by Sharon Page
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?
She should let him take her to his home. But she was nervous. She needed to stall for time while she gathered her wits. “I would like to see more of the gaming club.”
His brow quirked. “I could give you a climax first, my dear. Then we could gamble.”
“Oh, Your Grace, I really wish to see it now. You must remember I’m a governess and I always go to bed early. I’ll fall asleep at the gaming table if I wait too long.”
He moved closer to her, and she could focus on nothing but him. He towered over her, his black hair in fashionable disarray—it looked how it would if her hands had run through it. She was so wickedly tempted to touch him. . . .
“I’ve been aroused for you all day,” he said softly.
Those words made her melt, even as they made her panic. She didn’t dare touch him. It would be like unleashing a predatory lion, she feared. “Please, Your Grace. This is—it is too fast for me. I am sorry but I’m just not ready.”
“Not ready for an orgasm?” His eyes twinkled.
Hers opened wide. “Oh, heavens, no.”
He laughed gently. “All right. Follow me.”
Apparently gentlemen liked to play cards in gloom—the light of two candelabras barely cut through the shadows. Helena blinked until she could finally see.
She gasped in shock.
Half-naked, buxom women were draped all over the men. One female had her bodice pulled down to reveal her whole plump breast. The nipple sitting on top was as red as a robin’s breast. Her gentleman was idly—and openly—pinching her nipple.
“Why do they have such vividly colored nipples?”
The duke’s brows shot up. “They use scarlet cream to heighten the color.”
Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud. “Oh—er, I thought maybe women with bright red nipples tended to become strumpets.”
Greybrooke smothered a laugh. “Come along, cousin. The cards are waiting for us.”
Broad-shouldered and tall, the duke moved easily between the tightly spaced tables. He had such presence that men promptly made room for him, despite being in the middle of games with large piles of money on the tables.
Greybrooke selected a table that included a pair of gentlemen. He drew out a chair, sprawled elegantly on it, and motioned to the one across from him. “Sit, Caldwell.” Introductions were made swiftly. Their opponents were the beefy Earl of Brace, and his partner, Viscount Deverell: tall, slender, blond.
Champagne was brought to their table by Melman, who yanked out the cork with a resounding pop. He filled flutes, placing them around the table. A fresh deck of cards was laid in front of Greybrooke.
“This should prove entertaining.” Greybrooke split the deck. “This will be George’s first attempt at whist.”
Deverell and Brace nodded, impassive, but she saw the gleam of anticipation in their eyes. At a table behind them, a man suddenly moaned, “Damnation, I’m ruined.” His chair scraped, and he staggered toward the door. No one appeared to care.
How could they be so cavalier, so heartless . . .
so ruthless? Luxury and excess surrounded her—in polished wood, exquisite art, extravagant champagne. She should feel anger at the men that owned places like this—who had made all this wealth on the back of naïve young men like Will. But she understood them. They had a living to make, just like she did. It was Will who made her furious. How had he faced these merciless gentlemen and believed he had even a chance of winning?
Greybrooke dealt with controlled flicks of one hand. The cards fell swiftly, and when he was finished, she stared at the ones in front of her.
“Wagers first,” Greybrooke said, picking up his own hand.
She had no idea how to play whist, and they were playing for money. What happened when she caused the duke to lose? Would he expect her to pay? Unless—
Unless her debt to him was going to grow and grow.
“The wager is a night with a half dozen ladybirds of their choice,” Greybrooke said.
She made a choking sound—and quickly took a long sip of champagne to cover her shock.
Bother, she’d drunk half of it. At once.
“You’re blushing, Caldwell,” murmured the duke.
She pushed her glass away from her as if it were the devil. The last thing she should do was get drunk.
Cards flew quickly. Helena had played hundreds of games with children, and she caught on promptly, following the duke’s lead. After several hands she could understand how he played—not in a wild or daring way, but aggressively, as long as he was confident he had the cards to back his strategies. With a quiet word to Melman, he replaced her champagne with water. She was thankful. Their opponents downed glass after glass of alcohol, seemingly without effect.
Ruthless play and hard drinking. Her brother had been far out of his league.
Greybrooke threw down his last card, winning the trick and that game. Leaning back in his chair, he winked at her, then gazed over her head and crooked his finger. She knew he was up to something devious, but she coolly looked over her shoulder.
A large bosom heaved into her face. Two fleshy mounds the size of watermelons wobbled above the low neckline of a crimson velvet gown. Helena looked up into the childishly pretty face of a dark-haired girl with a button nose, plump cheeks, and large blue eyes. The girl giggled her name, which sounded like Ellie, and suddenly her voluptuous bottom settled on Helena’s lap. “How handsome you are, Mr. Caldwell!” Ellie grasped Helena’s hand and plopped in on her huge left breast.
