by Sharon Page
“The Duke of Greybrooke.” He arched a brow, looking icily ducal. “Allow me to introduce Miss Smith.”
“Yer can’t really be the Duke of Greybrooke? Why would you come here?”
“I need to speak to you.” He ushered Miss Winsome into the room, forcing the voluptuous blonde to step back and allow them in. The apartment appeared to be one room. There was a cot along one wall, a table and two chairs, and a fireplace in which a kettle hung.
The woman yawned, shoving her bosom forward. Her nipples strained against the muslin.
“Perhaps we should have let the lady put on a robe,” Miss Winsome whispered to him.
“I’m not embarrassed to let a handsome gent and a duke ogle my assets. I’ve heard of the Duke of Greybrooke. Ye’re one of the most desired protectors amongst opera dancers. Everyone wants a go at him. We’re all hoping to be the girl who captures yer interest for more than a month.”
The girl threw a smirk at Miss Winsome. “Sorry, love. I’m sure yer will be out on your pretty bottom in a month as well.”
He took a quick look at Miss Winsome. That was his reputation. Would it hurt her?
“I was warned about that,” Miss Winsome said simply. “Though I think it’s quite silly to go from one actress to another each month. Most plays run longer than that.”
Grey found he had to smile at her wicked sense of humor. If she was hurt, she was hiding it well. And he found he didn’t want to think about letting her go.
Miss Winsome surprised him. She tied him in knots. He shouldn’t trust her, especially now he knew she had dug into his past, but there was something about her....
He liked to be with her. Being with her made him happier. It was the first time this had ever happened.
But right now, he had to clear his name. He turned to the bosomy, blond actress. “Might I have your name, my dear?”
“Florence Marble, but everyone calls me Flossie. I’d like ye to call me that, Yer Grace.”
He needed to question her, so he allowed her to drag him to one of the dirty, scarred chairs and he sat down. Flossie stood so close to him, her breasts pressed against the side of his head like an overstuffed pillow.
He moved away, having to sit right against the wall.
Miss Winsome lifted a brow. “Are you trying to smother His Grace, Miss Marble?”
He bit back a laugh.
“So sorry, Yer Grace. I forget how generous me bosom is sometimes.”
“I’m sure you are always very aware of your bosom,” Miss Winsome said firmly. “Miss Marble, even if you steal the duke away from me, do remember you won’t have him for more than a month. It will be a hollow victory. We came for your help, and the duke is prepared to be generous if you do assist us.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Grey had to swallow a laugh.
“How generous do ye mean?” Flossie asked.
“If you cause His Grace to pass out due to asphyxiation, you will never know, will you?” said Miss Winsome. “Now, Miss Marble, I am certain you have a quick and clever brain. That is what we are interested in today.”
Flossie straightened away from him. “Yer interested in me wits?”
“Exactly.”
Grey could see a look of pride in Flossie’s eyes. He shook his head in amazement. Without embarrassment or anger, Miss Winsome had taken charge.
He admired Miss Winsome’s cool control. In some ways, her strength made him think of his mother. But his mother had been icy, without any passion and without a heart.
Miss Winsome was kind, noble, and good, and she possessed an enormous heart.
“I will stand while you ladies are seated.” He took Flossie’s hand. The girl’s hand was plump with chubby fingers; very different from Miss Winsome’s long, capable hands. Hands that could soothe a child, that could give him pleasure, if he could let her touch him.
“Sit, Miss Marble. And you as well, my dear.” Grey put his hand on Miss Winsome’s slim shoulders and eased her onto the chair beside Flossie’s.
“I will pay you generously for information, Flossie. But you won’t tempt me away from Miss Smith.”
“But in a month, perhaps ye will be looking for a new ladybird.”
“No, I’m afraid I won’t be.”
The duke’s words startled Helena, and she looked at Greybrooke in surprise. She had been so stunned, she hadn’t realized he was questioning Flossie.
