Deeply In You

by Sharon Page

But Greybrooke grinned. “I want to taste myself on your lips, angel. It’s the most erotic thing I can imagine.” Softly, his mouth claimed hers, his lips light and teasing. Showers of sparks raced from her lips, tingling through her whole body.

  It was wretched. She couldn’t enjoy the kiss. She must think about her mission again. She must calculate a way to get to the journal. Could she pretend to go to the water closet? No, she needed longer than that....

  “I’m too sleepy to go home.” Simple words, but they implied so much. If she spent the whole night here, there was no returning to the Winterhaven house in the morning, resuming her work as a governess. Staying out all night would get her the sack.

  Yet she had no choice.

  “You can stay here if you wish. You’re mine now anyway.”

  He said it carelessly, but her heart pattered. She wished—

  No, wishing was foolish. Wishing led to disaster. She was only “his” temporarily.

  He helped her off the bed. “Let’s get you undressed.” His hands moved skillfully over the fastenings of her gown, and he drew it off over her head as she stood in the middle of his bedroom. She was breathless. She had never been naked in front of him. Not completely and all at once.

  Helena saw her reflection in the cheval mirror. Sensible stockings, plain garters, a simple muslin shift. She looked very ordinary.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  Her heart almost shattered.

  He dropped to one knee. Her heart fluttered as he took off her slippers, the ruched garters, her stockings. “Do you want to leave your shift on?” he asked. “Or do you want to be bared to me?”

  A part of her wanted to be wanton and take everything off. But she had to sneak around his bedroom. Wearing her shift would be more practical. “I’ll leave it on.” How she hated this dual life she had to lead. “For tonight,” she added.

  He didn’t take off all of his clothing. He stripped to his shirt and his trousers, carelessly tossing his coat, waistcoat, and cravat to hang over the corner of a dressing screen.

  “I saw your scars the other night when you were wearing just your robe. What—what happened?” It was tactless, but she had no time. She had to learn as much as she could.

  He looked up. She couldn’t read his expression.

  “What do you think happened?”

  She blinked. Blushed. “You were struck.”

  “Yes, by many things.”

  “Why? Why did someone beat you so cruelly?”

  “Why do you think they did?”

  He wasn’t going to answer directly, she saw. “For punishment.”

  “Exactly. That’s all there is to it. I was punished. Regularly.” He pulled the covers down on the bed. “You know, I’ve never slept with a mistress before.”

  Grey never slept with his mistresses. Once, when he was young, he’d smuggled a girl into his bed, never guessing that she had been paid to betray him. After that, he kept sex separated from sleep, and ensured he was never in a vulnerable position.

  Miss Winsome lay on the other side of the bed.

  He remembered how she’d said she’d dreamed of marriage. How she’d said she wanted to do what married people did.

  What he was doing was damnably wrong. She was sweet and innocent. He was dark and bitter. Ultimately he would hurt her.

  He knew he would be unable to sleep. Not with her, not in this bed. His instincts never let him sleep with anyone else, knowing that in sleep he was vulnerable. “Roll on your side, love. With your back to me.”

  She obeyed. He moved close to her, pressing his chest to her back, his groin to her voluptuous arse. He wrapped his arm around her.

  Hesitantly she snuggled back, cuddling tighter to him. “I like this,” she said, her voice soft and sleepy. It was so endearing, it almost broke his heart.

  He stroked her hair. The gentle motion should soothe her into sleep. “This is the first time I’ve slept in this bed,” he said. A lie, since he knew as soon as she drifted off, he would leave her. Go sleep on a chair.

  Helena woke in a panic. She blinked into darkness until her eyes became accustomed to the faint light thrown by the few coals in the fireplace. She’d gone to sleep with her derriere pressed against Greybrooke’s strong, lean body. His warmth was gone.

  She sat up. He was gone.

  Had he left the house? Was he perhaps in his study, drinking?

  Pushing back the sheets, she slipped out of bed. The floor was cool, but she padded in bare feet. A soft rasping sound came to her from the adjoining dressing room. She looked in. Sprawled on a narrow daybed was Greybrooke, feet hanging off the seat, arm beneath his head. Fast asleep.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed. Or with her. Her heart gave a pang.

  Before she went to the writing room, she returned to the bed. Hauled the heavy coverlet from it, dragged it to the dressing room, and arranged it—as best as she could—over the duke. It was foolish, worrying about his comfort just before she betrayed him.

  Her stomach literally churned with guilt. They had been so intimate, and when he’d laughed, kissed her, it had been dazzling. Yet she had to lie to him.

  What if she found out he was a traitor? What would she do?

  She didn’t know.

  And if he was a traitor, would she still feel they had shared something special?

  This time her heart gave a twinge of pain.

  But she padded silently to the writing room. Inside, Helena opened the curtain as she’d done before. Holding her breath, she eased the drawer open. She did it without a sound and drew out the leather-bound journal.

  Her tongue ran over her lips. She still tasted the lush, ripe flavor of Greybrooke’s warm skin and his thick white come.

  Feeling like Pandora, she flipped open the journal. The paper was beautiful—smooth as silk, pristine white, edged with gold.

  It was also blank. Every single page was blank.

  A childhood of being hauled out of bed to be punished had taught him to stir at even the slightest sound. Grey woke and fought the weight pressing on him—

  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 pu
t 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.

  11

  “Timothy, 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.