Deeply In You Read online

  She wasn’t sensible at all. She was filled with hopeless dreams.

  Greybrooke grasped two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to her. She tried not to gulp—because she was hot, and because she was stunned by her discovery. Greybrooke scanned the crowd again. Subtly as she could, she did too.

  The gazes exchanged by gentlemen and ladies across the room could melt ice. Secret, erotic invitations were sent in the way women held their fans. Greybrooke stood beside her.

  Sipping the champagne, Helena followed his gaze and froze in surprise. Across the room, a set of double doors stood open. Beyond them was a shadowy corridor. A figure in a black cloak stood there, half-hidden in the shadows. Helena glimpsed pale blond ringlets peeking from the cowl of a deep hood. It was a woman watching Greybrooke.

  The figure retreated.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he murmured by her ear. “There’s someone I have to talk to.”

  Helena gaped at him in panic. “You’re going to leave me alone? In here?”

  “I have arranged for a gentleman to look after you,” Greybrooke said.

  “What do you mean by look after me?”

  “To stay at your side,” Grey growled. “Protect you and ensure none of these wolves approach you.” He’d noticed that every man in the room had taken a good look at Miss Winsome. In the slim-fitting ivory dress, her figure promised to be a voluptuous treat. Any man who was breathing could tell she was beautiful, even in her mask. “The Duke of Saxonby.”

  “Saxonby! He’s one of the Wicked Dukes.”

  “Ah, Lady X’s column.” That soured him, as he remembered the article in the damned London Correspondent. “Saxonby knows better than to poach on my preserve. Here he is.”

  Saxonby, known as Sax, approached with long, predatory strides, but Grey knew the man could be trusted with Miss Winsome. Sax was twenty-eight, but his hair was pale silver, a startling contrast to his dark brows and black eyelashes. Sax was damnably handsome and a thorough rogue when it came to women, unless the woman belonged to a friend. They’d been friends since Eton days.

  The musicians began another waltz. With an elegant flourish, Sax bowed over Miss Winsome’s hand and asked her to dance.

  Grey headed across the floor and passed through the double doors. He went to the usual room he used to meet Caroline, Lady Blackbriar; let himself in; and locked the door behind him.

  Caroline stood forlornly in the middle of the room. Now she spun, rushed to him, threw herself in his embrace.

  Grey groaned as he hugged her. “Caro, I wish you wouldn’t take the risk of coming here.”

  She gazed up at him, her eyes huge, deep ivy green, and filled with the look that always made his heart ache. She looked at him as if he were the only person in the world she had. As if she desperately needed him.

  She was so beautiful, he understood why the Earl of Blackbriar had pursued her with such determination. Back then, Caro had believed what the rest of the world did about the handsome, slender earl—that he was a brilliant poet, sensitive and sweet. It was only when Blackbriar had her safely tied to him by marriage that he’d shown his true colors, beating and abusing her.

  “I’m very careful.” Her voice was soft and breathy. Just the sound of it was reputed to drive men wild with desire. But he had always seen Caro as a little sister who needed protecting.

  “My husband believes I’m at a musicale performance at a friend’s house. Everyone who goes there is over sixty, so it is one of the few things he lets me do. His servants escorted me to her house, as always, and once I’m inside they relax their vigilance. My friend Cynthia always ensures they are distracted by food and drink, then I slip over here. Since she is on this street, it is perfect.”

  “Do not get overconfident, Caro.” He clasped her hands.

  “I’m very careful.” She smiled almost childishly. She was terrified but also defiant in her own way. “He thinks I’m not clever, but I am. Anyway, I meet my lover here.” Her eyes became dreamy. “Finally, I’ve found love. For a brief few hours, I can be happy—I can love and be loved. That is worth any risk.”

  “Even now?” Grey asked softly.

  “Even now,” she said firmly.

  Caro had found love, which he never had, and she was happy. Grey believed Blackbriar was vicious enough to kill her if he found out about the affair. Her lover had not come to her rescue when she’d been blackmailed. As her friend, Grey had. In his view, if her lover was too much of a coward to have helped her, he wasn’t worthy of her love.

