Deeply In You

by Sharon Page

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

  “You’re my mistress. You agreed to obey.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not without question. I want to know what you intend to do.”

  “I want to make love with you,” he said.

  “What? But you know I looked through your desk. You said you didn’t trust me.”

  He had to beat down this desire for her—this desire for more than sex. After the waltz, he’d wanted to dance with her again. He’d had to force himself to leave her to meet Caro. He had to expunge any fragment of emotion for this woman.

  “I never trust the women I fuck,” he said.

  Now she knew the blackmail had nothing to do with Greybrooke being a traitor. He had been protecting Lady Blackbriar. From clues in Lady Winterhaven’s journals, Helena believed he might have killed his father. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he’d done it to protect his sisters.

  Greybrooke was loyal, deeply protective.

  Even though she had no proof one way or another, she couldn’t believe he was a traitor.

  But it didn’t matter now. He knew she had rifled through his desk, knew she was a liar. He was walking into her bedroom and she didn’t know what he was going to do.

  He prowled around her. Slowly. “Greybrooke, I can explain—”

  “You will. You will answer every question I ask. When I am ready to ask them.”

  Truly, she was afraid. “How can you want to—to make love to me when you think I’m a liar? Why would you do something so intimate with me when you don’t trust me?”

  Greybrooke stood behind her. Hours ago, she would have been aroused to sense him so close, to smell his unique male scent, tinged with spicy cinnamon, sandalwood, the rich smoke of a cheroot.

  Now she found it unnerving.

  “If you do as I ask, I won’t hurt you. Cross me and I may lose control, Miss Winsome. When I’m really angry, I’m capable of anything. Ask the men I’ve faced in duels.”

  Something black suddenly covered her vision. He had draped a blindfold over her eyes, and he tied it deftly, without even tugging her hair. “What are you doing?”

  “Whatever I desire, angel. This is about anticipation.” He undid the first button at the back of her dress.

  She couldn’t see him, but he was so close she knew where he was by the creak of the floor, the whisper of his cheroot-scented breath. She was shaking. “This is about fear. You’re trying to frighten me. I don’t like this! I don’t like not being able to see. I don’t want you to touch me when I’m afraid like this. You need to be in control, not for pleasure, but out of anger, or fear, or something. Please don’t touch me like this. Please—”

  “Stop,” he growled.

  She heard his fast, harsh breathing.

  “I know you have reason not to trust me, but why don’t you trust other people? Why do you need me tied up—as if you are afraid I’ll hurt you? Is it . . . because of your father?”

  “Do as I ask. You don’t have anything to fear from me.”

  Velvet slipped around her wrist. He had her hands together in a heartbeat and tied them with the rope in two pounding heartbeats more. But he stepped back from her. She heard the sound of his footsteps moving away.

  His voice came from a few feet away. “You are forbidden to ask questions. I want you to tell me who you really are.”

  She didn’t answer. She feared her chest might burst open so her galloping heart could leap out. What lie could she give him? She could tell him she ferreted out scandals, but that would tie her to the newspaper. And he was furious over the story about his father. Which was worse—to admit she was related to Will or that she’d spied on him to prove him guilty of treason?

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Nothing. Just tell me the truth. Who are you?”

  His voice chilled her to the bone. “I told you. I’m Helena Winsome, and I was a governess.”

  “Why did you search my desk?”

  “I—I was just curious.” She could hear him move, but she could not see him. She wanted to see the look on his face. Know what danger she was in. Would he hurt her? He believed she had helped to hurt his friend, and given how protective he was—

  “Not good enough.” His soft baritone growled close to her ear and made her jump on the bed. “Was it to help your partner, the damned blackmailer? To steal from me? What do you want?”

  “I am not involved with the blackmailer! A man offered to pay my family’s debts in return for—for—”

  Oh God, she’d said too much.

  “For what, Miss Winsome?”

  She was too confused to lie anymore. “He said you were a traitor. He is an agent of the Crown.”

