Deeply In You (3 page)

Or had he? Biting her lip, Helena glanced back. The duke was watching her, stroking his chiseled jaw, frowning. When he saw her head swivel, he lifted his hat in a gentlemanly farewell. His lips quirked in a smile, and his eyes glittered with amusement.

Had he just been teasing her because she’d chastised him?

It didn’t matter, did it? She’d discovered from gossip that Greybrooke was arrogant, licentious, and without any moral compass. Now she could imagine he was capable of anything.

Perhaps even treason.

A
woman in a corset, tied up, positioned on her hands and knees, with her naked derriere sticking up in the air. Normally this erotic scene would have him hard, intrigued, and ready to play.

Not tonight.

Damian Caldwell, the fifth Duke of Greybrooke—known as Grey—sighed. He rose from his engulfing black leather chair, which stood in front of the raised dais like a throne. He prowled to Ruby, who awaited him, positioned for his pleasure on a throw of purple velvet. She squirmed with anticipation.

Red-haired Ruby had her wrists and ankles bound with black leather straps. Her cheek was on the velvet surface, her pale bottom sticking out toward him. She wore a corset of black silk, laced tight to mold her generous curves into a sensual hourglass shape. Her breasts spilled over the cups, her rouged nipples squashed against the velvet.

She was waiting to be spanked.

He should be planning exactly what carnal game he wanted to play here, in the private domination room in this exclusive club, the House of Exotic Desires. He should not be thinking of Miss Winsome. But he could not seem to drag his thoughts away from her.

Grey strolled to Ruby and tapped her lightly on her ass with a riding crop. “Apologies, my dear. My heart is not in the game tonight. You deserve a more attentive gentleman to spank you.”

Her soft voice was partly muffled by the velvet, as she said desperately, “No, Your Grace, it’s you I want tonight. No other gent makes me feel what you do.” Her full breasts moved with her deep breaths. “You can make me come even before you touch me with the crop. I don’t know how you do it.”

He laughed gruffly. “You are charming, Ruby. On any other night, flattery would get you everywhere. But not this one, alas.”

He dropped the stiff-handled riding crop to the floor. Crouching, he helped Ruby to sit up. Her creamy breasts jiggled, her rouged nipples stuck out toward his mouth, but his cock did not even pulse.

He had struck up a regular appointment with Ruby because she submitted to his every desire. He liked to fuck hard, to take his pleasure to the edge.

So why was he so intrigued by Miss Winsome? A gentleman didn’t do the things he enjoyed with a prim, dutiful governess.

But it appeared his standing arrangement with Ruby was to come to an end. Lovely as she was, she no longer captured his interest.

Swift motions of his fingers undid the leather strap that bound Ruby’s wrists together. “You might as well rest, my dear, before your next client.”

Panic glinted in her large brown eyes. “Please do not leave, Your Grace. Mrs. Gull will think I’ve done something to displease you.”

“I will make it clear the fault is with me, not you.” He glanced around the domination room, with its chains and selection of whips, cat-o’-nine-tails, and riding crops. “I will ensure she knows it was your willingness to play these games that has encouraged me to be a regular patron.”

Ruby frowned. “You will come back, won’t you?”

“My dear, I have not made future plans.” Though he smiled down at her, his tone was cool, autocratic, and impersonal.

Ruby’s lips trembled, but she was not as foolish as the Countess of Montroy. She was too tough to heave chamber pots. “I will do my best to please you, Your Grace. I will do anything you want.”

“I have been very pleased with you, Ruby. Do not look so unhappy. Your obedient service will not go unrewarded.”

He would reward her with a pretty bracelet—with a few delicate rubies to match her dark red hair. A trifle to him, but it would delight Ruby, and she had pleased him for many months.

With that, Grey left the club. He had no intention of returning home—too many memories there and all of them bad. He avoided his home as much as he could. It was rare that he even slept there. He visited it only to change his clothing or partake of the occasional meal.

He commanded his coachman to take him to a dull, staid environment in which he could think in peace: the smoking room of White’s.

A half hour later, Grey was reclining in a leather club chair, a decanter of port on a side table, a tumbler of the liquor in his hand.