  But there was no point trying to make Caro understand that.

  “Even though I’m afraid,” she said, eyes sparkling, “love is worth it. Someday you’ll understand, Grey.”

  “I’m not going to fall in love, Caro.” Nor did he want to talk about it.

  “What’s wrong, Grey? Is it about the money? I know it is a lot of money—”

  “Who could have found out the child isn’t Blackbriar’s?” He asked the question more tersely than he’d intended. “You said you were careful, so how did this man get hold of the truth? Could your lady’s maid have guessed?”

  “You asked me this before, Grey. I don’t know how anyone could know! I’ve never said a word to anyone. I’ve only met him here, using Cynthia as my reason to leave the house.”

  “Could your maid have guessed you had been undressed and redressed?”

  Earnestly, Caro shook her head. “Lady Ponsonby has always provided a maid for me. I would bathe before returning home, for I know there is a scent after making love.”

  “Caro, if no one could have known, how could you be blackmailed?”

  She stared at him, gnawing her lip with her teeth. “I don’t know! But you do believe me, Grey? That I’ve made sure no one found out?”

  She looked desperate, ready to burst into tears. He hated the sound of a woman’s tears. They reminded him of his sisters’, and how he had failed them both. “I believe you.”

  “I saw that terrible story about your father in one of the newssheets,” she said. “It’s not true, is it? Your father killed himself. That’s been the secret you worked to protect. That your father took his own life.”

  He hadn’t admitted the truth to anyone. Not Caroline. Not even Caradon or Saxonby, his most trusted friends. “He killed himself.” Essentially it was true. His father wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t been such a sick, selfish, perverted bastard.

  “You haven’t found the blackmailer yet, have you? You haven’t put an end to it yet?”

  Her questions speared him with guilt. He’d promised to protect her. “Not yet.”

  “This is the thing that could destroy me.” Caroline trembled and went pale. “If this blackmailer were to go to my husband—”

  “That’s not going to happen. I’m going to find out who he is.”

  Seeing Caroline’s frightened face, Grey knew what he had to do. He had to get at the truth through Helena. Even though no one had recognized her picture, logic told him she had to be involved with the blackmailer. The blackmailer must have sent her to discover his private secrets, so he would become a victim too.

  His cock wanted to believe differently. It wanted to believe Miss Winsome was innocent.

  Innocent women didn’t rifle through desks.

  What he had to do was end this. Find the blackmailer. And Miss Winsome was his only connection.

  You care for her too much to frighten her. Or hurt her.

  He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. It was true, but he had to push it aside. He couldn’t care for her—

  “Oh, thank you, Grey,” Caro breathed, her face glowing with relief and hope. “Thank you so much. But I must go now. He might come to me tonight. I wrote him a letter, begging to see him. Surely he will finally come to me . . .” She hurried to the mirror over the mantelpiece, tidied her hair, and slapped her cheeks lightly to put color in them.

  It amazed him she would go from desperate fear to desperate desire in seconds
. The “he” was her lover, who had distanced himself from her once she got pregnant. “I’ll leave first,” Grey said.

  He slipped out the door and returned to the main salon. Across the room, he saw Sax, who was pulling on his hair in frustration. Gut tightening, Grey reached Saxonby in a second. “Damnation, you’ve lost sight of her, haven’t you?”

  Sax raked his hand through his silver hair. “She sent me to get more champagne, and while I turned to summon a footman, she hurried over to Lady Ponsonby. Said I’d admitted to being madly in love with Ponsy and it was my fantasy to bed her. By the time I managed to break free of busty Ponsy, your mistress has disappeared. Who is she, by the way?”

  “That doesn’t matter, damn it. What matters is where she is. . . .”

  He knew where she was, and Ponsy was here.

