Deeply In You Page 11

  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?”

  She wanted to find a way to have another look for a journal and letters. But there was more....

  He might claim these things brought him pleasure, but she didn’t believe it. “I want you to kiss me again,” she said softly.

  “So you still intend to be my mistress? I won’t change, you know. I have no desire to be different. This is the kind of sex I most enjoy.”

  “I—I’m willing to gamble, Your Grace.”

  For a long time, he just watched her with brooding green eyes. She assumed he would refuse to see her again. She had pushed too far, and she had lost.

  “Not tonight,” he said finally. “The hour is late, and I do not want you to be caught by my sister. Tomorrow night you can try to change me. But if you want to be my mistress, you have to play my games first. We’ll try them slowly, gently, and discover if I can change you.”

  Then he bent, slanted his mouth over hers . . . and kissed her.

  8

  Grey’s carriage rolled past a row of modest, newly built townhouses. Caradon looked out the window, his blond brows lifting in surprise. “Are we visiting your mistress?”

  Grey shook his head. “I gave my word to Orley I would protect his daughter and his grandchild. I failed to keep the old man safe from harm, but I will not fail on the promise I’ve made toward his family. I’ve moved his daughter and the child into one of these houses, where she is now under my protection.”

  “Grey, it is not your fault that her father was attacked. You couldn’t have foreseen that the blackmailer intended to dispose of the man.”

  He knew Cary meant to ease his guilt. Cary had been through his own hell, yet he was a good man, a loyal friend who was always concerned for others.

  “I should have realized why the fiend chose Orley,” Grey said. “He needed a man who would be tempted by a small amount of money, who could be easily intimidated, and who was too weak to fight back when the time came to dispatch him.”

  “Until this, you haven’t known exactly what sort of blackguard you’ve
been dealing with.”

  Grey inclined his head. “True. Now I do.” Cary was fighting to talk reason into him. But he refused to be absolved of guilt.

  People who tried to change him were wasting their time. People like pretty, stubborn, determined Miss Winsome.

  She was not the kind of mistress he wanted. She challenged him too much. He should let her go and find a more compliant woman. What did it say about him that the challenge of her fascinated him?

  Cary was correct: It said something that frightened Grey.

  Maybe Cary saw something in his expression, because his friend leaned forward. “You can’t continue to pay a blackmailer, not one who is also a murderer. The fiend has to be stopped.”

  “I know he has to be stopped, damn it. If I were his victim, he would already be dead, I assure you.”

  “If you tell me who the victim is, perhaps I can help you.” Cary’s expression changed. A deep hurt showed in his pale blue eyes. “Do you not trust me with the confidence, Grey?”

  “You kept secrets while tortured, Cary. I would trust you with my life.” It wasn’t his secret to share, but Caradon had been a friend since he’d been at school. He’d never had any reason to doubt Cary’s loyalty, discretion, or friendship. Cary knew something of his secrets—about the beatings, the punishments. Not everything, but enough.

  “He’s blackmailing Caroline,” Grey said softly.

  Cary’s brows lifted. “Caroline? Lady Blackbriar? What hold does he have on her?”

  “Caroline is enceinte, Cary. But the baby is not Blackbriar’s.”

  “Yours?”

  “God, no. I would never have an affair with Caroline. I care for her too much, and my tastes are too extreme for her. Besides, she embarked on this affair in search of love, and she knows I could never give that to her. I’ve helped her keep the secret. She’s been extremely discreet.”

  “Then how in God’s name did this blackmailer learn that baby is not her husband’s?”

  “I don’t know,” Grey admitted, “but I’ve tried to find out. It had to be someone with intimate knowledge, and Caro swears she’s told no one but me. Blackbriar has her so terrified, she’s careful with her secrets.” A crippling jolt of guilt hit him. “I wish I could get her out of there,” he growled, more to himself than his friend, “away from damned Blackbriar.”

  “His reputation as a gentle scholar hides a cruel man,” Cary said. “But what more can you do to help Caroline? You offered to take her away, to leave your estates and live on the Continent, protecting her, and she refused.”

  He had been willing to live through the scandal to protect her—Caroline had always been a dear friend. Once he’d seen how brutal Blackbriar really was, he’d vowed to protect Caro.

  Grey leaned back against the carriage seat. As a child, just before he was punished, he would feel his entire body grow tense, feel a flood of black rage and coldness come over his heart. He felt the same now.

  “I should have removed her by force, whether she liked it or not,” he said. “The problem with listening to women is that they too often talk you into doing the wrong thing. She’s living in terror that Blackbriar will learn the baby is not his. She believes her husband would even be willing to kill the child in his anger. But she’s in love with the baby’s father, and she feels she would never see the gentleman again if she ran away with me.”

  “Why doesn’t her lover help her?”

  “He’s married.”

  “Hell, what a snake pit of disaster.” Cary shook his head.

  “Don’t judge her, Cary. She was desperate to know true intimacy with a man she loved. I can understand it.”

  “Can you? You’ve vowed you will never fall in love. You’re not desperate to find it.”

  “Neither are you, my friend,” Grey pointed out, to distract Cary.

  The carriage creaked to a stop. “Enough of this,” Grey said, getting to his feet. “It’s not natural for gentlemen to talk this much.”

