Dimples. Rugged lines that bracketed his mouth. A wicked sparkle in his expression. She couldn’t break his spell. All around, there was a buzz and blur of people—a throng of curious onlookers, drawn by the shouting and the smash of the pot.
The Duke of Greybrooke bowed to her in a sweep of elegance. In full view of the busy Mayfair streets that bordered Berkeley Square.
People turned to look at
her
. Spies were supposed to disappear into the woodwork, not induce the entire world to stare.
The duke straightened, nodded to her, his smile still in place. He turned toward his carriage.
Helena’s heart fell faster than the chamber pot. What had she been
thinking?
She’d failed impetuously, foolishly, miserably. When the duke was about to be soaked and brained by a pot, she hadn’t been able to keep silent.
How could she find proof about the duke now? After this, he would notice her if she was within a mile of him.
If she didn’t find proof, her family would be ruined.
“Uncle!” Michael jerked forward, bringing her thoughts back from panic. His slim body twisted out of her grip. In her anxiety over the duke, the pot, and her mistake, her hands had slackened on the boy’s shoulders.
Like a streak of lightning, Michael shot forward, toward the street.
In a heartbeat, his slim figure vanished between the people who milled on the park’s path—ladies, gentlemen, nurses, and governesses, all watching Lady Montroy’s house expectantly, as if waiting for her ladyship to return with something else to throw.
Helena ran. “Michael, stop!” she shouted, even though the words would be nothing more than a warning to him that she was on his heels. So many people mobbed together, she could not see beyond shoulders, trousers, bonnets, and skirts.
Please let Lady Sophie have obeyed and kept the others safely on the blanket.
“Please stop that boy!” But the crowd was engaged in the drama on the street, the drama of a duke. Finally her shouts got attention. People turned to her, but no one stopped the small boy who threaded easily around their legs.
She elbowed and pushed, and did everything a proper servant should never do—
She ran on madly, and finally she saw him, almost at the entrance to the street. From the side came clattering, clanking, and horses’ wild snorts.
A carriage hurtled down the road, horses flailed by the coachman. It barreled up the street, traveling far faster than it should.
“Uncle!” Michael shouted, blind to everything but the duke. He was going to run in front of the horses.
“Michael, no!” But it was too late. The child jumped off the sidewalk. She couldn’t stop him, but if she got to him before the carriage did, she could throw him clear.
Sick with terror, she launched into the street. Rattling filled her ears. Horses whinnied and a man shouted. Hooves scrambled on the cobblestones. But Helena focused only on Michael, who stopped dead in the street, frightened by the noise.
Her boot snagged on her hem. Her feet stopped abruptly, her body didn’t. She tumbled forward, but she was so close to Michael she could grab his coat. Grasping fabric, she shoved him ahead of her—
Long legs suddenly appeared—long legs in black trousers. Strong arms clad in gray scooped Michael off the road. The color gray was all she could see; it whirled around her like fog. A hand gripped her dress and pulled her roughly. Fabric tore, her hip smacked against the cobbles, then her rump bumped over the uneven ground as she was hauled away.
Next thing she knew, she sat upon the sidewalk, staring into emerald eyes framed with black, curling lashes.
The Duke of Greybrooke. He held Michael securely against his chest. Black leather gloves covered the large hands that both cradled the boy’s small bottom and splayed against his back. The duke laughed down at Michael, who had his arms wrapped tightly around Greybrooke’s strong neck.
“You gave us a bad scare, my young gentleman.” His voice was husky. “You had no right, young Michael, to run away from your nurse.”
“Governess.” The correction fell off numb and trembling lips. Why had she said that? It didn’t matter. His Grace had saved Michael’s life. Had saved hers.
He had swooped down like an angel, carrying her and Michael to safety.
“Your G-Grace—” Her voice wobbled and broke.
A white linen handkerchief appeared in front of her. The duke crouched in front of her, with Michael seated on his bent knee. Sandalwood tickled her nose, an exotic scent that suited the duke—rumor said he behaved like the sultan of an eastern seraglio.
“Calming breaths,” he instructed, in a rich, deep baritone that flowed like silken, melted chocolate. “You have had a bad shock.”
“Thank you, but I am all right, Your Grace. I must take Michael to the others. Make certain they are safe too—” Trying to propel up to her feet, she tipped to the side. The duke’s strong hand caught her by the waist. One quick jerk pulled her to him, then he set her back on her bottom.
“Do not move too swiftly, my dear.” The duke paused and planted a kiss on the boy’s head. Beside Michael’s guinea gold hair, the duke’s tresses were black as jet, and in the sun they had a sheen of indigo blue. “Are you all right, lad?”
As the boy nodded, the duke said to her, “As you’ve gathered, I know this scamp. He is my sister’s son, Michael, and you appear to know me, but I am at the disadvantage—”
“I am Miss Winsome.”
Another roguish grin. She should be immune to them by now, but no, she experienced a shivering sensation that rushed down her spine and throbbed low in her tummy.
His green eyes twinkled. “You certainly are.”
As if he were a disobedient charge, she said briskly, “It is my name, Your Grace. My name is Helena Winsome. I am governess to your nephews and niece.”