  “That is the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard. I should punish you severely for that, Miss Winsome. But first, I can’t resist making you come.”

  His words stunned her. She’d told the truth but he didn’t believe her. He was going to punish her—

  His lips touched her neck. He kissed her there, a luscious, sensual kiss that made her tremble. Made her wits melt. Was that what he wanted? To make her so she couldn’t think?

  But to have pleasure like this—“No, please stop. Not like this. Not with you angry at me, hating me, not believing me.”

  Greybrooke drew back. “You’re correct. I can’t do that to you. I can’t push you when you’re afraid. But if you give me the truth, you will have nothing to fear.”

  “Please untie me. Take off the blindfold. I need to make you understand.” Bound and blind, she was helpless. Was he testing her—trying to find out what she knew because he really was a traitor? Helena expected him to ignore her plea.

  But something cut through the bonds at her wrists. Gently, he drew the blindfold up, off her head. She blinked, saw his face.

  Pulled back.

  Not because of the anger she saw in his face. It was the pain she saw there. His mouth was tight and twisted with it. His eyes projected such agony, she winced.

  “You are correct, Miss Winsome. That’s not what my games are about. It’s not why I play them. Not to cause pain and terror. You were vulnerable, and I had no right.”

  His admission stunned her more than anything. He had every right to be furious. “What I told you is the truth. A man from the Crown approached me, since I worked for your sister. He told me you are suspected of being a traitor—of having sold secrets to the French during the war. If I found proof you are a traitor, he promised my brother’s debts would be paid.”

  Greybrooke paced on the floor, between her bed and the windows. “He told you the Crown—men who work for the king—believe me to be a traitor? That’s ridiculous.”

  “He seemed quite convinced,” she pointed out.

  “What was his name? What proof did you have that he is actually an agent for the Crown?”

  “He gave his name as Mr. Whitehall. And he didn’t give me any proof. I saw no reason to ask him for any. Why would he invent this tale?”

  “That, Miss Winsome, I don’t know.”

  Miss Winsome. It seemed so strange to think he had done intimate things to her body, yet he still called her that.

  “I assure you it’s a lie.” He frowned. “You agreed to be my mistress when you believed I was suspected of treason. Were you playing at being a spy, hoping to learn my secrets by fucking me?”

  Her cheeks had gone beyond scarlet—they burned so much they actually hurt.

  “I suppose I’ve been a disappointment, since I’ve given you no proof of my dastardly acts against my country.”

  “I—I quickly began to see it couldn’t be possible. How could you be so beloved by your family if you were the kind of gentleman who could be a traitor?”

  “I would expect, in most cases, the family is the last to know.”

  “Your Grace, I would have thought you would try to convince me of your inno—”

  “I am not trying to convince you of anything. I am telling you I�
�m innocent. That is sufficient.”

  From her perch on the edge of the bed, she looked up at his profile. “I told you my secret. I answered your questions. Will you answer some of mine? Why do you have scars on your back? Why were you punished so brutally? Was it your father who did it?”

  “If your plan was to seduce the truth from me, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your cunning plot. You are free to try to fuck it out of me. When I’m about to come, I might be vulnerable enough to give you an answer.”

  Was he trying to shock her? Scare her? Or—“Are you trying to trick me into doing naughty things to you?”

  He gave a soft, rueful laugh. “No, I was angry and I lashed out. Again, my apologies.”

  “You cannot joke about this,” she whispered. “Are you angry with me? What are you going to do to me?”

  He scrubbed his jaw, looking so serious Helena swallowed hard. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  A rap sounded on the door, and her heart leapt in relief. “Who is it?” she called. Whoever it was, she was going to let them inside at once.

  “I’m so sorry, miss, but he said it’s urgent. I was to fetch you right away, miss.”

  The voice belonged to Betsy. Helena got up, hurried past Greybrooke, and opened the door.

  “I know I’m not to interrupt,” the girl cried, “but the Duke of Caradon is downstairs. His Grace says he must speak to His Grace—I mean you, Your Grace—at once.” She turned to Greybrooke and gave a hurried curtsy. “His Grace—the Duke of Caradon—is in the blue drawing room, miss.”