Under his avid attention, Flossie was blossoming. “I do poses in my corset or a scanty gown, Yer Grace. Very popular we are, and we’ve a fancy French name. The Voloptuaries Plas-tiques, we’re called. But I want more than just lying about, acting like a wax figure. I want to sing. I want to be on a grand stage, something bigger than the Sans Pareil, which just puts on a lot of dirty operettas. I want to perform for the Prince Regent.”
“I could make that happen for you,” Greybrooke said, startling Helena. She supposed he could do that—he was a duke.
“But you just said you wouldn’t become my protector.”
“No, my dear. What I could be is more of a . . . patron.”
Flossie looked blank. Helena explained, “Artists have patrons. They pay so the artist can paint. An actress is very much like an artist.”
“Indeed, I am!” Flossie said proudly.
Greybrooke’s smile could have turned ice immediately into steam. “You will be a star in the best theaters on Drury Lane, my dear.”
Delighted, Flossie jumped up. She embraced Greybrooke. “I’ve got gin,” she declared. “We’ll have a toast.”
Once Flossie had moved to a cupboard and was searching for her liquor, Helena whispered, “But what if she’s awful?”
“Then I lose some money,” he answered, his lips against her ear. “Not a tragedy. Besides, she might turn out to be very good. Many gentlemen would pay to see her—she might find a generous protector.”
“You are taking care of her, aren’t you? Just as you look after children and less fortunates. Just as you’ve taken care of Lady Maryanne.”
He jerked his head toward her. She drew back at the intensity of his gaze.
Flossie was returning, with her bottle of gin.
“We’ll speak of this later,” he said very softly. In icy tones.
Three teacups were placed on cracked saucers. Flossie sloshed a bit of pungent, clear liquid in each cup. The duke lifted his, toasted Flossie, and sipped. Helena took a little and coughed. Flossie tipped hers back with a quick bolt of her wrist.
Greybrooke set down his cup and leaned against the wall. He looked tall and imposing in the small room. “So, Miss Marble, I will be your new patron and you will have the chance to shine upon the stage,” he said. “But I do have some terrible news for you, my dear.”
His expression softened. He took the woman’s hand. Then told her of the death of Richard Turner. He made it sound like an accident, as if the man had fallen in the river.
“Dickie . . . gone? He must have been set upon by thieves. Wouldn’t be that he was drunk—never touched a drop.” Flossie’s plump face crumpled. Grey produced a fine linen handkerchief and offered it to her. She blew her nose in it with a loud honk.
“I’ll miss him so. Dickie was great fun. Always generous and sweet. Always buying a girl a nice gift. A bit of jewelry or a new bonnet. Not like his friend, Morse. Sour-faced cadaver who was always telling Dickie he was a fool for being so nice to me.”
“I’m sure Mr. Turner knew what a treasure he had,” Greybrooke said. “What can you tell me about Morse?”
“He’s an actor too,” said Flossie. “His face looks like a death’s head. With his horrible looks, he always plays villains.”
Helena frowned. The description sounded like Whitehall. He was grim-faced, with skin that clung to his pronounced cheekbones. If both the blackmailer and Whitehall were actors, they must have been hired by Blackbriar, like Grey suspected.
But if Greybrooke found Whitehall, he would learn who she really was. He would find out she ha
d lied to him. He would suspect she had given those stories to Will to print.
He would throw her out, vow revenge on her and Will—and probably destroy them both.
21
In her bedroom, Greybrooke’s hand stroked over her naked bottom. “You have the most voluptuous and beautiful derriere I’ve ever seen. I want to make you melt with pleasure.”
Helena wanted to melt so very much, but she didn’t know what she was going to do. He wouldn’t be complimenting her bottom if he knew the truth.
Across her bedroom, she could see her reflection in her cheval mirror. At Greybrooke’s request, she had stripped completely naked. She had one knee on her bed, her bound hands resting against the bedpost. Her reflected face looked filled with nerves and guilt.