  With Lady Ponsonby blocking Greybrooke, Helena knew she had only minutes to do something dangerous and bold. She hurried toward the double doors of the salon, where Greybrooke’s mysterious woman had vanished—

  A man grasped her by the arm. “My dear, accompany me on a stroll? Out to a private balcony. I would enjoy rogering you beneath the stars.”

  The man was masked and dressed in elegant evening clothes. “Please let me go.” Then desperately, she added, “I came with the Duke of Greybrooke.”

  “Just because he is the horse you brought to the stable doesn’t mean you can’t take another stallion for a ride.”

  “But he’s my favorite and he’s hardly broken in yet,” she threw back.

  Her retort surprised the man, and she wrenched her arm free. She slipped away, weaving through the crowd filled with the most elegant people of Society.

  She blinked wildly as she plunged from candlelight to gloom. A door opened ahead of her and a figure in a black cloak stepped out. Helena rushed forward and put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I must talk to you about Greybrooke.”

  Huge, dark green eyes stared at her. The woman was as white as a sheet. “Why? Who are you? Did he send you—did my husband send you?”

  “No. I came with the Duke of Greybrooke. He came here to meet you, didn’t he? Why?” She had remembered Greybrooke’s confrontation with the blackmailer. When they had spoken of a woman Grey was trying to protect. Helena had assumed it must be one of his sisters. It was a hunch, but she asked, “Is Greybrooke protecting you from a blackmailer?”

  “Did he tell you? How could you know?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me.”

  The woman grabbed her arm, her grip strong enough to leave bruises. She dragged Helena back into the room and shut the door. “If you are working for my husband, I will pay you for your silence. I will give you anything you want.”

  “Of course I’m not. I don’t even know who your husband is.”

  But the woman was too careful to reveal his name. She rested her hand on her tummy, just as Lady Winterhaven did—

  “Oh, you are expecting a child.”

  The woman looked panicked. Helena’s stomach roiled. “It’s not . . . Greybrooke’s child?”

  “No! It’s my husband’s.” But the woman was blushing, shaking. It was obvious her words were a lie. “Grey and I have never been lovers, but we have been friends since we were children. Oh, I would have wed him happily when I was sixteen, but Grey refuses to marry. He’s been a devoted friend and he’s helped me. But I can’t tell you anything else. I won’t.”

  “You are the woman Greybrooke is protecting from the blackmailer.”

  “I won’t talk about it. You must go!” The woman waved wildly at the door.

  It didn’t make sense. What secret could the blackmailer have against Grey that endangered this woman too? If it wasn’t a love affair, what could it be? Could this woman have been involved in treason?

  “You must tell me. Greybrooke has given this man thousands of pounds. What hold does this man have over him?”

  Her eyes wild, dilated, the woman rushed to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. She waved it in a sweeping arc. “Leave me alone! If my husband finds out any of this, he will kill me. Do you understand? He will strangle me or shoot me or throw me in the Thames. He will kill my baby and me, and he will enjoy doing it. If it weren’t for Grey’s protection—”

  The woman broke off, holding the poker back behind her head, ready to strike. She choked down sobs, making desperate hiccupping sounds.

  “This is something you must know,” Helena said firmly. “Greybrooke confronted the blackmailer in a brothel, and the man threatened him with a pistol. This man is dangerous. Perhaps deadly.”

  “D-did he shoot at Grey?”

  “Not this time. But Greybrooke is hunting this man, and if he gets too close, very possibly this villain would kill to save his own life—”

  “I had no choice! I wasn’t worried about me, but about the baby. I went to the baby’s father at first. But he is married, and he said he couldn’t help me. I couldn’t pay blackmail. I don’t even receive pin money. Blackbriar would not even allow me that, in case it gave me the ability to run away. He wants me trapped. I know Grey thinks the baby’s father is a coward, and I am beginning to see Grey is right. He used to meet me here, and he never comes anymore. He always has excuses. Even if they were true . . . if a man loved you . . . he would come to you when you needed him, wouldn’t he?”

  Helena knew she must give the truth. “Unless he was a scoundrel.”

