Deeply In You (17 page)

The counterpane. He stared at it, slightly confused, still lost somewhere between the nightmare in his sleep and the strangeness of waking. Why was there a cover over him?

Then he knew. Miss Winsome must have found him out here and had covered him up. He was damp with sweat, his brain fogged from being overheated. But he was cooling fast now and his wits were clearing. He got silently to his feet.

A soft sound came to him. Footstep? A door opening? It hadn’t come from the bedroom.

He turned and saw a sliver of blue-white light spilling from his correspondence room. Padding on bare feet, he knew how to move with stealth. He had done it on the day of his father’s death, thinking he could get there in time, catch his father, avert disaster, only to be shocked into reality by the explosion of a pistol.

Hell . . .

Reaching the door, he knew the curtain had to be open. Now he heard a soft rustle of paper, and quick breathing. Pushing the door gently, he opened it enough to take a peek.

Miss Winsome, looking like a ghost in her glowing white shift, was leaning over his desk, flipping the pages of his journal. The book had been a gift from Jacinta. She’d thought writing things down would help him to put the past behind him. It would be like saying:
That is done, it is over, you can go on.
Some madness that women believed, Grey supposed. But she’d been so earnest he couldn’t just discard the book. He had hidden it in a drawer.

Why in hell was his mistress searching his desk?

After years of abuse, he wasn’t capable of hot rage anymore. His anger was cold, and it moved over him like ice forming on a pond.

But his parents were dead; neither of them had paid Miss Winsome to spy on him. So what in the blue blazes was she doing?

He could confront her. Intimidate the truth out of her, then toss her out on her lovely arse.

Bloody hell, she’d made him laugh with delight. When she’d sucked his cock, he’d felt like he’d touched heaven. He should have known it was all a bloody lie.

She set down the journal. Then she bent, running her hand to the very back of the drawer. Efficient little spy, wasn’t she? He knew exactly what she was going to find.

She pulled out a stack of paper, edges curled, tied with a strip of leather. His mother’s letters. What was in them? Nothing damning—his mother was too careful for that.

He could put an end to this right now. Or he could play along. Find out who Miss Winsome was doing this for.

Finally she gathered the letters back together. He watched how carefully she did it, obviously ensuring the letters were in the same order. She retied the leather string. It looked as if the letters had never been touched. She slid the packet to the back of the drawer, eased it closed.

She was very good at this, he observed.

She wouldn’t have learned anything from the letters—nothing of the real truth of his sick past. Nothing of the secrets he and Jacinta had struggled to hide. All she would have known was that his mother had pleaded with him to forgive her.

Ice-cold anger thrummed in his veins. His heart felt like stone. He could have walked into the room, wrapped his hand around her neck, and squeezed the life out of her.

It scared him because he knew he could have done it, driven by years of fury. He could have killed her because he’d never had the chance to hurt the people who had whipped, beaten, punished him.

She closed the drapes, again taking care to ensure they hung a certain way—the way she must have found them. Grey left his place by the door and sauntered back to the bedroom. He had taken a cheroot out of a box beside the bed when she crept back in.

Even by the dim firelight, he saw her go pale when she saw him. Saw her slight jump backward, and the nervous way her hand went to her throat. “I woke up,” she said. “I had to go to the retiring room. You were asleep on the daybed.”

“Since we’re both awake,” he said. “I might as well take you home.”

Her hair braided, dressed in her plain white nightdress, Helena padded through the quiet nursery. Moonlight glowed on the children’s toys, the wood floor, the tiny tables and chairs. She paused to pick up one of Timothy’s toy horses.

Tears welled, and she wiped them away. She loved children. Even when Margaret had died, and Helena had learned that men could be scoundrels, she’d still wanted to have a husband and children of her own. It was too late for that.

A soft whimpering sounded from the children’s bedroom. She found Timothy in his bed, his legs moving as if he were running. She bent to his side, soothed him until she broke the grip of his nightmare and he settled into sleep.

She was tired. She went back to her bedchamber. She had a stub of a candle burning, on the small table beside her simple cot. She couldn’t go to bed yet. There was something she had to do, and she needed the candle to do it—

“Couldn’t sleep, Miss Winsome? Neither could I.”

