Deeply In You (12 page)

“You’ll let him walk out of here with two thousand pounds,” Cary spluttered quietly.

“I will.” He turned again to the old man. “I can provide handsomely for your daughter and your grandchild. I can ensure their safety and their futures.”

The man finally nodded. “I trust ye, Yer Grace. I go by the name of Orley.”

“You can leave here tonight and finish your errand. I will meet you tomorrow.”

“Aye, Yer Grace. I can be found in the Old Nichol.”

Grey knew the place. Orley meant the Old Nichol Rookery, between Shoreditch in the north and the silk weaving industry of Spitalfields in the south. He gave the old man the package he was to deliver to the blackmailer. “Then go. I’ll find you tomorrow,” he promised.

Caradon glared as Orley hobbled off, moving slowly over the sand of the Rotten Row. “Aren’t we at least going to follow him?”

Grey watched the old man reach the Grosvenor Gate, then limp along Park Lane. “No, he might be being watched by the blackmailer. I can’t take that chance.”

“You do realize that tale of his was probably a pack of horse dung and you just let him walk out of here with a couple of thousand pounds. The sight of your pistols might have had him spouting the truth.”

“I think it was the truth,” Grey said thoughtfully. “Though I have to wonder about a villain who sends an old man, essentially a stranger, to collect two thousand pounds.”

Caradon frowned. “What are you being blackmailed over, Grey? You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not the victim. I’m doing this to help a lady.” Grey began walking toward the gate, boot soles sinking into the grass.

Cary fell in stride with him. “A lady? Dear God, you don’t mean Jacinta, do you?” Cary’s face rarely showed pain, but it was stark now. “I would lay down my life for her. I lost her to Winterhaven, but I’ve never gotten over her.”

“It’s not my sister.”

“What other woman would you do it for?”

“Unfortunately that is something I can’t tell you, Cary.”

“Once you’ve found this Orley tomorrow, how are you going to find the blackmailer?”

“That I don’t yet know,” Grey admitted.

“Should we hunt together tomorrow night?”

“Not at night—tomorrow night I have an arrangement. I’m escorting an innocent into the world of whips, ropes, and riding crops.”

Cary stared at him as if he were insane. “Not your governess?”

“Yes, as sinful as it is, I intend to introduce the pretty governess to my dark world.”

“Grey, you should not do this.”

“Afraid I’m behaving like my demon of a father? Maybe I am like him after all. I can’t seem to resist her, even if it means corrupting her into darkness.”

The house stood at the end of a row of gleaming, new white townhouses in a respectable street on the fringe of Mayfair. Elegant carriages stood along the curb. Gentleman moved through the discreet darkness—the street flare here was not lit—swarming to the house like bees to the hive. Through the carriage window, Helena watched these peers of the realm stride up to the door and disappear inside. Greybrooke sat at her side, his presence truly filling the carriage. He didn’t touch her, but his long legs stretched out, his arm rested along the back of the velvet seat. Her quick breaths took in his sensual scent.

“What is this place? A b-brothel?” The word came out shakily.

“A private club.” In Greybrooke’s deep voice, the words sounded sinful.

The carriage stopped. “Come,” he said simply. He handed her down, and in mere moments they were admitted to the inside of the club—the place in which things happened that he wanted her to do but that he would not describe.

He had spoken little since he had let her into his carriage at the end of the mews. For most of the journey, he’d stared out of his window, his eyes troubled, his hand stroking his jaw. It didn’t reassure her that he looked as if he were about to face hell.

Finally she’d said, “Your Grace, you look as if you are about to face an executioner.”

“It’s not about you, tonight, or us, my dear. There was a man I had promised to protect and I was unable to do so. I found him in his rooms this morning, badly beaten and almost dead.”

She’d gasped. “But why?”

“That is my private affair. But it represents a failure on my part. A misjudgment. My mistake almost cost a man his life. I do not like it when that happens.”

He had spoken so strangely. Distantly, even though he was obviously deeply troubled. Was this related to treason? “But how could you have protected him? Who attacked him?”

“I don’t know who did it. But I knew he was in danger and I did not take the right steps. Thus I am to blame.”

