It was the same question she’d asked him. Essentially how could he be incapable of love when he was so good with children?
It was time to start seducing her. “Come with me to the bedroom. You can’t cry—or feel sad—when you’re in the middle of a toe-curling climax.”
H
elena almost sank to her knees at the sight of the huge bedchamber.
This was hers? This enormous bed with its soaring canopy of rose silk? Pillows and bolsters were mounded upon the bed; the counterpane was rose with gold flowers embroidered all over. Another writing desk stood near the window, and a settee was placed in front of the fire.
“I wanted this room to be sinful and decadent and indulgent. I wanted you to be filled with desire the moment you stepped within.” Greybrooke stood behind her, his fingers stroking her neck, then he began to flick open the fastenings of her sensible dress. Shivers tumbled.
“Then, it’s up to me to pleasure you,” he added.
She didn’t know what to say. She quivered, surrounded by his scent as he drew her gown down her body. Muslin skimmed over her skin. Her senses were filled by his nearness. The sight of his hands—the memory of what they’d done—made her legs feel as solid as pudding.
This must be what it was like on a wedding night. The bed stood in front of her. She knew what must happen. She half wanted it, and half wanted to hide due to tremendous nerves. She’d done naughty things with him. But this was
the
thing.
Greybrooke undid the lacings of her stays with quick, firm tugs.
“What are you going to want me to do?”
His lips skimmed over her neck. Was it possible for skin to catch fire? “Submit to me and enjoy yourself,” he murmured.
“That’s far too mild a word. I’m all—” A thousand emotions tumbled around in her. “All in a whirl.”
“I like making you that way.” His voice was sin. His hands stroked through her hair. Heavens, even her scalp felt sensitive and aroused. He took out her pins, then fanned her hair to make it fall down her back in waves.
“Your hair is so beautifully tempting.”
His voice was so tempting. Helena kept holding her breath, as if the very act of breathing might make this all dissolve. The vanity mirror showed her the lush sensuality of the moment. She looked wanton in her white stays and petticoats with golden hair spilling loose, he elegant in his dark clothes but snow-white shirt.
He helped her out of her stays, her petticoats, leaving her in her stockings and slippers. Her hands went to her breasts. She wasn’t cold—a wonderful fire burned in the enormous, marble fireplace. But she was exposed to his gaze, and it still felt strange.
This was going to be the most intimate moment of her life, and she was falling into that intimacy.
The duke held up his hands. The shackles dangled, jewels reflecting light, dazzling her. She let go of her bosom and obediently she held out her hands. She saw the heat in his green eyes as she bared herself to him.
Oh goodness, once she’d thought of marriage. Of going to bed with a husband, the way one was supposed to. Not this wicked heat and sensuality, not this feeling that all she was made of was desire and sensitive skin and need. The shackles closed around her slim wrists, and the moment they did, she felt a twinge of need deep inside her. Having her wrists bound together in front of her meant something now. It meant delirious pleasure was coming soon.
Greybrooke set his hands on her waist, lifting her. The way he focused only on her made her breathless. A smile curved his lips, and her heart soared. He looked happy. Perhaps his coolness before had been nerves over facing his sister, or concern over the blackmail, or something that had nothing to do with her. She felt a distinct victory at his smile. There, she had made him feel happiness in bed.
Goodness, he was lowering her onto her bed—about the size of a carriage, and so comfortable, it was like sinking into a cloud.
“Hands over your head,” Greybrooke commanded.
He had his velvet ties, of course. Oh God, did she want to be made love to, all tied up?
Yes, yes, yes. She was squirming with need at the thought. Greybrooke was going to be in command, doing all the things to her that felt so wonderful.
She thought she’d feel some fear at having sex, at giving up her virginity, but she thought of all the pleasure he’d given her. If he said it would give her pleasure, she certainly believed him.
Soft velvet skimmed over her ankles, and he pushed her legs apart. She watched as he tied the ropes in loops around her ankles, then secured them to the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He tied two more ropes to the columns at the head of the bed.
“God, you are beautiful,” he said.