Mad panic told her to find Morse before Greybrooke did. But the man was in league with a murderer—or could be the killer himself. He must pay for his crimes. Lady Blackbriar deserved justice, and Greybrooke hungered for it. If she was the only one in danger, she would tell Greybrooke the truth. But she must protect her family, and she had no idea what Greybrooke would do in anger.
What was she going to do?
His finger lightly teased the entrance to her bottom. Closing her eyes, Helena moaned. Just his touch there made her cunny wet.
Greybrooke would find out the truth about her very soon. Once he knew she was Will’s sister, he would believe she was responsible for every awful story Will had been forced to publish.
She wanted to savor pleasure and intimacy with Greybrooke before it was gone forever.
His finger went in just a little. Her little anus seemed to open for him, as if her body remembered how good it had been to take that ivory wand inside.
Helena supposed a clever woman might try to extract every present she could from a duke before she was tossed out on the street. But she was not that kind of woman.
She didn’t want him for things. She wanted this delicious, amazing intimacy with him.
His finger slid into her rump, filling her. Her cunny clenched madly as pleasure shot through her. Never had she dreamed this could feel so good. But Greybrooke did things to her she’d never dreamed could be done, and each one made her come harder, made her soar higher.
“So hot and so tight,” he murmured. “And I know how to make it tighter.”
He left the bed, brought a velvet bag from beside the door. She hadn’t noticed it in the shadows. Her hands were already tied together, of course, so she could not open it.
“A new toy for you.” The velvet dropped away before her eyes, revealing a long, thick wand of ivory. Rubies were set in the base of it. “I want to make you explode in more pleasure than you can imagine.”
“I never even dreamed so much pleasure could be possible,” she whispered. This would feel so good, so incredibly good. She couldn’t wait.
Watching his hand rub oil along its length, her knees almost collapsed. Sexual desire made her legs weak; they were ready to turn into puddles of liquid with her anticipation.
“Oh, please,” she moaned as Greybrooke slipped the wand between her plump derriere cheeks and the slick tip of it hit her entrance.
Slowly, he pushed it forward, easing it in and out, filling her with slow, sensual deliberation.
Then it was in her—to the brim. Each tiny shift of her body sent thrilling sensation through her. She turned a little, so she could see the hilt, with the handle made for his hand sticking out of her bottom. She expected him to start thrusting it.
He didn’t. He tied a length of black velvet to the handle. Then he tied that around her hips, capturing the wand deep inside her.
She felt a quick burst of her juices flow from her cunny.
“Tonight, I want to cover you in jewels,” he said. Lazily, he brought forward another velvet bag—this one deep green. From it he took out hinged clips. A spray of emeralds and diamonds dripped from each one. “For your nipples,” he said.
Heavens, how?
The instant the first clip gently touched her left nipple, both of them hardened.
Greybrooke grinned—a wicked quirk of a smile that made her cunny throb. “I think you are becoming very wanton, Miss Winsome. You’re aroused with anticipation.”
It was true, but she was a bit nervous. “You are going to clamp those on my nipples? Won’t that hurt terribly?”
“They are lined with velvet and designed to tug only a little. I promise I would never hurt you. I want you to enjoy intense sensations everywhere.”
He had never hurt her, and she trusted him. Though the intense way he promised he would never do her harm made her squirm with guilt.
She did take a sharp breath when he opened them—they were operated by small springs—and he closed one on her erect left nipple, then on her right. As the clamps settled, the jewels dangled. The weight of them tugged at her nipples, making her nipples feel they were being sucked.
She licked her lips at the sight of her full breasts, decorated with swinging, winking jewels.
He was right. She was wanton. Completely, incurably wanton.
Her quim pulsed with yearning. She was afraid to move, because the slightest twitch could set off her orgasm.
She wanted to make it build.
He had already secured black ropes to the bed canopy. With his strong hands, he used them to tie her. Soon her hands were lifted and suspended.
