. She came so furiously she almost let go and fell off.

Within days, she was used to being naked for him. Used to seeing the pleasure in his eyes as he looked at her bare breasts, her rounded hips, her bottom. Each time, he told her she was beautiful. She saw her quim as a wickedly pleasurable place now instead of a place she wasn’t supposed to touch.

To please Greybrooke—because she loved pleasing him—she became rather good at sucking his cock. She’d learned to overwhelm him with stimulation. She even played with his ballocks while suckling, which always made him explode.

Every time he came to see her, it was for sex. He never spent the night. Certain nights they dined together. She learned his favorite dishes. He loved fish in light sauces, rare roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and he had a weakness for chocolate desserts. Even something as simple as a fluffy mousse in a long-stemmed glass brought a look of ecstasy to his handsome face.

She had all the gowns she could desire. She discovered that the stables in the mews held two gorgeous gray mares for her use, and Greybrooke gave her a glossy, jaunty pale blue curricle. She’d never driven one before, but he patiently taught her a few basic skills. Every morning, breakfast was brought into her bedchamber on a silver tray.

And then there were the jewels.

The second day after she had moved into the town house, he presented her with a necklace of rubies. Then he gave her ear-bobs dripping with emeralds. After that, a diamond bracelet.

Already she had sold one necklace and put the money in an account for her sisters, so her family would be assured of food on the table, new shoes, and clothes. She was going to use her allowance to create a dowry for her sisters. Greybrooke was giving her more than she could dream of spending. Really, how did mistresses end up impoverished? They must spend like drunken sailors, or gamble away their money.

Helena supposed it was sinfully wrong, but she was
happy
as Greybrooke’s mistress.

Only two things were making her worry. The first: She had not yet told Whitehall what she’d discovered.

The second? While Greybrooke made love to her three times a day and rocked with climaxes that seemed to shatter him, he never removed his clothes. He always bound her hands so she couldn’t touch him. And he always looked haunted, as if he were being constantly whipped by his own secret devils.