  “Caradon?” Greybrooke frowned. “What does he want?” He was already striding to the door.

  Helena followed him, hurrying downstairs. But he was far ahead of her, and she reached the bottom of the stairs when she heard him say, “Caradon, what is it? What is so urgent?”

  She heard another man’s voice, filled with sympathy, answer, “Grey, sit down. I have something to tell you—”

  “What is it?” Greybrooke’s voice was cold, all the emotion drained out of it. “Is it my sister? Something about the baby?”

  Helena reached the door to the drawing room, as Greybrooke left Caradon and was at the door, passing by her, shouting for his carriage to be brought at once.

  “Steady on, Grey.” Caradon came running across the room. “No, it’s nothing about Jacinta. I received a message from Blackbriar’s house, demanding that you come at once. Grey—” Caradon broke off. His face was unnaturally pale, his blue eyes grim.

  “He’s killed her, hasn’t he? Goddamn it, I knew it would happen. I knew he’d take it too far, hurt her too much. I’m going to kill him.”

  She was about to rush after Greybrooke and desperately try to stop him when Caradon went over to him and laid his hand on Greybrooke’s shoulder.

  “Blackbriar isn’t to blame. Caro took her own life. She filled her tea with an overdose of laudanum and drank it down.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Grey snarled. “It was Blackbriar. He must have forced the stuff down her throat. He must’ve found out about her child, and he killed her for it. Now I’m going to string him up by his cowardly balls and make him pay.”

  15

  “I could have saved her.” Greybrooke’s voice, low and cold, came from the dark shadow in the corner of the carriage. The lamps weren’t lit and moonlight flitted inside, sending washes of silver blue over his stonelike expression.

  Seated across from him, Helena shivered at the self-recrimination in his tone. The golden-haired Duke of Caradon sat at her side. Caradon had forced his friend to stop and have a drink for the shock. She knew Caradon had hoped it would give Greybrooke time to calm down. Instead, Greybrooke had snatched up the decanter in a gesture of fury and poured almost half the contents down his throat. His ability to down that much brandy had stunned her. It spoke of the depth of his pain.

  “You did everything you could,” she pointed out. “You tried to protect her as best as you could. You paid the blackmailer and tried to find out—”

  “I should have found out who he was and ripped him limb from limb,” Greybrooke snarled.

  “You were afraid to have the countess’s secret exposed.”

  “And that bit of stupidity on my part cost her her life.”

  “It was not stupidity,” she implored. “You were protecting her.”

  “What I needed was his name. Then I would have had the ability to rip the bastard’s heart out.”

  She cringed. The carriage was rattling onward. “Are you—are you going to take me home? I can wait in the carriage, if you want to do that later—”

  “You are coming to Blackbriar’s with me,” he growled. “If you are involved with that damned blackmailer, you cost Caro her life.”

  “I’m not involved with the blackmailer. I swear that what I told you is the truth.” She’d thought he’d believed her. Now that he was angry—and had downed a lot of brandy—he seemed filled with suspicion and hatred.

  He gripped her wrist ruthlessly.

  Caradon put his hands on Grey’s rock-hard forearm. “Release her, Grey. You’re foxed and you’re going to do something you will regret. Explain to me what in Hades is going on.”

  “Miss Winsome believes me to be a traitor.”

  Helena’s eyes almost started out of her head as Grey leaned back gracefully on the carriage seat and casually made the statement. He acted as if it was a joke, but she saw a twitch in jaw.

  “She believes I sold my country’s secrets to the French during the war, Cary. Amusing to think I even possessed the secrets of my country.”

  Caradon said nothing. He seemed to be watching Grey warily, the way one would study a bull as it pawed the ground.