Greybrooke. Not possible. But he was there, sitting on her plain chair. “How can you be up here, in my bedroom?”

“I climbed the stairs.”

He had left his carriage at the bottom of the mews and walked her up to the back kitchen door. She’d slipped inside without anyone noticing. She’d assumed he had gone home. “But you’ll be caught up here. What if Lady Winterhaven finds you?”

“You’re my mistress now.”

A flare of panic gripped her heart. “Yes, but we can’t be obvious about it.”

“Lie on the bed,” he said. “On your stomach.” From his pocket, he pulled out the black velvet ropes.

Seeing them, she felt her cunny ache. She shouldn’t do this. But obediently she lay on her tummy. Her sheets were cool beneath her.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

She did as he asked, her heart thumping. He tied her hands together so they were captured behind her, resting near the swell of her bottom. She squirmed, wantonly aroused. Then the duke moved her, lifting her bottom, arranging her on her knees with her bared rump in the air.

Something bumped her bottom. She couldn’t really see. Her cheek was pressed against the bed. It felt like a wand, or a fireplace poker.

Her shift was pushed up, baring her rump. She struggled to look back. Greybrooke was moving between her legs, his trousers pushed to his hips. His enormous erection stuck out, hard as a brick, and he was pushing it down. The head of it stroked her derriere.

He slid it between her legs from the back, the shaft stroking her cunny lips, then the sensitive place.

He thrust slowly back and forth, drawing across her throbbing nub like a bow over a finely tuned string. His voice whispered over her ear, his breath warm and gentle. “Does your clit like to have my prick sawing across it?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. She was growing wet. Her juices must be leaking on his shaft. She felt erotic in this submissive position, her breasts crushed against the bed, her round bottom bared to him. “But, Your Grace, I mustn’t make love with you. I can’t.”

“We’re not going to. Not now. But I want you to understand you are my mistress now, Miss Winsome.

His hips shifted, drawing his erection back, then his hands rested on her thighs. He got onto his back on the bed and slid between her legs. Suddenly he pulled her on top of him, her cunny landing on his mouth. His tongue slicked over her—over her clit. He suckled her expertly, while she gasped and whimpered and tried desperately not to moan.

She’d never dreamed of being sprawled on top of the duke. It was scandalous. Wicked. Wanton. But so good, so irresistible, she was melting in pleasure.

His tongue surged in her, teasing her, then flicked over her nub again. Over and over. Her fingers curled and her head lolled on the bed, and all she could think of was how good it was to have his tongue loving her—

Heavens!

She had to bite her lip hard to smother wild cries as a fierce orgasm ravaged her.

He moved back, and she felt his hands at the velvet ties securing her wrists. As he freed them, she sat up. Inside she was filled with worry: Had she been too loud? Had anyone heard her? Lady Winterhaven would be scandalized if she found out what they’d done. Goodness, she was so wicked for doing it in the house—

“Tomorrow morning I will come and break the news to Jacinta.” His voice sounded like ice. Moonlight slanted across his face. He had pleasured her expertly, but there was no smile on his lips now. He seemed a different man than the one who had laughed with her earlier. Something about him felt . . . colder.

Something was different . . . was off . . . she didn’t know why. “What news?” Helena asked, confused.

“That you are leaving immediately with me. I have a house rented for you. You’ll have to say good-bye to the children tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You want me to leave? I cannot.”

“Yes, you can, my dear. You are no longer a governess.” With that, he turned and left. Without a good-bye. Or a kiss.

She shivered. He seemed angry. Coldly, brutally so. But why?

If he knew she’d searched his desk, she could understand. But he had been asleep. Anyway, there had been nothing to find.

If he was angry over making her his mistress, why then would he do it? And if he thought she was snooping on him, he wouldn’t want her, would he? He would angrily cast her aside.

He had a house rented for her. Tomorrow, she would have to say good-bye to the children. Goodness, she had not thought about that—about the moment she would have to tell them she was leaving.

She couldn’t turn back now. Greybrooke might be angry, but she felt like bursting into tears. She wasn’t being whisked away happily into a mistress’s life. She was afraid, and he—for some reason—was cold.

And it had been for nothing, because she hadn’t found anything.