Goodness, could a man who felt such regret have committed treason? “I should think the blame should be attached to the man who hurt him! Perhaps we shouldn’t go tonight—”

“No, this gives me more reason to go,” he’d said. “I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts tonight. Imagining the look in your eyes tonight is giving me something to look forward to.”

She’d gulped.

Now they stood inside the foyer, which had walls of crimson silk and patterned lamps that gave an eastern, exotic look.

“The décor is hell,” he said casually. “But the sex in here will astound you.”

Astound? Helena wasn’t certain that was quite the word.

His hands came toward her. She pulled back by instinct—then cursed herself. This was it. Whatever he wanted to do, she must let him. But his fingers captured the sides of the black mask she wore, and he adjusted it over her face until he nodded with satisfaction.

For her introduction to this place, Greybrooke had sent her a package discreetly by one of his footmen. It had contained a slender dress of crimson velvet and a mask of papier-mâché painted black and dusted with gold. Actual gold, that glimmered in the light.

“The black is sensual and exotic against your golden curls,” he mused. “It emphasizes how beautiful, full, and tempting your mouth is. There is only one thing missing.”

From his pocket he drew a black velvet ribbon, then lifted it and let it stroke across her lower lip. Fireworks shot through her once more, making her gasp. Then a large, cool stone bumped her mouth. The ribbon was actually a choker of black velvet from which one ice-white stone dangled.

Greybrooke drew it around her neck, the velvet tickling her, and he fastened it at her nape. A tiny chain dangled from the clasp, teasing the skin of her neck.

“This is not a diamond,” she gasped. “Not a real one. It can’t be. It’s too large.”

“I am a duke,” he murmured.

“I cannot accept a gift like this.”

“It’s part of your disguise, Miss Winsome. No one will believe you are my mistress unless you wear jewels, and they will wonder why I’ve brought you otherwise. Questions would be asked. The
ton
will be like a hound on a scent to learn your identity. And I do not want to cause scandal for Jacinta.”

“I know. I don’t want to be a part of a scandal either,” she whispered.

A strange sound floated down the corridor. Goodness, it was a moan of agony. She blinked. “Is someone in pain?”

“It is quite likely.”

She gaped at his profile.

“What?” Green eyes twinkling, he faced her.

“Why in heaven’s name do you come to a place like this? Why do you want to do such odd things if they hurt?”

“The truth?”

“I guess I would like to know the truth.”

“The truth is that I don’t know. This is what I like, what I enjoy. In here, this is sex at its most addictive. Gentlemen like me are taught to be noble and proper for our whole lives, to watch our language around females, curtail our drinking, control our gambling. A certain amount of vice is acceptable, but only if we stay true to our two vows—noblesse oblige or our unwritten promise to never crack our sangfroid. A place like this, unfettered and raw, where you break rules, where sex is a knife’s edge between pleasure and pain, has its appeal.”

The duke stopped in front of a set of double doors and opened one. “This is one of the voyeurs’ rooms. One intended for group play.” Crooking his finger, he coaxed her to look.

A woman had her hands tied to a bar suspended by two ropes. She was naked, but Helena couldn’t see much of her figure since she was sandwiched tight between two naked men.

Helena could see the backside of one man. He had raven black hair, like Greybrooke. His buttocks were hard, his haunches sucked tightly in, his legs shaped of muscle—

She was looking at a stranger’s bottom!

The other man stood behind the naked female. He was blond, with a graceful build, like a Greek athlete, but all she could see was his bare arm, with bulging biceps, and his powerful leg. The raven-haired man was built like a laborer, with an enormous back formed of solid muscle, a small waist. His narrow, tight buttocks looked as if they were made out of rock. He appeared to be pumping his hips forward, his hips slapping against the woman, squashing her rather large breasts....

Suddenly Helena knew what she was looking at, and she turned so abruptly she slammed into the duke’s chest. She shut her eyes tight. “I can’t watch them. It’s private.”

“It’s not, my dear. There are peepholes on the far wall. Many men are watching them. They are performers, putting on a show to arouse the members of the club.”

“It is a show?”

“Gentlemen pay an extravagant annual subscription to be a member of this club, which caters to the
ton
’s darkest desires.”