“Are you going to undress?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Not today.” He watched her, his head cocked. A wistful look touched his eyes, just for a moment, then vanished, and he bent to graze her nipple. His tongue flicked out, stroking her.
Just the slightest touch to her nipple made an intense tug in her cunny.
His lips nuzzled her nipples, teased them, played with them, while he tied the ropes to her shackles. She was completely tied to the bed, unable to touch him.
At his mercy.
And merciless he was proving to be. Opening his mouth, he took all her nipple inside and sucked. Each tug . . . oh, she literally writhed on the bed with pleasure.
He suckled her nipples, licked them, scraped his teeth across them. Then, daringly, bit her left nipple gently while his strong hand cupped her naked breast.
She froze for a minute—how far would this biting go?—then relaxed as he eased back to licking her nipple. His large hand slid between her legs, stroking her, making her wet.
She ached inside. She felt empty inside. Instinctively she knew she wanted to be filled. Her hips arched up rhythmically. She wanted to press her cunny to his hand. Ease the ache, the hunger for more.
But if he wasn’t going to undress, they weren’t going to make love—
Greybrooke opened the fastenings of his trousers, revealing his thick, engorged erection. Large. Pointing at her. He got on top of her, braced on one arm, balanced on his knees. He slid something onto his shaft. A slender, almost translucent sleeve. “A French letter,” he said. “It prevents my seed from entering you. Prevents us from creating a child.”
“Oh. That’s rather a good thing.” She didn’t want an illegitimate child. She knew, from her sister Margaret’s tragedy, how terrible that would be.
“I want to make you ready,” he said softly. He brushed her sensitive nub with the head of his erection.
She quivered. Tugged at her shackles. “I am ready. I want you.”
She was a mistress now. She could have the pleasure she wanted. And she ached for it.
“This will hurt a little, I’m afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll be gentle. But soon, love, you’ll want me to thrust as deep and hard as I can.”
His hips shifted. It was amazing—he could direct his cock just by flexing his hips. Her nether lips tugged a little, resisting the big, full head of his enormous erection. Helena held her breath.
She had never felt so close to anyone in her life.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Just a twinge, then it will be good.”
His cock slid forward, gliding in her wetness. He went in only an inch, and she kept gasping, as she felt his hugeness inside her. Yet her body began to relax around him, and he fit as snugly inside her as if she’d been made especially for him.
Greybrooke’s hands settled on her narrow bed on each side of her head. He was bearing his weight on them, and he drew his cock back. Just when she was ready to sob, he thrust gently forward again. Over and over he pumped, going a little deeper each time.
This was her whole world. The sensation of his cock inside her, filling her. She couldn’t touch him, but she could fill every other sense. She could look at his gorgeous jawline, his long lashes, his longer body. She could smell his maleness. Hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
“I’m inside all the way, love.”
He stayed like that, and she savored the moment, getting used to being filled by him. Working against the ropes, she arched her hips up, just a bit, but it sent his thick cock in deeper.
She gasped.
She wished she could see what they looked like joined, but like this she couldn’t see the mirror. She watched his face. Could see in the way his mouth tightened how good it was for him. She could see everything in his eyes. Lust. Need. Pleasure. Everything she felt.
Never had she dreamed she would be tied up for her very first time. Yet it was thrilling to have him in command. Greybrooke’s hair was damp with sweat—perspiration she’d caused. She felt rather wickedly proud.
“Does it still hurt?” His voice was soft as a caress.
“No, not anymore.”
Slowly he began thrusting. Long, elegant strokes. Her body loved it and her hips moved, seeking more.
His strokes sped up, became harder. She pounded up against him, encouraging him.
“I want you to come,” he growled.
He pumped fast, his shaft kissing her aching clit with his every thrust. He sucked her nipples, kissed her neck, gave her so much sensation, she couldn’t think.
Yes, oh yes!
She felt it coming. Felt her whole body grow tense, knew it was the moment before everything burst—
She was coming. Coming and coming and coming. Her body was a slave to pleasure, and she thrust back against him more, taking herself to the peak again. He seemed to be indefatigable, as if he could be hard forever. As if he could keep thrusting in her, making her climax until she dissolved into a boneless puddle of pleasure.
