Deeply In You (7 page)

“So you want to see a gaming hell to see what lures your brother?”

That made sense! That gave the perfect excuse for her determination to go. “Yes.”

“Your wish is my command,” Greybrooke said easily. “Can you sneak out of the house at night?”

“Yes. I can get out through the kitchens and though the rear gate. I will meet you at the bottom of the mews, at the street.” It meant she could spend time with him, and not in a bed. Wearing shackles.

“At midnight.” Glinting, his emerald eyes met hers. “At midnight, your adventure begins.”

M
idnight came with echoing rings from a distant clock but no sign of Miss Winsome in the mews. Grey checked his pocket watch while his harsh breathing filled the silence of his carriage. Even waiting for her, he was rock hard with arousal.

Normally, when he desired a woman, it was in an indifferent way. One bedmate was much like another. A momentary flare of excitement and interest, one quickly sated. Certainly, he had never sat with his forehead pressed to the window, cursing the passing minutes.

For a rake, this strange obsession should be a warning sign. Instead, it fascinated him. It captured his thoughts, took charge of his mind, helped him forget. Oddly, this game of seduction took his thoughts away from his hellish past even more than sex did.

He peered into the gloom as if he could make Miss Winsome materialize by sheer force of will. His heartbeat quickened as a figure walked out of the shadows toward him.

Damn. His anticipation deflated. Light from a street flare fell on the person and revealed a slightly battered beaver hat, a man’s long coat, and boots.

Grey uttered a ripe curse beneath his breath and lifted his fist to the ceiling, ready to rap on it, a signal for his coachman to drive on. It appeared his feisty, intriguing governess had lost her courage—

The thighs on the young man jiggled. Plump, shapely, those thighs strained the fabric of the breeches. This was no lad. It was Miss Winsome in men’s clothing.

Grey pushed open the door and reached out. Clasping Miss Winsome’s hand, clad in an oversized men’s glove, he helped her up the steps. His footman’s impassive stare faltered for a moment, showing surprise as her voluptuous bottom moved past him, up the steps.

“That will be all, Trim,” he growled. The servant bowed and closed the door.

Before Miss Winsome could sit down, Grey caught her by her rounded hips. “Turn around.”

When she stared at him in surprise from beneath the brim of her black beaver hat, he rotated her so her arse faced him. She wore a tailcoat of blue—in the fashion of several years ago. The tails jutted out, following the two lush gloves of her rump. “Darling, are you really trying to make people believe you’re a man?”

She tried to turn, but his firm grip prevented her. Her golden waves had been ruthlessly pinned down beneath her hat. She must have flattened her pretty tits with banding.

“I am going to a gaming hell,” she said. “Are they not solely for gentlemen?”

“No, there are females there. However, not dressed as you are.”

“You mean
ladies
go there?”

“Prostitutes, Miss Winsome. In very little clothing.”

“That was what I thought.” She twisted to face him, arms folded over her chest. “I am not going to go in that sort of disguise. And I must be disguised. If anyone were to recognize me, it would be disastrous for Lady Winterhaven.”

“True.” He would face the wrath of Jacinta for that. His carriage lurched off, and he held her hips so she would not fall. He was going to have to figure out how to have her as his mistress without having scandal taint Jacinta’s family. Seducing her governess into becoming his mistress would be exactly the sort of scandal that Lady X would write about.

“Could I sit down, Your Grace?”

He should allow her to do so, but having her full, rounded derriere at eye level was too much fun. “Did you raid my brother-in-law’s wardrobe? Though, considering he’s over six feet tall, I can’t see how you managed to make the stuff fit you.”

“The clothes belong to my brother.”

Her brother possessed the clothing of a gentleman. Intriguing, when she was a governess.

“Please, could I be seated, Your Grace?”

He loved it when her voice became stern. “Of course.” The carriage rounded a corner and she swayed, and he chose that moment to draw her onto his lap. Her bottom landed hard on his thighs—warm, soft, luscious. He would love to introduce her to sex from behind, with her hands and ankles bound, where he could slam against these two perfect pillows with his groin, driving his prick deep inside her.

Having to seduce a woman slowly was a new experience for him. Miss Winsome was a challenge.