  Grey felt Cary watching him, uneasy, as he took a seat across from Orley’s wary daughter in the parlor of the house he’d rented for her. A maid had shown them in. He had sent a small staff from his home to look after the house, including a few female servants and several footmen. He wanted men on the premises, there to provide protection.

  The daughter’s name was Sally Tate. She’d been married, but her husband was gone and she had no idea if the man were alive or dead. “I think ’e’s probably gone to sea,” she’d said. Her babe was still at the breast.

  “Do yer want tea, Yer Grace?” she asked. Her hair was thick and brown, pulled back in a bun. Though pale and haggard, Sally possessed surprisingly pretty features.

  “No, thank you.” Grey glanced around. “The house is suiting you well?”

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful, Yer Grace. Thank ye.” Even though she was saying her thanks, she didn’t look grateful. Wary was the best word for her. She looked like a kicked dog that distrusted a human’s kindness and was ready to bite or run.

  Finally words burst out of her. “I still don’t understand why ye’re doing this for the babby and me.”

  “I needed your father’s help in a matter, and he was worried for your safety.” He had explained it all before, when he’d found the woman and her child.

  “Mrs. Sims—that was the woman who lived next door to me—she was telling everyone that a gentleman only gets a ’ouse for a woman when she’s to be his ladybird. I’m a respectable woman, Yer Grace, even if I don’t ’ave much.”

  Grey cleared his throat. “I assure you I have no evil designs on your person, Mrs. Tate.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cary smother a laugh at his choice of words. He felt awkward. “I hope that by keeping you and your child safe, I can convince your father to help me. For that, I believe I will need your assistance.”

  “But what ’appens to us after that?”

  “I intend to help you and your father as payment,” Grey explained. He outlined his plan. He intended to put a sum in an account for them in the modest four percents. It would draw a small income that would allow them to improve their lot. “If you were to wish to open a shop, or something of that nature, you come to me, and I will take care of it for you.”

  Sally looked dazzled. The wariness dropped away for a moment, then it returned. He was not insulted by her reaction. He knew a person who had been threatened and hurt didn’t instantly lose fear, caution, and doubt. He knew a black past meant a bleak future—he knew you never left behind the hell you’d come through.

  “Is me father going to survive?” she asked softly. “Ye never told me ’ow ye found ’im, or what ’ad ’appened.”

  For good reason. He couldn’t forget stepping into Orley’s room, surprised to almost trip over a pile of rags. Only to see it wasn’t rags, but Orley’s body. Blood had matted the hair and oozed into the shirt. Grey had dropped to his knees, covering his shins and boots with the sticky blood that had pooled on the rough floor. He felt for the pulse, expecting to find nothing.

  But Orley was tougher than he’d expected. His fingertips had felt a faint heartbeat. He’d carried the man to his carriage, taken him at once to the London Hospital.

  But as he’d suspected, when Orley finally regained consciousness two hours later, the man claimed he had no idea who attacked him. Someone had slipped in and coshed him.

  “He will recover,” was all Grey said to the man’s daughter. “I will wait while you dress and I’ll take you to the hospital so you can see him, Mrs. Tate. Please bring the child along. I know that will cheer him up and help give him the strength to get well.”

  As Mrs. Tate went to fetch her daughter, Grey said to Cary, “When I left Orley at the hospital, I gave the man an ultimatum. I told him I would find his daughter and her babe and ensure they are safe. Now he has to talk.”

  Cary gave him a wry smile. “He won’t talk, Grey. And I know you won’t have the heart to threaten him.”

  Grey frowned. But two hours later
he discovered Cary was right, and as Cary had predicted he couldn’t threaten a wounded man.

  The Duke of Greybrooke leaned back in his chair, lifted his glass of brandy to his sensual mouth. “All right, Miss Winsome,” he said, after he’d taken a drink, “tell me how you plan to change me.”

  Helena had no idea. It had been a bold statement to gain her way back into his house. To buy her time because she must become his mistress, but she didn’t think she could ever do those shocking things she’d seen at his private club.

  She truly believed Greybrooke must be changed. How could he say he was incapable of love? She wanted to find the man inside who was capable of caring and capable of laughter with the children. “If I were to be your mistress, I would want to, um . . . make love in ways that made you happy.”

  She simply could not believe that those things he liked to do were not wicked. They looked wicked. And naughty. Yes, he said he gave women intense pleasure that way, but . . .

  Surely he should want to fall in love and not be naughty.

  His eyes twinkled. “Having an orgasm makes me happy. As would watching you have an orgasm, especially if you were tied to a bed.”

  Her cheeks burned. “I don’t know if your love affairs really do make you happy, Your Grace.” She remembered passing her parents’ bedroom when she was young. She’d heard giggling and laughter through the door. “I know that happy people laugh in bed. No one laughed or smiled in that room.”

  “In some rooms they do. But you have me fascinated. Your goal is to make me laugh?”

  He was making fun of her. Helena lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “Yes. I would want to do normal things happy, married people do.”

  He lifted a glass of brandy, took a long swallow. His action was slow and easy, but she felt his tension. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But what if I have no desire to do normal things?”

  “You must do! You kissed me and you said it was nice.”

  “Nice.” He smiled. “You do not give yourself enough credit, Miss Winsome.”

  “I thought we could kiss again. And then do . . . I don’t know what happens next.”