by Sharon Page
“Nothing’s wrong.” It was exquisite. It was her likeness exactly. He had captured her in quick, soft lines. Though she thought he’d made her look prettier than she really was. “It’s remarkable.... I had no idea you were so artistic.”
“You didn’t? I think my rope work is highly artistic and creative.”
She forgot herself. She gave him a very governess-like look of disapproval. Then softened her expression quickly. “No one ever mentioned you draw.”
“No one knows I do it. My father thought it worthless and effeminate. After all, ladies sketch and do watercolors.”
“What about the great male artists?”
“My father believed they preferred the company of other men.”
“So you were not allowed to draw.”
“Let’s say I was discouraged.”
She hated that. She believed talent should be nurtured. The drawings gave him pleasure and what was the harm . . . ? Oh! She remembered something. “You made the drawings around the poem you sent.” She flushed. “Your depiction of my breasts was shamefully accurate.”
His mouth quirked in a smile. “I know that now. It was just a guess at the time. In addition, I decided to bestow you with a bosom I would find remarkably appealing. Funny how you ended up looking just like that.”
Helena floundered. He was telling her he had fantasized about her, and apparently she’d lived up to his dreams. He had far outdone the wicked dreams she’d had about him.
“You are sleepy, my dear,” Grey said gently. “Thank you for today.”
Then he left Miss Winsome. He had plans for his day. He had nefarious reasons for sketching her, but she didn’t know it. He wanted to show the picture to Orley. Then take it around the rookery where Orley lived, in case someone recognized her.
But by the end of the day, Grey had nothing to show for his work. Orley didn’t recognize her, nor did anyone in Orley’s slum.
For Helena, her life as a duke’s mistress had truly begun.
For the first fortnight, Greybrooke visited her three times a day. As he’d said, she could spend her time as she wished when he was not visiting her. She went to the museum, to bookshops. She did all the things she did with children, even though she no longer had children to educate and entertain.
Shopping took a great deal of time. She’d had no idea how arduous it really was to be fashionable. Endless sittings for the seamstress who created her new, lacy, exquisite underclothes; measurements and fitting for gowns; purchases of bonnets and shoes. Greybrooke would make a request, and she had to ensure it was filled at once: She bought corsets of red lace and black satin, gossamer-thin stockings with exotic embroidery, garters in scandalous colors.
He either made love to her while she was bound or spanked her with his riding crop, pleasuring her to insanity while he did.
He fixed a swing in the special room, hanging from the ceiling, and when she sat on it, he would tease her quim with his tongue and his lips. She came so furiously she almost let go and fell off.
Within days, she was used to being naked for him. Used to seeing the pleasure in his eyes as he looked at her bare breasts, her rounded hips, her bottom. Each time, he told her she was beautiful. She saw her quim as a wickedly pleasurable place now instead of a place she wasn’t supposed to touch.
To please Greybrooke—because she loved pleasing him—she became rather good at sucking his cock. She’d learned to overwhelm him with stimulation. She even played with his ballocks while suckling, which always made him explode.
Every time he came to see her, it was for sex. He never spent the night. Certain nights they dined together. She learned his favorite dishes. He loved fish in light sauces, rare roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and he had a weakness for chocolate desserts. Even something as simple as a fluffy mousse in a long-stemmed glass brought a look of ecstasy to his handsome face.
She had all the gowns she could desire. She discovered that the stables in the mews held two gorgeous gray mares for her use, and Greybrooke gave her a glossy, jaunty pale blue curricle. She’d never driven one before, but he patiently taught her a few basic skills. Every morning, breakfast was brought into her bedchamber on a silver tray.
And then there were the jewels.
The second day after she had moved into the town house, he presented her with a necklace of rubies. Then he gave her ear-bobs dripping with emeralds. After that, a diamond bracelet.