There had been a letter from Lady Winterhaven in the unused journal. It had been simple:
For you, Grey. To write things down. It will make you feel better. It will help you to put the past aside. I promise, Jacinta.

If only he had used it . . . if only he had put something down on paper. Lady Winterhaven must keep a journal and that must be why she had given one to her brother—

Oh goodness, she was dense.

Lady Winterhaven might have put the truth in
her
journal. And her ladyship wrote everything at her desk in the morning room.

Helena was shaky, confused by her conversation with Greybrooke, but she had to deal with her mission. And she had only tonight to find Lady Winterhaven’s journal.

“T
imothy, that is a superb ‘T’,” Helena declared. “Your letters are improving by leaps and bounds.”

Timothy smiled, then stuck out his tongue as he labored on the “I.”

In the schoolroom, she watched Michael and Sophie practice their handwriting in their copy books and helped Timothy with his shaky attempts at printing his letters.

A light rap sounded on the door. Helena looked up to find a young maid breathless in the doorway. “Miss Winsome, Her Ladyship wants to see you in the morning room. At once, Her Ladyship said.”

Helena’s heart dipped. Either it was about Greybrooke—about being his mistress—or she had not been as careful in reading Lady Winterhaven’s diaries as she’d thought.

In the middle of the night, she had used her hairpin to spring the lock on Lady Winterhaven’s writing desk and had read her ladyship’s journals.

She now knew what Greybrooke’s secret was.

She had been able to piece it together from Lady Winterhaven’s diary entries, and her blood had run cold as she’d read. Their father had been a monstrous brute. His death had not been an accident, nor had it been suicide. He had been deliberately killed. Lady Winterhaven had not said who had done it, but Helena suspected she knew.

It must have been Greybrooke’s father who had punished him, who had left the scars on his back. Greybrooke must have been the one to kill his father.

He’d been so brutally whipped and abused, she certainly couldn’t blame him. But from Lady Winterhaven’s journal, it sounded as if he had not done it because of the abuse he had suffered. He had done it to protect his sisters.

The punishments had begun when Greybrooke was very young—she’d gathered that from the diary. What would have happened to him as grew up? He would be angry, bitter, hurt. He could become incapable of loving someone, like a dog who was so accustomed to beatings, he snapped at any human. Could all that anger and hurt make him commit treason?

Helena reached the morning room, knocked on the closed door. Lady Winterhaven’s lovely, soft voice bade her to come inside.

There, amidst vases of white roses, white orchids, white lilies—flowers brought fresh from greenhouses every morning—stood Greybrooke. His arms were crossed over his broad chest. The raking light struck his high cheekbones and strong jaw, making him look cold, strong . . . and sensual.

Sensual but intimidating.

It felt terrible to stand in front of them, knowing their secret, while they both had no clue she had spied on them, betrayed their trust. She had not yet told Whitehall. She didn’t
want
to tell him. This secret was so private, so dangerous and destructive. She feared putting it in the hands of that ruthless man.

“I would like a word alone with Miss Winsome, Grey,” Lady Winterhaven said.

Greybrook leaned his hips against the writing desk, a dainty thing of white and gilt. “It’s not her fault I seduced her. I pursued her with single-minded determination.”

His defense of her touched her heart. Perhaps she was wrong—it wasn’t anger she sensed.

“I am not going to condemn her,” Lady Winterhaven declared, “but I am thoroughly annoyed with you, Grey, for stealing away the most wonderful governess I have ever had. And I really must speak to her
alone
.”

Greybrooke’s lips twisted in a frown, but he walked toward the door. As he passed his sister, he said softly, “It’s for the best, Jacinta.” Then he left.

What did he mean by that?

“Of course he says that,” Lady Winterhaven complained when he left. “He doesn’t have to hire a new governess. I should make
him
go and find one. A
good
one. Now—” Her ladyship crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you understand what you were doing when my brother seduced you?”

Helena swallowed hard. “I—I did know what I was doing.”

“Are you certain? My brother can be very persuasive. One of the maids told me you were looking rather furtive, hurrying out of the house with a box. A gift from Grey, I suppose. What did he give you?”

She could not say
shackles.
Heat raced down from her hairline.

“Hmmm, I should have known it would be something naughty.”

“It was poetry. And . . . umm, jewels.”