  The woman sank to a chair. The poker clattered on the floor. “I’ve been a fool. I was so terribly alone. I couldn’t face a future without ever having love. I even tried to seduce Grey—”

  The woman broke off. “You look horrified. Grey refused me, you know. He said it would ruin the precious friendship we have. Don’t judge me. My marriage is worse than unhappy! I’ve spent years waiting for Blackbriar to beat me to death. To finally kill me. I live a wretched, awful nightmare. I married a demon. And if he found out my child is not his, he would kill me. I owe my very life to Grey!”

  A sharp rap sounded on the door. It rattled. Greybrooke’s voice, dark and ominous, sounded on the other side. “Winsome, open this door now or I will kick it in.”

  Helena turned, but the blond jumped to her feet, hurried to the door, and turned the key in the lock. Greybrooke threw the door open.

  He looked from the shaking, beautiful blond to her. “How much does she know?” he asked the blond—the Countess of Blackbriar.

  “I—I suppose everything now,” the countess said. “But she isn’t working for my husband.”

  “No, I don’t think she is.” He stalked across the room; his face as black as thunder. Helena gasped as he grasped her arm. He yanked her to him; she fell against his chest.

  “I know you searched my desk. Now you’re spying on me. Who in hell hired you?”

  Her heart leapt in her throat. Greybrooke’s green eyes were dark, like a storm-filled sky. How did he know she’d searched the desk? She needed a story—she couldn’t give him the truth.

  He must have known since before he put her in the town house, before he bought her clothes and jewels, before he took her virginity.

  It explained why he had seemed so cold and angry when he had said she would be his mistress. But he had made love to her so many times in so many ways . . . he had coaxed her to trust him to let him spank her and tie her up.

  She’d seen him come with her, looking so vulnerable her heart ached. She’d seen him smile at her. He’d sketched her, sharing with her a talent he’d never told anyone about. He’d read to her. He’d given her the very first waltz she’d ever danced. He had asked, in a self-depreciatory way, if he met her expectations.

  She’d thought something special had been growing between them. She’d thought that he did trust her. That she had touched him in a way no one else had.

  All along, he’d been pretending. Lying to her.

  Oh God, why had he done all this if he had known she was spying on him? Her tongue was paralyzed with shock—with guilt.

  “You wa
nted to be my mistress,” he growled. “I assume it was so you could spy on me. Well, my dear, you are going to get more than you bargained for.”

  14

  “I am telling you the truth, Greybrooke. I don’t know anything about the blackmailer.”

  “You don’t lie particularly well,” Grey said as he led Miss Winsome up her town house stairs to her bedroom. All the way here, she had insisted she knew nothing.

  He remembered the way she had given in to tears after the man had held her hostage. Deep in his soul, he wanted to believe her.

  But he didn’t trust himself. He used to hope for his parents’ love. Yearn for it like a pitiful dog that was constantly kicked, yet kept returning in the hopes it would be patted.

  “Please, believe me. I was just being . . . curious. Your desk was so beautiful and I just looked at the things in it. I know it is wrong, but . . .”

  She lifted her chin and looked at him with her remarkable self-possession, just as she had done on the first afternoon he’d met her—when he’d scooped her and Michael out of the way of a speeding carriage.

  “You wouldn’t tell me why you wanted to do naughty things with me,” she said. “I wanted to understand you.”

  “You wouldn’t go through my desk to do that. You wanted information, and you wanted to obtain it secretly. That reeks of blackmail.”

  He hauled her into her bedchamber. The fire crackled in the grate. Candles flickered on an armoire, and the glowing light caressed the curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck. It danced across the swell of her breasts, reminding him how round and delectable they were, especially when she was nude and they swayed, bounced, and jiggled. God, he remembered how much fun it was to be in bed with her.

  He remembered how beautifully she’d danced with him, how special that moment had been when she’d admitted she’d never danced and she’d looked so unspeakably happy.

  Grey’s heart pounded. Miss Winsome was his. He shouldn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. But he desired her. Wanted her.