Deeply In You

by Sharon Page

  He was vowing to destroy her family based on the word of a blackmailer. A criminal.

  She must convince him not to attack the newspaper. Her only solution was for her to stay as Greybrooke’s mistress. It was the only way she might convince him to listen to her.

  Will drew out his flask, added a splash to his tea. His hand shook.

  “I don’t know, Helena.” He looked hollow-eyed and afraid. “I told the duke the truth. I’ve got no idea why a blackmailer would claim I was his partner. I swear I would not do something like that. I am a gentleman, not a parasite and a swine.”

  “I know, Will. I believe you.” There was so much she must fix—her sisters must go to school, they must be saved from debt. But first, she had to save their newspaper.

  What if Greybrooke wouldn’t listen to her?

  There was one definite way to prove Will’s innocence. She had to find the actual blackmailer.

  But if the Duke of Greybrooke had not been able to do it, how could she?

  The only place she could think to look was the brothel—the brothel where the blackmailer had taken her as his hostage.

  A shiver ran through her. Because this time she wouldn’t be with Greybrooke. She would be alone.

  “Hello, pretty one.” A deep, masculine voice drawled beside Helena’s ear, and she almost leaped out of her skin. “Spend the night with me? You’ve a delectable rump, and my prick would love to feel you squeezing it tight.”

  Good heavens!

  Her heart danced about like one of the drunken courtesans who were sashaying around the drawing room of the brothel. She knew that voice; it belonged to the Duke of Sinclair. The fourth member of the Wicked Dukes she had now met. His hand pressed to her bottom through her skirts. Groped and squeezed! She drew away. “I am not available.”

  The brothel was indulging in a masquerade, so the men wore costumes, just as they had at Greybrooke’s private club. The Duke of Sinclair wore a black cloak embroidered with silver stars, and where they glittered and winked she saw tiny jewels were sewn to the velvet. A tall wizard’s cap sat on his brown hair. A mask of gilt and black covered his face from his hairline to his high cheekbones. His wide lips quirked in a smile that hinted at the rude thoughts he was entertaining.

  Fortunately she had worn the mask Greybrooke had given her the first time they’d come. She had gathered her courage and put on one of the lovely gowns he had bought her—this one was sapphire blue silk that whispered sinfully as she moved. She’d wanted to look very different from Helena Winsome the Governess.

  “Already spoken for?” Sinclair asked huskily. “There’s no honor in a brothel, sweetheart, where a man’s cock is involved. I’ll pay double what you’ve been offered. Triple, with a few sovereigns extra for you to put in your own pocket.”

  Primly, she said, “I would not betray my protector. Thank you though, for your kind offer, Your Grace.”

  He gave a deep laugh, but one not quite as darkly sinful as Greybrooke’s laugh. “You sound like a governess, not a whore. And you recognized me? This mask must not be as good as I thought.”

  “It is perfect, Your Grace,” she said hurriedly. She had to escape before he either discovered who she was or took his interest too far. Helena backed away to disappear in the crowd. It willingly swallowed her up. She bumped something and turned to discover she had backed into a man who had a woman kneeling in front of him. Head arched back in ecstasy, the man hadn’t noticed. She scrambled away.

  Shaking, Helena peered through the crowd, looking for the blackmailer’s distinctive mask. But what if he wore a different one? She would wager a fortune he would be in that bondage room—which meant she must go there.

  A hand grabbed at her breast, and she darted away She didn’t even see who had tried to paw her. Running, she managed to thread through the crowd of half-naked females and lusty males, but as she neared the doorway to the salon, a towering male suddenly filled the space. A broad-shouldered, black-haired man who exuded power like the crackle of a lightning storm.

  It was Greybrooke, and her heart wedged in her throat. Beneath her gloves, her palms grew hot and wet. She didn’t know where to look. She wanted to both run toward him and run away.

  Then two enormous breasts, almost spilling out of a low-cut scarlet dress, blocked her view of Greybrooke. The bosom smacked firmly against his chest. Helena felt her jaw drop. The owner of the massive bosom pounced on him. The woman wrapped one hand around Grey’s neck, plastered her voluptuous body to his, and dragged his ear down to whisper in it.