A vision continued to haunt him: Miss Winsome with her hands bound in front of her, her head thrown back in pleasure while he slowly brought her to ecstasy by tapping her nipples with a crop.

Damnation. With submissive Ruby, his cock had remained asleep.
Now
he was rock hard. Over a sexual delight he could never have.

“Since when do you spend the evening at White’s, Grey? No luscious female to dominate tonight, or did you decide you no longer wanted to have chamber pots hefted at you?”

Grey recognized the voice speaking behind him—one hoarse and raspy from the time the man had spent as a prisoner of war in Ceylon. “I’m thinking about acquiring a new mistress,” he casually said to the Duke of Caradon, known to friends as Cary since he’d held the title from the age of five.

“Ah.” Tall, blond Cary settled into a wing chair near him, a glass of brandy in his hand. “Who is the new lady?” he asked. “Or should I ask whose wife she is?”

“She’s unmarried and innocent.”

A brow rose on Cary’s world-weary face. “Not usually your taste.”

“This one is unique. And she is a governess.”

Cary jerked so abruptly in midsip, brandy flew out of his glass and splashed his face. “An actual governess who gives lessons and straps bottoms?”

“Yes, that sort of governess.”

Concern etched into Cary’s face. “Uh, Grey—”

“I know. A respectable virgin is off limits for a man with my tastes. But there’s something about her. Even her name is a temptation—Miss Winsome. What interested me most was that I rescued her before she and my nephew were run down by a carriage, and after I did, she told me off.”

“Sounds like hell. Why then the fascination?”

“The truth? I don’t know,” Grey admitted. “I suspect it’s because a woman with spirit is more intriguing to command.” He finished his drink, set it down. “Anyway, I can’t have her. Ruining an innocent is not something I intend to do. Miss Winsome is far too sweet and naïve to be introduced to my sexual tastes.”

Spotted near Berkeley Square yesterday, very near the home of the Countess of M———, the Duke of G———came within inches of adopting a new style of headgear. Fortunately, your devoted correspondent believes this new fashion has little chance of becoming all the rage. And rage was the operative word when a certain incensed lady flung a chamber pot through an open window, aiming at the handsome head of a certain rakish gentleman—

With a groan of frustration, Helena dropped her pen in the inkwell. Did she dare recount the duke’s near brush with the chamber pot in Lady X’s column? Would he then realize Lady X had to be someone who witnessed the event? Or would it be more suspicious if she didn’t report this scandalous bit of news?

Greybrooke was one of several eligible dukes this Season. Never—in the history of England, it was claimed—had there been so many handsome, wealthy unmarried dukes at one time. The print shops carried many cartoons of slavering young ladies desperate to snag a duke, any duke. In her column, Helena had first dubbed them the “Dazzling Dukes.” But just before the edition had gone to press, she’d realized her mistake. “Dazzling” was a word used by a naïve young woman with hopes of love. A sophisticated woman such as Lady X would bestow them a name that would sell newssheets.

Thus she called them the Wicked Dukes.

Lady X would certainly know about a scandal involving a Wicked Duke. She must give the story to Will to be printed—

Downstairs, she heard an echoing bong. One o’clock in the morning. Helena snuffed her candle and threw on her threadbare cloak. It was time to sneak out into the night and meet the man who was forcing her to spy on the Duke of Greybrooke.

Out the rear kitchen door, across the garden to the gate, then a headlong run down the mews with her cloak streaming back. On the street, a carriage waited, and she hurried up its steps, firmly shutting the door behind her.

The carriage lurched off, leaving the shadows of the mews for the glow of the street flares on Mount Street. Two men sat inside, illuminated by the lamps. One was tall, thin, cadaverous Mr. Whitehall, the man from the Crown who had a skull-like face, had deeply shadowed wells for eyes, and was bald beneath his beaver hat. The other was her half brother, Will.

Whitehall leaned forward as she took a seat. “Do you have it? Have you got proof that Greybrooke is a traitor?”