He was also learning that Miss Winsome liked to challenge him. He suspected she liked challenges, period. Why else would she have taken the job with Jacinta’s children? His nephews had a demonic streak that drove nursemaids and governesses away, like he had always done. As much as he hated it, he was like his father; his nephews were like him. Maryanne’s blindness unnerved most servants. Most governesses had no idea how to communicate with the girl or how to deal with her tantrums and frustration.

But Miss Winsome did. She had taken those trials in stride. And in only a month had made remarkable progress with Maryanne.

“Even in gentlemen’s clothing,” he said softly, “you are still extraordinarily beautiful.”

She did an admirable job of looking repressive at his compliment, but she was on his lap, and he felt things she didn’t even know she had to hide. Little squirms and twitches.

“I suspect you would say something flattering even if I’d appeared in a sack, Your Grace.”

“You could make a sack seductive, Miss Winsome.” He let his breath brush her ear. Her answering shiver went through her, down to her derriere, which quivered on his thighs.

“In gaming hells,” he continued, “it is customary for a man to have his female companion seated on his lap.”

“I do appreciate your help, Your Grace, but I am not attending this place as your particular female companion.”

“So that’s your plan with your disguise. Not just to protect your identity, but to keep me to my vow of allowing you to select the pace of your seduction. I can’t sit you on my lap when you’re dressed as a man. You are a very worthy opponent, Miss Winsome.”

“Do you consider your mistresses as opponents?”

He rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t have said so, before meeting you, angel. But now that I look back, I suppose I have. Before you, it always has been easy.”

“Are you annoyed that I am not making it easy?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “No, I admire it about you, just as I admire your clever wits. I promised to take my time, and I always honor my word. But if we’re having this much fun before we’re even in bed, imagine, my sweet, how superb the sex will be.”

Those words echoed in Helena’s head at the same frantic rate as her breathing. One quick breath in:
how superb the . . .
One desperate breath out:
sex will be.

She had flung herself from his lap across the carriage to the opposite seat.

It hadn’t been fear that sent her leaping across the carriage. It had been
panic
. Margaret had told her, miserably, how physical desire had made her lose all good sense. It had been lust—powerful, overwhelming lust—that had got Margaret in such trouble, that had cost her half sister her life.

And Helena had felt a dizzying spurt of it when Greybrooke had said those words.

She didn’t know what to do. She was supposed to become his mistress without knowing what he meant by “his terms.” And deep in her heart, she didn’t want to be . . . ruined.

The carriage stopped. The duke gracefully jumped down from the vehicle to the sidewalk in front of the gaming hell. She waited for the footman to lower the steps, then hastened down and joined Greybrooke. As she reached his side, his posture changed. He leaned back slightly, his stance more aggressive. He was standing with her as if she really was a male. He exuded power and sensuality as he did. As a female, she was overwhelmed with awareness of him.

“Black’s is the best gaming hell in London,” he drawled.

She looked up. The tall town house almost disappeared into the night. Its exterior was simple. Closed drapes covered the windows. The address hardly looked elegant and sumptuous. But carriages with beautiful crests lined the street in a parade of obvious wealth—wealth about to be removed. “Best from whose point of view?” she asked wryly.

He inclined his head. “Point taken, Miss Winsome.” He strode up the front steps.

Panic flared, and she chased him to the front door. He knocked, and she whispered fiercely, “You can’t call me that here.”

He appraised her, brow quirked. “All right. I’ll think of something else.”

“
You
will? Shouldn’t I be the one to choose my assumed name?”

“My dear, I’m the one with the experience in wicked places.”

The way he said it . . . suddenly she felt as hot in men’s clothing as she did under her stays.

She couldn’t protest anymore—a man’s face appeared at the door’s grille. He saw the duke and admitted them instantly. Bald, six and a half feet tall with a huge chest, the servant did not speak a word, but Greybrooke allowed the man to divest him of his greatcoat, then handed over his tall hat and gold-tipped walking stick.

The servant turned to her. She had only Will’s tailcoat, but the man pointed to her hat. Obviously, he did not speak.

Instinctively she grabbed her hat—to hold it on. It hid her hair. She couldn’t give it up.

Greybrooke gave a discreet shake of his head, and the doorman retreated. She had worked in
ton
families, but it amazed her to see the duke’s innate power. He could command people without even uttering a word himself.