  He listened intently, gazing down at the woman. At her breasts, Helena feared. How could any man look away from such generous servings of sensuality? She couldn’t stop gaping at them.

  Had Greybrooke come here for the blackmailer? Or had he come for sex, which he used to keep painful thoughts at bay?

  Had she already lost him?

  She retreated into the shadows by the wall and watched him. Greybrooke remained at the side of the voluptuous courtesan, but he didn’t look at the woman—he surveyed the room, studying the patrons.

  Helena’s heart gave a strong thump of hope. Perhaps he wasn’t here for lovemaking. Perhaps he was hunting, just as she was.

  Like her, he was probably frustrated. Everyone in the room was masked. She should go to him, let him know she was doing the same thing—

  A tiger’s face blocked her view, right in front of her face.

  Helena’s lurched back, but the tiger lifted her hand to his lips.

  At the same moment, the bosomy ladybird escorted Greybrooke out of a doorway.

  Blast, Helena thought. She couldn’t chase him down and join him now. Perhaps the woman had information. Perhaps his interest had nothing to do with breasts so large a man would need two hands to hold one.

  Acrid jealousy ate at her.

  She must ignore it. She must stay true to her mission to find the blackmailer. Yanking her hand away from the tiger, Helena hurried out of the salon, charged down to the hall to the bondage room, and stepped inside.

  Whips cracked. Riding crops were wielded. Ropes bound courtesans in all sorts of artistic ways, and at least a dozen women were tied to racks or suspended. Masked guests and courtesans already filled the room, and several women were completely, utterly naked.

  How could they be undressed in this crowd of people? Was it because they wore masks? No one could recognize them, so that made them daring?

  She could never be that daring.

  A woman let out a moan beside Helena. A hood covered the woman’s head; her hands were bound; and a leather leash, like that of a dog, was around her neck. A man held the leash, and he kept smacking her rump with a riding crop.

  This was the sex Greybrooke talked about. Her cunny did ache and throb each time she heard a moan. And the things she saw—thick shafts disappearing into sobbing, appreciative women; bouncing breasts; bottoms in the air; people on all fours—were erotic. But all she could think of was trying these things with Greybrooke. It was Greybrooke that made sex exciting, not the acts.

  Helena tried to look around for the blackmailer—

  “Come on, tart. I’m lusty and I need to relieve myself. Now. You’ll do.”

  Strong hands gripped her and pushed her against the wall. An ox breathed down on her . . . no, it was a man as big as the beast. He jerked her arms up, pinned her wrists to the wall. His heavy body shoved against her, crushing her. Helena struggled to breathe as he ground his crotch hard against her. The bulge there felt enormous. She let out a panicked whimper—she didn’t have enough breath to cry out. Her little sound of distress made the fiend grow bigger and harder in his trousers.

  The fiend’s hands tugged ruthlessly at her bodice. “Let me get a look at these fat tits,” he hissed. Pungent alcohol wafted from his breath. He stank of musty sweat. She struggled to fight him while struggling not to breathe in his foul odors.

  Her skirts were being jerked up her legs. She kicked madly but cried out in pain as her toes in dres
s slippers hit the brute’s boots.

  “Stop.” She sucked in a breath to speak and was almost sick. “Let me go. I don’t want you.”

  “You’re a whore. You’ll take me and be glad of it. No tart refuses me.”

  One hard tug pulled her bodice down. A seam tore. He jerked the neckline beneath her shift-clad breasts, forcing them up.

  “There.” He laughed with cruelty. “That’s what I want.”

  Baring teeth, he lunged at her breast, almost visible beneath the fine muslin. Helena drove her knee up, to slam it between his thighs, but her skirts got in the way. Her blow was weak, only enough to enrage him.

  He let go of her wrists. Drew his hand back as if to hit her. She wrenched, pulled, tried to slide down out of the range of his fist, but she couldn’t move.

  “Whore.”