Already she had sold one necklace and put the money in an account for her sisters, so her family would be assured of food on the table, new shoes, and clothes. She was going to use her allowance to create a dowry for her sisters. Greybrooke was giving her more than she could dream of spending. Really, how did mistresses end up impoverished? They must spend like drunken sailors, or gamble away their money.
Helena supposed it was sinfully wrong, but she was happy as Greybrooke’s mistress.
Only two things were making her worry. The first: She had not yet told Whitehall what she’d discovered.
The second? While Greybrooke made love to her three times a day and rocked with climaxes that seemed to shatter him, he never removed his clothes. He always bound her hands so she couldn’t touch him. And he always looked haunted, as if he were being constantly whipped by his own secret devils.
Two weeks after he had taken her from Jacinta’s, Greybrooke left Miss Winsome’s town house in the afternoon and walked toward White’s. On St. James Street, he encountered Caradon, who took one look at him and said, “What devil is riding you, Grey?”
He had spent a glorious spring afternoon spanking Miss Winsome in the bedroom. She had moaned and squealed with abandon, thoroughly enjoying herself. Then he had shown her how erotic it was when he took her from behind while she watched in the mirror. Her eyes had been huge as saucers, watching his hands cupping her breasts, then playing with her sensitively.
She had climaxed so hard, she had melted against him.
Cary fell into step at his side as they headed toward White’s. “You look like hell, Grey.”
“It’s my mistress.”
“The governess? Is she proving a disappointment?”
“No, she’s proving to be everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a woman. Have you ever had a woman who made everything erotic? She is like that. She even makes eating dinner into a sexual event. She closes her eyes and makes all kinds of seductive little sighs.”
“But you are not happy.”
The famed bow window was just ahead. “No. I can’t trust her. I’ve had investigators try to learn more about her, but she has not gone anywhere but modistes, bookshops, and the British museum since becoming my mistress. She told me about her past, and I’m trying to verify it. But my men have dug back only to her first post as a governess. I do know she is a liar and a spy, and for some reason I have yet to determine, she was searching my desk. However, I’m having too much fun fucking her to find out why.”
Before Caradon could voice the shock that was obvious on his face, Grey noticed the sandwich board that stood on the corner, advertising the latest edition of a newspaper. In capital letters it read: DUKE OF GREYBROOKE SCANDAL. Pulling out his pennies, he bought an edition. The paper was the London Correspondent, the paper that featured Lady X’s famous column. Grey stared at the front page.
On it was an article that speculated that his father had not been killed in an accident while cleaning one of his dueling pistols. It claimed there was evidence his father had been murdered.
“Grey?”
Caradon’s voice came through the buzzing in his ears. He realized the newspaper was now a crumpled ball in his hands. How in God’s name had anyone found out?
Had Miss Winsome found out? How? There was nothing in his mother’s letters that had revealed the truth. No one knew what had really happened. No one outside of Jacinta, Maryanne, and himself.
No one knew that his father had tried to force himself on his youngest daughter and had been killed by a pistol shot blown through his skull.<
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13
Helena slipped to the print shop during the day, wearing her cloak with her hood up. She was certain two men had been following her for the last few days.
Had Whitehall sent them to watch her? Or was it possible Greybrooke now suspected her? But how could he—how could he suspect her and make love to her so much?
She had taken care to evade them to come here. Now she dragged Will into the quiet office and glared at him. “How could you have printed that story?” she cried, once the door was firmly shut and no one could hear. “I told you it in the strictest confidence. I haven’t told Whitehall yet, and I don’t know if I am going to tell him. You shouldn’t have made it public. Anyway, we have no idea if it’s true. I put it together from hints in diaries.”
“I think it’s true, Helena. The Duke of Greybrooke came here and tackled me about it. Demanded to know where I’d gotten the story from.”
“Greybrooke came?” Her heart wobbled. And fear hit her. “He didn’t find out who I am?”
“No, why would he? He denied the story, of course. Said his father’s death had been an accident. But why else would he have come, irate, if your story weren’t true?”