Helena glanced to Will, who sat at her side. She really considered Will a brother, since Mama had been widowed, then remarried when Helena had been two. She and Will were very much alike in looks, since they looked like their mother, but not at all in temperament. She was cautious and careful; Will threw caution to the wind and believed all would work out. But their lives had been filled with things that hadn’t “worked out.”

Hope was written all over her brother’s handsome face, as well it might, since it was his secret gambling that had gotten them into this mess.

She faced Whitehall, who glared down his beak of a nose with penetrating black eyes. “No, I do not yet have any proof.”

After she had agreed to this “mission,” as Whitehall called it, he had arranged meetings every third night, held in this carriage so they could have privacy. She had to sneak out of her employers’ home, but she was certain no one noticed her slip out the kitchen door, then go across the yard to the rear mews.

“I expected results by now, Miss Winsome.” Whitehall turned to her brother. “I could have employed a courtesan to get into his house. Some trollop with a big bosom would have done better than your sister, after you assured me she would succeed.”

Will looked a bit shocked, but he assured quickly, “My sister will find the proof. There is no one better than Helena at ferreting out secrets.”

“I will find it.” Helena spoke coolly. She held her ground with dukes and earls—she had her rules for the raising of children, and she would not break her rules even at her employers’ command. She refused to be intimidated by Whitehall, even if the man did hold the futures of Will, their newspaper, and their younger sisters in the palm of his hand. If Will’s gaming debts were not paid, their family would be destitute, the newspaper gone, everyone cast into a gruesome, prison-like workhouse. Whitehall had promised to pay those debts, if she found the proof he needed. “But I want to know why you believe he is a traitor, Mr. Whitehall.”

Whitehall stiffened. “It is enough that I know he is.”

“From a very brief encounter with the Duke of Greybrooke, I learned he is a charming scoundrel and a man with very lax morals. At that moment, I did think him capable of betraying his country. But since then, I have changed my mind.”

“I am not interested in your personal thoughts, Miss Winsome. I thought that was clear when you accepted this assignment. You have a job to do, for which you will be generously paid.”

She pursed her lips. “I do not do any task blindly, Mr. Whitehall.”

“Helena, don’t,” muttered Will. His handsome face was pale with worry.

But she had to. There was something very wrong. The duke had been bold and naughty. But now that she’d had a chance to calm down, she realized Greybrooke had been deliberately teasing her.

“Greybrooke saved his nephew’s life, snatching him up before he was hit by a carriage,” she said. “The duke obviously adores his niece and nephews. Would such a man be willing to destroy
their
country?”

Will put his hand on her arm. “Helena, we must do as Mr. Whitehall asks.”

“But what if we cannot find proof because he is innocent?” she asked. “Will you still save my brother from his gaming debts?”

Pure panic flashed in Will’s eyes. Icy cold radiated from Whitehall’s small eyes. “There is no doubt you will find evidence, Miss Winsome, because Greybrooke is guilty.”

“But why are you certain?” she pressed. “The duke does not seem to have been impoverished or indebted, so he did not need money. He appears to have no interest in politics.”

“Secrets,” Whitehall said. “There are secrets over which a man can be blackmailed to do anything.”

“Goodness, I’ve heard nothing about any scandals like that in Greybrooke’s life. I know there are rumors about his father’s death. But that would not make a duke betray his country.”

“The Duke of Greybrooke has secrets, Miss Winsome. It is your job to find them. And if you do not succeed quickly, your family will lose everything.”

Whitehall rapped on the ceiling—a signal the carriage was to return to the mews.

“What you need to do, Miss Winsome, is get into the duke’s house. Search for letters. Diaries.” Whitehall’s eyes glittered coldly. “Remember: One of the most expedient ways to get into Greybrooke’s house is through his bed.”

“The world must be coming to an end. My brother is out of his bed in the morning.”

Ignoring his sister’s playful sarcasm, Grey went to Jacinta, rested his hands on the back of her chair, and lightly kissed the top of her head. She twisted in her seat, her hand on her rounded belly. A stack of folded letters sat in front of her on the blotter of her writing desk. Rain beat against the windows, but a fire crackled in the grate, giving his sister’s morning room cheery warmth. Two lamps were lit on the desk, casting a halo of gold around her honey-blond hair.