  Big as a leg of ham, his fist hurtled through the air—

  Suddenly, the huge man soared backward, landing on the parquet floor like a felled tree.

  A dark-haired man stood over him. Her savior hauled her attacker to his feet. Stunning, considering the gentleman who had come to her rescue stood a few inches shorter and probably weighed several stone less. But two fast, lethal blows from his fists sent her burly attacker slumping to the ground again. This time the fiend slithered as if he had no bones. His cheek hit the ground, blood spattered. He didn’t move.

  “Speak to me, angel. Chastise me. Lie to me. I think I know who you are, but I have to make sure.”

  Helena was staring at the fallen attacker. Heart pattering, she turned. She gaped at a mask painted to look like a wolf’s face—a silver and gray wolf. But she knew his voice. Greybrooke! He had put on a mask.

  “Chastise you?”

  “It is you,” he said. In the eyeholes of the exquisitely painted mask, brilliant green eyes narrowed. “What in the blazes are you doing in here?”

  “What are you doing?” she countered.

  “Hunting for the blackmailer,” he growled.

  Her heart gave a soft, foolish leap. He was not here for carnal pleasures.

  “Did you come here alone?” he growled.

  “Y-yes,” she admitted.

  “Damnation, what were you thinking? That man was a moment away from beating you senseless, then raping you while you were bleeding and defenseless. You are leaving. Now.”

  Greybrooke put a small glass of sherry in her hand. “Are you all right? You were shaking in the carriage.”

  “Yes. I am all right. Thanks to you.”

  “You are not to go there again on your own. Do you understand? You will do as I tell you.”

  Her heart soared with hope for a moment—did that mean he intended to keep her as his mistress? But then she realized he was speaking of dictating her every moment. “I will take your advice.”

  “You will obey.” His voice was curt. He had discarded his mask, and she saw his expression wasn’t filled with anger as he commanded her. It was filled with concern.

  She hadn’t meant to make him worry. But it amazed her that he did.

  Groaning, the duke sank onto a wing chair opposite her, drinking from a tumbler of brandy. “I haven’t found the blackmailer. Despite searching the stews where Orley lives and lavishing bribe money around. Despite searching that brothel. How could I have failed so badly? How could I have failed Caro?”

  Helena stood slowly and walked to him. She wrapped her hand around his glass, eased it from his hand, and set it on the table. Gathering courage, she touched the side of his face gently, fearing he would push her away.

  He stiffened, but suddenly he turned his face into her palm, so she cupped his cheek.

  The depth of his need speared her.

  Finding the blackmailer would save both Will and Greybrooke. But she also had to protect her sisters. To do that, she needed to be Greybrooke’s mistress.

  She wanted to heal his pain, and she knew only one way to do it, but this was more: She yearned to be intimate with him. In those moments, she felt something special, delightful, wonderful. No matter what they did, it was erotic and thrilling.

  She desired him, plain and simple.

  No matter what happened, she always would.

  “Come to bed with me.” She had to be seductive, but she didn’t quite know how to do it. Sex had always been on Greybrooke’s terms—and he came to her when he wanted it.

  What would tempt him?

  “I’ll do anything you want,” she said. “Any naughty, wicked game you want to play. I want to experience everything.”

  Even as she said the words, a thrill raced through her. Daring words. Dangerous words. But she trusted him. She clasped his hand and gave a tug to coax him to follow her to the bedroom.

  He didn’t move.

  Then, his words slightly slurred, he said, “Promise me you’ll never go to that club alone.”

  “I won’t. I promise. I swear.”

  In one sudden, fluid movement, he lifted his back from the chair and pulled off his tailcoat. She watched his hands move swiftly down the buttons of his waistcoat, then tear open the knot at his cravat.

  The cravat fell into a puddle on his chair arm, and the clothes that had covered his chest lay in a heap on the lovely Aubusson rug. He was bare from the waist up. He crooked his finger to her, and she obeyed. Once she was leaning over him, he drew her down. His mouth slanted over hers. Hot, firm, possessive, demanding.