What would happen once a man accustomed to such obedience got her alone in his house?

A second servant hastened forward from his post by a closed set of double doors. Wearing an immaculate black coat along with a snow-white cravat, shirt, and waistcoat, the man bowed to Greybrooke with the bearing of a ducal butler.

“It is good to have you here this evening, Your Grace. Your usual table for faro? Or is it to be hazard, Your Grace? I acquired a crate of a most excellent French vintage and have reserved it in anticipation of your visit.”

Greybrooke’s teeth flashed in a teasing grin—one intended just for her. Helena’s stomach gave a little flip-flop.

“Champagne tonight, Melman,” he said casually to the servant. “Allow me to introduce my youthful cousin, Mr. George Caldwell, down from the country. Caldwell, this is Melman, the major domo of this establishment and the reason Black’s is the most famed gaming house in London.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The major domo bowed to her. Then, as he straightened and he studied her face, his brow shot up. Bother. Apparently she didn’t make a sufficiently convincing male.

“Is Black here tonight? I require a word with him.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I shall take you to him at once.”

The major domo whisked them through gilt-encrusted doors and through the gaming rooms—some were bathed in the golden light of chandeliers, other were shrouded in gloom. They mounted a sweeping stair and were shown into a massive, elegant parlor. It could have been the drawing room of Winterhaven House. Melman knocked discreetly on a pastel blue door. He returned in moments. “Mr. Black is honored to meet with Your Grace and Mr. Caldwell.”

“Oh, but I thought—I thought I could speak to him alone.”

The duke’s dark brow rose. Of course she’d made him suspicious. “It’s just that it’s a private family matter, Your Grace,” Helena said hurriedly in a false deep voice. “And my brother does not know of your involvement. . . .”

“I understand, cousin,” Greybrooke growled. “Allow me to speak to Black for a moment. Then you may go in. At that point, I guarantee he will grant you any request you make.”

How could he be sure of that? Her heart thundered and she paced. Did she give this man the truth—admit she was a female? Greybrooke returned and held the door for her. “Smile at him, admit you’ve dressed as a man on a dare, and Black will eat out of your hand.”

She had faced peers of the realm and told them how to improve their behavior with their children—she could face a gaming hell owner. Especially with the duke nodding encouragement. “You could not fail to charm him, my dear.”

“I’m not a great beauty.”

The duke’s brows shot up. “My dear, you are stunning.” She blinked. But there was no teasing smile—he was being honest. The Duke of Greybrooke thought her stunning?

“Outside and in,” he murmured.

Squaring her shoulders, she went inside the offices of Mr. Black. The man behind the desk looked like a pugilist. Gleaming bald head, heavy square jaw, nose cocked off to the side, narrow, fierce eyes. But as he looked up from his papers and saw her, Mr. Black leapt up and gave a beaming smile. “My dear, Greybrooke has told me about your troubles—I will be honored to help you. Give me the name of your brother, and I will have the word passed around London. Your brother will be discreetly turned away from all gaming establishments. It will be done so he will have no idea that you had anything to do with it, my dear.”

She could not quite believe it. “My brother is William Rains.” Then she requested awkwardly, “Please do not tell His Grace who my brother is.”

“Rains—the newspaper man?”

She nodded. “But I’ve been a governess, and I would never find work if the
ton
feared I had a connection to a newspaper.”

“Interesting.” Mr. Black scrubbed his jaw, which was shadowed in much black stubble. “Perhaps, in return, you could help me. Favorable accounts of my establishments in the papers. And discretion guaranteed for my patrons?”

She nodded. “Oh yes, I promise. I must thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir. You have spared an entire family—”

“Thank Greybrooke, miss, not me. He made a plea for your case—and an offer I could not refuse.”

“What kind of offer?”

“To encourage his wealthy peers to frequent my club, especially the ones who tend to lose.”

She left his office, closing the door behind her, to find Greybrooke pacing by the fire. He met her with concern. “Did he agree?”

“Immediately. You made him an irresistible offer. Thank you, Your Grace.” He had indeed rescued her.

“It was no trouble,” Greybrooke said dismissively. “Now—did you wish to begin our pleasures?”

“Oh!” She swallowed hard. Would he really give her time? Would he expect her to go to his bed in return for his help—maybe even tonight?