“Grey is very generous. I will say that. But his interest does not last long. That is just the way he is. He usually moves from one paramour to another after a few weeks. Are you certain you wish to surrender your future for something so brief? You are a clever woman, and you could probably live comfortably for life on what Grey will give you. But I do wish you would stay.”

Stay? That startled her. She thought Lady Winterhaven would be scandalized. She had expected to be tossed out in haste. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Not now.”

“The children adore you, Miss Winsome. And you have done marvels with Maryanne.”

Her tongue was so thick and clumsy, it was hard to speak. “There is nothing wrong with Lady Maryanne. She must be treated as a normal girl, that is all.”

“That is very true. However, I still believe you are a miracle worker.”

Lady Winterhaven’s blue eyes looked upon her with a kindness and admiration Helena didn’t deserve, having rifled through her ladyship’s writing desk. “I’ve agreed to become Greybrooke’s mistress. I can’t turn back now.”

“You could, my dear. Just tell me if that is what you want.”

But Helena shook her head.

Lady Winterhaven sighed. “I could kick my brother for tempting you away. You will say good-bye to the children, of course.”

“Oh!” Goodness, she
would
have to do that. “Oh, yes, of course.”

It would break her heart.

“Why do you have to go, Miss Winsome? Couldn’t you stay? Did we make you go away because we are naughty sometimes? We do mean to listen and do what you say. Truly we do.”

Grey watched Miss Winsome drop to her knees on the nursery room floor and hold out her arms. Michael stood with his small shoulders back, his young chin pointed up, as straight and tall as a man. Beneath his tousled blond hair, his young face was brave. Then his eight-year-old lips wobbled and he barrelled into her arms.

Timothy ran at her and collided with her on the other side with such force, he almost knocked her over. It spoke of a sorrow so deep, it stunned Grey. Miss Winsome held his little four-year-old nephew tightly and stroked the lad while he clung to her skirts. “I don’t want to go, Timothy,” she said in a soft but firm voice, “but I have to.”

“But why do you have to?” His voice was muffled. “Mother wants you to stay. So does Father. I overheard them talking. They said they would never find another governess as good as you. They thought you were happy here.”

The last came out as an accusation. Grey knew young Timothy felt betrayed and saw pain in Miss Winsome’s blue eyes. “I am very happy here.” She patted his head soothingly. “I adore you, Sophie, and Michael, but something has happened that requires me to take another post.”

For a lie, it was a good one. But then, she was very adept at lying.

Timothy began to cry, sobbing into her brown wool skirt, so she drew him back. A soft pass of her thumbs wiped away his tears. Grey’s heart lurched and his chest grew tight. When he’d been a boy, no one had ever wiped his tears or held him. Instead, his parents had worked bloody hard to make him cry.

When Grey looked up, Miss Winsome was speaking to Michael. “You are going to go off to school soon, Lord Michael. To Eton. You will have a much grander education than what I can provide for you. I know you are going to be a great success at your lessons. You don’t need me anymore. Lady Sophie is to go to school too. And Lady Maryanne is to go out in Society.”

“Sophie thought you might be leaving to get married,” Timothy declared. “Are you going to marry some day?”

Grey heard her catch her breath. Then she ruffled the boy’s hair. “I don’t know. Someone would have to ask me.”

“If you are not married when I’m grown up,” Timothy said, his gaze level and serious for a four-year-old, “I will ask you to marry me.”

“That is very sweet.” Damn, Grey heard tears in her voice. “But I will be old then.”

Timothy shook his head. “You will never be old to me.”

She hugged the boy tight. “I was so very, very fortunate to be your governess, Timothy.”

He buried his chubby-cheeked face against her neck. “I love you, Miss Winsome.”

“I love you, Timothy. I always will. I love Lord Michael and Lady Sophie too. And Lady Maryanne. I shall never forget any of you.”

Seeing the sadness on Miss Winsome’s face broke his heart. It infuriated Grey. She had searched his desk, damn it. Why should he care about her when she was lying to him?

“Come, Miss Winsome, it’s time for you to go,” he said.

The children cried out in protest, but he wanted an end to this. Since she was lying, taking her away from them was for the best. He was protecting them. So why did he feel like the villain?