The mirror reflected Greybrooke. A quick jerk of his hand undid his cravat, and he tossed it aside. His coat came off. She was captivated by watching his muscular arms move as he casually undid his waistcoat, then his trousers. Soon, to her amazement, he was naked.
Beautifully naked. Largely, erectly naked.
In the mirror, she saw him get on his knees on the bed. Her white and silver counterpane made his skin look a lovely, almost coppery shade. He was so darkly gorgeous.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Pain swamped her—not physical pain, but a deep, aching pain in her heart. Inside she was terrified, waiting for the end to come—for him to find out the truth, hate her, throw her out. He would be even more determined to crush the newspaper then. She’d have no hope of making him change his mind.
And when it all happened, she would be left devastated. Her heart broken.
But she couldn’t think of any of that right now. She wanted to please him—
Not because she had to, but because she loved him and yearned to.
His body pressed against hers from behind, pushing the wand deeper into her bottom. If it weren’t for the ropes holding up her arms, she would have collapsed in boneless need on the bed. His thick erection touched her nether lips from behind.
She was so wet, his cock so rigid, he slid right into her. His thrusts quickly became hard. Amazing thrusts that teased her quim and went so deep. Then, slowly, he stroked her clit.
She was on an edge of pleasure, and just moments of his skillful, circling motion set her off. She came, thrashing her body because her hands were tied, crying out, “Greybrooke!”
Then he came, his hips banging against hers. In the mirror, she saw the erotic agony on his face. Together they rocked in pleasure. Even though he must be consumed by ecstasy like her, he cupped her left breast and teased her clitoris until she burst once more.
As always, he released her afterward. He went to her dressing room and brought in the basin of water and washcloths.
As always, he tenderly washed her.
He doesn’t know that soon, very soon, he will be furious with you.
There was something she must tell him, before he threw her out. “I’m not doing this because I have to,” she said haltingly. “I mean, because I need money to save my family. The truth is I love . . . this.”
The duke kissed the tip of her nose. The gesture was so sweet, it broke her heart. He had denied it before, but he could be very sweet. She had seen it from the very beginning with his niece and nephews. And when he did it like this with her, her heart felt full to bursting.
“Grey
brooke—”
“Shh. Time for bed,” he said.
Damn, Grey felt guilty. The sex had been superbly erotic. Afterward, Miss Winsome had the sleepy, sultry eyes and tumbled beauty of a woman who had been well fucked.
Now she was sleeping. Grey pulled on a robe, then walked through the dark house.
He returned to the drawing room and went to the brandy decanter. It had been refilled. He poured himself a drink and sat in the chair, in the dark.
Jacinta was going to throw marriage prospects at him. The scandalous news stories had distracted her, but eventually she would return to her quest of finding him a bride. But Grey couldn’t imagine finding a woman he wanted to spend his life with. No gently bred lady would willingly enjoy his carnal games, like Miss Winsome did.
He didn’t want to marry a woman and live in a house filled with unhappiness. He didn’t want a hellish marriage like his parents.
He wanted a woman he could talk to. A woman he desired. A woman like Helena Winsome.
Greybrooke lifted the brandy, intending to throw the entire contents down his throat at once. He paused.
He didn’t want to try to blot out his thoughts with alcohol. Why not? He was alone. He was a duke. His life was a damned mess. Wasn’t he entitled to get drunk? The brandy touched his lips, but he set the glass down, having barely taken a swallow.
Miss Winsome would expect more from him than to get drunk. He leaned back on the chair and closed his eyes.
That’s when he heard it.
A whisper of sound. A furtive footfall. It had to be Miss Winsome, creeping downstairs. Because she wanted to make love with him again? Or for a more insidious reason?
Damn, he couldn’t blindly trust her—
A soft creak came from the floor behind the chair, from near the terrace doors that gave out onto the small back garden.
Thought came quickly, honed by years of waiting for abuse. Miss Winsome would have entered the room from the doorway, from the other direction. It wasn’t Miss Winsome, and it couldn’t be a servant.