  “I have never had political interests,” Greybrooke said. “I’ve done my duty in the House of Lords, nothing more. During the war, I spent my time learning the arts of tying up women and a dozen ways to skillfully use a whip. True, I could have sold those secrets to the French. Miss Winsome, however, needs proof to believe me. Just as I need proof that she is not the blackmailer’s partner and is not responsible for Caroline’s death.”

  Caradon looked from her to Grey. “Proving a negative is madness. Let me ensure I have the right of this. This lady is your mistress, but she thinks you committed treason?”

  “She was seducing my guilt out of me.”

  Helena blushed. It was not exactly what she had done, but it would have been what Whitehall wanted. To hear it aloud—spoken to his friend—she was ashamed. “I did betray you, and what I did was wrong and I am sorry. But it is one thing to attack me over this—another thing to humiliate me in front of a stranger.”

  Caradon’s brows shot up into his golden hair and his jaw dropped.

  “You are in the wrong up to your pretty neck, yet you chastise me?” Greybrooke growled. “All right, I had no right to hurt you in front of Cary. But what I said was the truth. You did betray me, Miss Winsome.”

  “I know. But you also let me become your mistress without telling me you didn’t trust me.”

  Caradon shook his head. “Good God, both of you appeared to be spying on each other.”

  She blinked—it was true and it sounded so ridiculous, Greybrooke looked as startled as she felt.

  Caradon frowned at her. “Why did you think such a thing about Grey, Miss Winsome? He would never betray his country. He’s the noblest man I’ve ever known.”

  “Yes. Out with it, Miss Winsome. Give us the whole tale,” Greybrooke said.

  Greybrooke sounded playful now. She knew, in truth, he was anything but. She hesitated. Greybrooke sank back more on the cushions until he was in the relaxed pose of a dissolute but beautiful Roman god lounging on a chaise.

  He looked relaxed, but energy seemed to crackle from him, as if he possessed an inner lightning storm instead of a heart. Helena knew he was filled with anger and pain.

  “Cary, your reassurances haven’t helped,” he said. “She doesn’t want to speak.”

  Earnest hone
sty showed in the Duke of Caradon’s expression. “Miss Winsome, I cannot believe Grey is anything but innocent. We were at Eton and Oxford together. Grey was the sort of gentleman who would fling himself into another man’s battle if he believed an injustice had been done.”

  “He could have believed it was not just or right for France to lose.”

  Caradon threw his hands up. “Normally your mistresses are much more pliable.”

  “She was a governess before,” Greybrooke said. “She’s not accustomed to her new life.”

  New life? He couldn’t mean to have her stay on as mistress? He couldn’t—not after this.

  “Miss Winsome is my folly in more ways than one,” Greybrooke said. “I should have recognized how dangerous she was when she goaded me into kissing her.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “Think, Cary. Is there any proof I can have to exonerate me? The only thing I can think of is the most obvious—it should be simple enough to prove this Whitehall is no agent of the Crown.”

  “That should be effective,” the Duke of Caradon stated.

  Goodness, why hadn’t she thought of that? Desperate to help Will—to save her family—she had taken everything at its surface value.

  “Beyond that, Miss Winsome, you’ll have to trust me. I am not a traitor.”

  “And I am not involved with the blackmailer! Please,” she added softly, “you must believe I had nothing to do with this. I could never have done anything to hurt you like this.”

  His eyes narrowed, but the crackling energy seemed to have dissipated. “It goes against every instinct I possess, but I do believe you. Still, I have no intention of letting you go anywhere until I make sure you have told me everything.” He stretched out his arm, pushing back the curtain. “We’re here. Lord Blackbriar’s house.”

  The horses slowed, the carriage began to turn. Through the window, Helena saw an enormous brick house with few windows lit. They passed between towering gate posts. A man stood on the front step, holding a torch, but as the carriage neared, she saw he wore black trousers and a white shirt, not livery.

  “That is Blackbriar,” Greybrooke growled. “Do not let his gentle appearance fool you. The bastard used to hit Caroline. He’s a coward who pretends to be mild-mannered and bookish but secretly likes to use his fists on a defenseless woman.”