“But still, why did you print it?”
Her brother paled. “Whitehall forced me—why do you think I did it? It wasn’t to sell papers, not this time. Whitehall came, threatening to ensure that the gaming hell men came looking for their money. He threatened to force us into bankruptcy and the workhouses unless I did exactly as he asked. It’s his plan to unsettle Greybrooke, to goad him into making a mistake.”
“This is wrong, Will. We cannot be a party to this.”
“Helena, Whitehall can destroy us if he wants. Destroy our entire family. I don’t have a choice.”
“Madam, the Duke of Greybrooke has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”
Helena’s heart plunged. Of course, Greybrooke was here—he came every night. But she wasn’t ready to face him, not with guilt churning in her stomach.
It must have been awful for Greybrooke to see that headline. Even if he were a traitor, she would never publish his private, personal secrets. Never. Yet that had happened. And she felt sick.
Helena hurried down the stairs, stopped at the bottom to gather her courage. She had always been an honest person. A good person. Now she was turning into the most dishonest person she knew. She prayed her guilt didn’t show on her face—then felt guilty that her biggest fear was getting caught. She didn’t know what he would do to her.
He had risked his life to nurse Maryanne. He’d revealed how he had protected his sister, Lady Winterhaven. He had saved Michael’s life. He adored his family, and that story hurt both him and them.
But if she admitted what had happened—if she told the truth—she would lose him forever, and destroy her family. She couldn’t let him think there was any connection between her and that story.
She drew a deep breath, went to the drawing room, and stopped on the threshold in shock.
Greybrooke looked . . . dazzling.
He wore a black tailcoat that must have been sewn on him. It skimmed perfectly over his broad shoulders, tucked in over his narrow waist, and followed the lines of his lean hips. Jet-black trousers made his legs look endlessly long. Snow-white shirt points framed his tanned jaw, his white cravat was perfectly tied, and his waistcoat was ivory satin.
She had to hold onto the door. He looked so . . . delectable.
Goodness, she would love to make love to him. Right now. Undo his trousers and naughtily climb on top of him, and mess up his hair, and rumple his elegant clothes.
She longed to touch him. But she couldn’t—and not just because he would not allow it. She felt she did not deserve to touch him.
“Go upstairs and get dressed, my dear,” he said. “I’m taking you to a ball.”
“A ball?” She gaped at him. “Mistresses do not go to balls . . . do they?”
His lips twitched with a smile. Often he looked like that—that he wanted to grin, but something stopped him.
“It’s hosted by Lady Ponsonby,” he said. “She is a former courtesan who married the earl when he was seventy-two. She throws very scandalous parties. Husbands and wives arrive separately, and everyone is masked. They make use of the bedchambers, but with other people’s spouses.”
“Why are you taking me?” she asked, wary. “To trade me?”
“Of course not.” The statement came out fast and decisive. “I have no intention of giving you to any other man. You’ll spend your night with me. I have my reasons for going tonight—reasons that have nothing to do with you. I could leave you home to curl up with a horrid novel and a cup of tea, while I go alone—”
“No,” Helena said quickly. “I want to go.” To attend a ball on Greybrooke’s arm? Even if she didn’t deserve it, she felt a spurt of excitement. She’d always dreamed of going to a ball.
There was no other man she would want to go with than Greybrooke.
That thought stunned her. She barely heard Greybrooke say, “Then get dressed. I have a present for you afterward.”
She hurried upstairs, summoned O’Hara, and threw open the doors of one of her many, many wardrobes. Her beautiful new gowns hung within. She chose a sheath of ivory satin—the cut was simple, with a scooped bodice and a column of a skirt. It was embroidered with gold thread, in a fanciful design of entwined flowers, with pearls scattered over it. O’Hara came forth carrying a pair of ivory silk slippers.