  Then he stopped kissing her abruptly, drawing back. Helena sucked in air desperately. While he kissed her, she’d forgotten to breathe. Steam seemed to coil off her lips.

  How much would he let her touch him? Would he stop her?

  His bunched muscles flexed as he leaned in for another kiss. She put her hands to his chest, and he stopped. From beneath his disordered jet-black hair, he watched her.

  Helena let her hands move over his chest. He was so hot. Hot with desire, just like she was. She felt it—that warm, wonderful enveloping intimacy. She stroked the bulge of his pectorals. Almost giggled with the thrill of letting her fingers touch his nipples—they went instantly hard. She skimmed her hands up to his broad shoulders, ran her fingertips down his arms.

  He was letting her caress his chest.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she said.

  His hand went down, ruthlessly jerked open the falls of his trousers, and he kissed her again. An open-mouthed kiss that made her almost collapse on him. His hands slid along her shoulders, his fingers coasted up her neck.

  She sizzled everywhere.

  He grasped her hands. Obediently, she clasped them together behind her back, mimicking being tied up. It would be what he wanted.

  But strangely, he immediately stopped kissing her. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths. “You’ll do anything I want? Are you sure, angel? What I want now may be more than you can do.”

  She must do anything. But she knew now that was an excuse. She wanted to be wicked and wanton with him. She wanted to share something extraordinary.

  “Try me,” Helena said.

  Grey’s dark brows shot up in surprise. There was one thing he had not yet told her. “I confirmed there is no man named Whitehall working for the Crown.”

  He watched her face. Dejection showed, then anger, then something close to despair. “I expected that’s what you would find, because I know you could not have committed treason.”

  He wanted to believe she had been duped. It seemed the most plausible story.

  But his gut hammered a warning to him: Don’t trust her.

  So why did he want to haul her to her bed, blindfold her, tie her up, and fuck her in every erotic position he could think of? He could walk out the door and find another woman to be his bedmate in mere minutes. He could find a woman who would not lie to him.

  Why did he want Helena Winsome so much?

  Ropes wrapped around her wrists and ankles, securing her to the four posts of her bed. A blindfold of black silk covered her eyes. Helena heard Greybrooke prowl around the bed. Then she hear
d a sound like a swish of air.

  “What was that?” she asked, nervously licking her lips.

  “Riding crop, angel,” he said.

  She winced, expecting the strike.

  Something gently tapped her nipples—first the tip of her left breast, then the right. The quick, light cold tap sent a shimmering bolt of arousal to her cunny. The cool end of the crop circled her nipples. Making them go hard. Making her gasp.

  She heard the whisper of his step. The slap of the crop. Against his hand? What was Greybrooke doing now? Not knowing—when she trusted him—proved very thrilling.

  Another cool, long, slender thing stroked between her nether curls. Not his cock, which would be hot. Not the crop, this was too smooth. Gently, he thrust it inside her. It was very thick, stretching her. It touched a special place inside her quim—one that gave her shimmering pleasure. She was close to an orgasm, and she fought to hold it off.

  Once he’d told her orgasms were so much more intense when they built to a point that they burst through all restraint.

  “Now your bottom,” he said.

  Behind the blindfold, Helena blinked.

  His hand lifted her rump. Warm greasiness slid into the valley between her cheeks. Something touched the opening of her bottom. His fingers, she was sure.

  No, not his fingers. This was thicker and smooth. It had to be another wand. He slid the ivory phallus in and out of her bottom, and she moaned in sheer pleasure.

  This should be too much—a wand in her rump and one deep inside her cunny.

  But it was unbelievably good. She felt on the extreme edge of pleasure. The knife’s edge, as he called it.

  He lowered her bottom, and that pushed the wand deep inside. She couldn’t resist—she began to rock on it. Letting it slide out a bit, then taking it deep. The flared ivory end, cool and smooth, bumped against her cheeks.

  “I love to see you like this,” he murmured. When he had sex with her, his voice was so gentle. Intimate.

  Then he gave the wand in her cunny one slow thrust.