Then he tensed over her. Helena sensed it, even groggy with her climax. His back arched, his head bowed, and he let out a soft growl. His hips smacked hard against her, and he stayed absolutely still.
Goodness, he was coming too.
She was exquisitely beautiful. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her hair was damp from perspiration. Her eyes were closed, and she was taking quick, soft breaths.
Grey was gripped with a yearning to give her a gentle, sweet kiss on her parted lips.
Hell.
He braced himself over Miss Winsome and withdrew from her, then he discarded the French letter beside the bed and quickly buttoned his trousers.
This was what he always did with mistresses—when he was done, he left. With Lady Montroy, as with all his other paramours, he kept to a schedule. Many men kept a mistress for company, for a sympathetic ear. He had never done that.
Sure as sin, he could not do that with Miss Winsome.
Grey withdrew a key from his pocket and opened the shackles, releasing her wrists, then he untied her ankles.
His body was spent, exhausted, but he wasn’t about to lie down on her bed and take a nap. He’d never given a woman her first time. He’d had no idea how intense it would be, how much it would touch him to know he was her first.
The way her blue eyes had glowed at him as he thrust into her—
He had to forget that. He couldn’t trust her. He had to find out what she wanted and why, and to do that he must coax her to trust him.
Even though he’d freed her from her bonds, she didn’t move. She looked dreamily at him, obviously as languorous from pleasure as he wanted to be.
“Like your house?” he asked.
“The house?” She blinked, a fetching flick of long, golden-brown lashes. “Oh . . . it’s lovely. More sumptuous than anything I could have dreamed of.”
“You’re my mistress, and I want to shower you with extravagance. After all, we are intimate now.”
He watched her flinch. Just a touch. She was keeping secrets, and she was not immune to guilt, he realized.
She sat up, then looked down at her naked body. A blush touched her cheeks. Now that sex was over, she must be feeling exposed.
Good.
She tried to grasp the sheet, but he caught her wrists and sat on the edge of the bed, preventing her from moving.
“Uh . . . do you wish to do it again?” she whispered.
“Not today. I believe you will be sore after your first time. I will return tomorrow.”
“Oh. What should I do?”
“Whatever you wish,” he said.
Miss Winsome frowned. “I don’t really know what a mistress does. My days have always been so regimented. What is it, as your mistress, I’m to do?”
A laugh escaped him. He’d just made love to her; she was concerned about organizing her day. Then he bit back his grin. Probably she was worried about that because she was spying on him. She didn’t desire him or want him. Just like his mother had once paid a girl to go to his bed and betray him, Miss Winsome was probably more concerned about having time to plot against him.
The question: Why?
Part of him was tempted to grab her, scare her a little, get the truth out of her. But he didn’t think Miss Winsome could be threatened.
And he couldn’t carry through on a threat like that. He couldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t hurt any woman. He had to use seduction to get at the truth.
“You want to know what to do? This. When I want to make love, that’s what you do.” Grey paused for a moment. “The rest of the time, you are free to do what you wish. Read. Take walks. Meet friends.” He watched her eyes closely. Saw a quick downward glance—he knew how to watch and read faces. She kept her features devoid of expression, but she had not been able to control that tiny sign of guilt.
He wanted her to have lots of freedom. His plan was to have her followed. He released her hands and stood. “This is all for today, Miss Winsome.”
That night, Betsy, the youngest of her maids—a poor girl of sixteen who was a bit slow-witted and who had been thrown out of her former places—brought her a calling card. Helena’s heart leapt. It must be Greybrooke. He must have decided he couldn’t stay away until tomorrow.
Helena stared at the name, her stomach churning. It was Whitehall. Of course, she hadn’t escaped him. She wanted to forbid him entry. But she feared what he could do to her family, so she told Betsy to bring him to the drawing room.
“Lovely house,” he remarked as he took a seat.
She did not say anything. She did not offer him tea or even a drop of Greybrooke’s brandy. “You want to know what I found. I went through his desk, found a journal, but there was nothing written in it. But I’m sure, with a little more time, I can coax him to reveal things to me.” She was stalling—stalling for time.