“If it is a performance then they aren’t really . . . I mean not in front of people . . .”

“Both men are penetrating deep inside her. She’s stuffed full, with two large cocks. They are separated by only the thinnest wall of flesh. All three enjoy being watched—it adds to the pleasure for them. She moans louder, they thrust harder to delight their audience. There’s no need to be shocked.”

“There is
every
need to be shocked.”

His hand skimmed her neck. Somehow he knew exactly where to touch her to make her shiver all the way down to her slippers. “Not yet. There’s more I wish you to see.”

“Is this the sort of thing you do? You don’t want to share me, do you?”

“No.” His eyes twinkled. “I would want to keep you for myself.”

She let him lead her, though her legs wobbled like jelly. With her hand in the crook of his arm, she stepped into another room. Into another world.

Candlelight glowed, throwing a soft golden light over stunning things. It shimmered on a black satin blindfold that covered a woman’s eyes. Black ropes were wound about her wrists, keeping them behind her, and she was on her knees with her ankles bound.

Behind the woman, a tall gentleman in exquisite clothes, looking like Beau Brummel, lifted a whip. He gave a soft flick of the lash. It landed lightly on the woman’s rounded bottom.

The woman moaned, the sound low and throaty and sensual.

The man drew the whip back, catching the lash in his hand. Waiting.

The woman squirmed in anticipation.

The whip snapped again, but still lightly.

“How can she do this?” Helena gasped. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Greybrooke moved close to her and murmured, “He begins slowly. That builds the erotic excitement and the ability to endure more.”

“But why?”

“It is about an edge. The knife’s edge of pleasure. Sex for many is . . . complicated.”

Complicated! Surely that was an understatement. She touched his arm. “But how can she enjoy pain?”

“Some people need it. It is the only thing that satisfies them. And pain can be controlled. Modulated in how it is bestowed.”

She met his dazzling green eyes. Her lungs felt too tight to draw breath, and her stays seemed to be squeezing her heart. “You laugh with your niece and nephews and you are a loving brother! How can this darkness lure you to it?”

He frowned. “It’s not darkness, angel, it is pleasure. Look at them. Do you think they are thinking about anything else right now? I doubt it. This world makes me forget the past. I like to immerse myself in sexual games. Tie women with silk scarves or velvet ropes. Blindfold a woman so all she can focus on is what she feels and the way I touch her, caress her, or even spank her. I come here to commit all my attention to erotic scenes that give extreme ecstasy. I don’t bestow pain, but I might coax a woman to feel carnal agony.”

Her heart beat so hard. She wanted to take a knife and slice through the lacing of her stays, for they were far too tight. “But why can’t you forget without doing such wicked things?”

He shrugged. “This is far more fun.”

“But what is it that you want to forget? What have you done?”

“That I can’t say, my dear. You have to take me as I am if you are to become my mistress.”

Suddenly the woman let out a keening wail. Her head arched back, loose blond hair spilling. Her lover was pinching her nipples, and the woman writhed against the ropes that held her fast.

“She’s coming,” Greybrooke murmured, and she tensed at his husky, sensual tone.

The woman cried out, “Oh God. Oh, my lord. Oh yes, yes, yes!” Her cries were desperate and fierce, then they dissolved into sobs. Helena’s heart skipped a beat . . . until she saw the look on the woman’s face. Pure bliss.

“She—she enjoyed that,” she whispered.

“It gave her a remarkable orgasm,” Greybrooke said.

Remarkable? Another understatement, indeed. What had it truly felt like? It had seemed to take the woman to the limits of endurance. Yet, as her lover untied her, she glowed in delight.

Helena floundered. The woman had just enjoyed intense pleasure but this seemed . . . dark. She hated to think of Greybrooke being dark. Surely it must be wrong that he preferred these games to gentle intimacy. “I can teach and change children, Your Grace. You said you are not capable of love. You must be. You immerse yourself in vices and in darkness. Well, I believe I can change you.”

An amused smile touched his lips. “Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You are wrong, angel. But you’ve seen enough. I will take you home—”

“Could you take me to
your
home?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why, Miss Winsome?”