Once dressed, Helena sat at her vanity table while O’Hara deftly swept up her hair, leaving a few tendrils that she curled with her fingers. The maid threaded a rope of pearls through her hair.
She looked like a . . . duchess.
“Oh, I will need a mask.” Helena opened a drawer in which she had put the one Greybrooke had given her to wear to his private club. It was dramatic in contrast to her pale dress and blond hair, but she liked the effect. It gave a touch of wickedness.
She supposed she was wicked now.
Greybrooke paced at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer. When he looked up and saw her, he stopped in his tracks.
“You are beautiful,” he said. But there was a rueful expression on his face.
He held out a box of gold, tied with a red ribbon. “Nothing spectacular, I’m afraid.”
She opened it and gasped. A fine gold chain, so delicate it was almost invisible. An enormous ruby dangled from the end, a remarkable teardrop. Even larger than the beautiful diamond he’d given her.
Greybrooke drew out the necklace, moved behind her. He draped it around her neck. The ruby slipped slightly between her breasts. It reflected shafts of red light.
“Just as I imagined it. Sweetly nestled between your perfect breasts,” he murmured.
Goodness, she knew she would think of those words all night. His lips touched her neck, and she gave a breathy sigh, instantly aroused. Needing him. Even though they’d just made love yesterday.
“Are you certain you don’t want to stay here?” she asked.
He looked surprised. “Waiting will make it more fun,” he growled.
Lady Ponsonby had auburn hair and an enormous bosom—it seemed to be a requirement for courtesans, Helena observed.
Worse, the voluptuous, beautiful woman fawned all over Greybrooke the instant they had stepped into her large drawing room. At once, the countess slithered over to him, slid her arm through his, and twined around him like a snake with bosoms.
What stunned Helena was that Greybrooke didn’t even notice. His gaze swept around the room constantly as if he were looking for someone else—someone specific.
When he managed to peel her ladyship off him, he led Helena to a quiet corner of the crowded ballroom. Then his lips twitched until finally, as if he could hold it in no longer, his dazzling smile exploded. Leaving her breathless.
“Jealous?” he asked.
“She was like a leech. And she is married. Goodness, did you ever have an affair with her?” Sh
e pictured—against her will—Greybrooke caressing the woman’s generous breasts.
“No, I didn’t, love.” He cocked his head endearingly, then murmured, “Shall we dance?”
She became aware of the strains of a waltz as Greybrooke put his hand on the small of her back and drew her close. He held her other hand, twining their fingers slowly while he held her gaze. By instinct, her hand went to his broad shoulder.
She’d never waltzed. Never danced. She’d watched from the doorways, with other servants, listening to gossip but never sharing any. Watching and wondering what it would be like—
Greybrooke took a step, leading her with him, and suddenly she was revolving in a sea of people. A sea of shimmering silk, glittering jewels, the striking black of men’s coats. She floated with Greybrooke, feeling as if her feet were gliding a few inches from the floor. It was a good thing he was leading, for she was falling into his gaze, and she would have crashed into a column—or a peer.
The duke whirled her around, his movements perfect, correct, yet underlain with a raw sensuality that made her hot under her stays.
“You dance beautifully,” he said.
“Then apparently I trip well. You are the excellent dancer. I’ve never done this before.”
His brow quirked. “Never?”
“I’ve dreamed of balls from afar.”
“I hope I meet your expectations in a partner.”
“You are a dream,” she whispered.
All this was a dream. For one glorious moment, she felt as if he could always be hers. They would be together for a lifetime. They would dance like this someday in the future, with their children grown—he under protest, for married gentlemen hated to be dragged on the dance floor. They would share thousands of precious memories.
Was it so impossible? Men had married mistresses. Grey claimed he never trusted his lovers, but surely what she saw in his eyes was more than just desire? Not love—she wasn’t ready to dream of that—but at least trust?
The music stopped, the whirling couples stopped. Greybrooke stopped, and a second later so did she. It was over. And she’d learned one thing.