The town house was so new, she could smell fresh black paint on the railings. The curving row of three-story homes was pure, brilliant white—the soot of London’s many fires hadn’t yet marred the surface. Rain pattered on her umbrella. Roses grew in boxes at the front steps, a touch of vibrant pink at the end of each tight, green bud.

Greybrooke held out an ornate key. “Your new home.”

Leaving Lady Winterhaven’s house had felt as unreal as a dream. All she’d been able to think of was the children’s unhappiness. The cool key lying across Helena’s palm woke her up. Now she was most definitely Greybrooke’s mistress, and suddenly her entire life was different.

Escorted by the duke, she went up the front steps. The house was grander than anything she could have ever dreamed to possess. But then . . . what did the neighbors think? This was a respectable street. What would people think when they had seen a woman escorted inside by a gentleman, and then later discovered she lived alone? They would guess she was a mistress. Would it bother them? Would they avoid her, give her the cut direct?

What was a mistress’s life actually like? Helena realized she had no idea.

The duke rapped on the door, and it was answered by a plain-faced girl in a maid’s dress and snow-white cap.

Helena stepped inside, her half-boots echoing on the marble tile of the foyer. The maid took her cloak over one arm and the duke’s great coat over the other, with his hat and walking stick balancing on top.

Then it was a whirlwind—shock upon shock.

Greybrooke knew the house already. He walked with familiarity across the gleaming tile and opened the first door in the foyer. Following him, Helena stepped into a drawing room. A breathtaking room. White orchids filled it. The wallpaper was butter yellow, all moldings painted pure white. A settee of pale blue faced the windows, surrounded by plush-cushioned wing chairs. By the fire stood a dainty feminine chair and a sturdy masculine chair of dark brown leather. She caught her breath—he had chosen the chairs for them both.

Did that mean he intended to spend a lot of time here?

“My secretary has engaged three maids, a lady’s maid, a cook, and a groom,” Greybrooke said. “However, from here forward, staffing decisions are yours to make. I advised on the decoration of the house, but I want you to put on your personal stamp. Change what you wish.”

He named the figure of her monthly allowance, and she almost collapsed at the knees.

“All this just because I—I will be your lover?”

“All this because you do it on my terms,” he said.

At first he had sounded matter-of-fact about all this. Now she shivered at a trace of coldness.

From the drawing room, they went to a music room, complete with an exquisite pianoforte. There were entertaining rooms, which surprised her.

“Sometimes I expect to give parties, attended by friends,” he said. “I will let you review the kitchens and the staff yourself.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Her parents had kept a small staff, but even so she knew how to manage servants.

“This is one of my favorite rooms.” The duke opened a door of robin’s-egg blue and revealed a morning room, positioned on the front corner, where it would be bathed in light on sunny days. She now possessed her own delicate white-and-gilt writing desk. Which brought a crippling spurt of guilt.

You know his secret—what are you going to do?

She didn’t know.

He was putting on a damned good act.

Ever since he’d been a child, Grey had never trusted anyone, except Jacinta, Maryanne, and his niece and nephews.

He watched Miss Winsome’s face as he introduced her to her house. Watched her with cold anger that he fought to conceal. He saw many emotions: surprise, delight, sadness.

Had she deliberately arranged their first meeting in the park? Was she an accomplice of the blackmailer, hunting for secrets to use on him? Why else search his desk and read his letters?

He was going to seduce the truth out of Miss Winsome, use sex to overcome her defenses. That was his reason for acquiring this house, for behaving as though he just intended to make her his mistress.

She stood at the window of the morning room, looking out over a small rose garden. Tears glittered in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was just thinking of the children. I thought I would be the one who was sad, not they.”

Grey’s heart lurched.
Damn, remember you can’t trust her.
“They loved you very much.”

Her hand clutched the edge of the curtain. She didn’t answer.

“Miss Winsome?”

She turned to him, wearing a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say a word because I have an enormous lump in my throat. I will miss them terribly. But I’m sure Lady Winterhaven will find a good governess.”

He didn’t understand. Miss Helena Winsome was underhanded, cunning, devious. She had manipulated him with brilliance. But the children loved her. With them she had been good, kind, patient. The way she had calmed Maryanne’s tantrums was remarkable. How could a woman who lied so easily, who was so damned deceitful, be so good with the children?