“Then you must be far more stoic and indestructible than you look. Those three will bring any woman to her knees. The last governess was built like a pugilist, and even she hung up her gloves after two months.”
“Raising children is hardly a battle. But, yes, I am quite strong and capable, Your Grace.”
“Indeed. You certainly acted swiftly to save me from the chamber pot. Next time you’ll know to hold onto this one tightly in a park. Take him to Hyde Park and you might end up having to swim in the Serpentine to catch him.”
Her cheeks heated. She must be blushing with humiliation. A bit tartly, she pointed out, “Your Grace, I am never careless with my charges. Unfortunately the incident with the chamber pot distracted me from my duties. I assure you I will never make such a lapse again. Now, I must go back to the children. I do believe I can stand up now.”
“Of course, Miss Winsome.” Taking her hand, he helped her to her feet. For a breathtaking moment he lifted her hand toward his lips. She swayed on her feet in surprise.
“I must thank you for rescuing me,” he drawled.
He was going to kiss her hand in public.
A good governess did not make an embarrassing scene about a harmless touch. She would accept it with stolid disapproval, then ensure she nipped the problem—or the seducer—in the bud.
A mere half inch before contact—
With an audacious wink, he released her hand, and she almost toppled over from the sudden release of tension.
“Show me the way, my dear,” he said casually. “I’ll carry this little scamp.”
Perching Michael in the crook of his arm, Greybrooke walked at her side as she led him toward the blanket. He took long, easy, prowling strides. He made her think of a male lion—a predator in command but one gentle with his young.
The duke was not at all what she expected. From gossip, she’d learned he had more paramours in a year than most men did in a lifetime. He broke hearts without guilt. He was supposed to do things in the bedroom that made the gossiping matrons blush scarlet, shut their mouths, and fan themselves. Helena ached to know what he did that was so scandalous and forbidden it stopped gossip in its tracks.
Now, she simply couldn’t reconcile the man walking at her side with the man she was supposed to investigate. He was leading her back to the children, for heaven’s sake, studying her with concern, as if he expected her to suddenly crumple to the ground from the shock.
Today, he’d proven himself a hero. She had not expected to find a decent man within the scandalous duke. But she had.
Could such a man have betrayed his country? Did such an idea make sense?
“I’m glad Miss Barrow left,” Michael put in. His slim arms were around his uncle’s neck. “She was loathsome. Miss Winsome is jolly fun.”
The duke slid his gaze slowly over her. “I can imagine quite a bit of jolly fun could be had with Miss Winsome.”
To her embarrassment, she blushed again. She should be made of sterner stuff. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Good, decent, respectable fun.”
“Uncle Grey!” Lord Timothy leapt up and jumped on the duke’s leg, clinging to his elegant trousers. Lady Sophie led Lady Maryanne by the hand and gently put the older girl’s hand in Greybrooke’s.
Helena saw the duke wipe the corner of his eye as he beamed down at Lady Maryanne, his young sister. She knew he was deeply touched. He bent to kiss her on her smooth, blond curls, then easily swept slender Maryanne into an embrace with his free arm.
Helena patted Sophie on her shoulder. The duke caught her eye.
Thank you,
he mouthed.
What was he thanking her for? Still, she did the same thing in return to him.
“All right, you lot,” he growled. He released Maryanne and set Michael down. “You must go and listen to Miss Winsome now. I have to go by my club, my wee angels.”
“Gather your things from the grass, children,” she directed, which gave her a few moments alone with the duke. But she could hardly ask: “Did you sell secrets to the French? You must tell me if you did. If you lie, I shall make you sit in the corner.”
Surely there must be some way to learn something. The duke was strolling away. If she could make him stay just a little longer . . .
She launched forward desperately and touched his arm. “Your Grace, you really should be more circumspect in your affairs.”
He halted. His good-natured expression vanished. He stared at her with cold eyes, and her heart sank. “Do you have a lesson to teach me, Miss Winsome?”
“Your reputation . . . I mean, it is said you . . . well, Michael said that you have advised him to learn how to break hearts. As you experienced with Lady Montroy, that is a rather dangerous thing to do.”
“Indeed,” he said, and nothing more.
Could she make him reveal something? “What happened to make her so upset, Your Grace?”
“Greybrooke. And the answer is simple.”
The duke leaned close. Helena breathed in his heady scent again—rich leather, a dab of exotic spicy cologne, the warm fragrance of sandalwood. His voice became a husky whisper of heat across her ear, making even her toes quiver.
“Lady Montroy was willing to entice me with the pleasures I enjoy most,” he murmured. “I tied her to her bed and flailed her bottom with a riding crop. But I found the enterprise was not as delightful as I had hoped. Getting what I wanted from the dear lady did not make me any more interested. She already bored me. So I ended our relationship.”
Her eyes felt as large as saucers. “A r-riding crop?” She didn’t ever spank children.
“You didn’t expect me to be honest? Then why ask the question, love?”
He touched the bare nape of her neck, just below her bun, making her gulp. Lightly, his finger stroked down. Shivers raced down her spine. She flinched and tried to move away, but his hand rested at her waist, stopping her. “I rescued your charge, yet you wish to chastise me over my personal affairs.”
She had wanted him to talk, but sense warned her not to antagonize him. “I am sorry. I had no right—”
“True, but I need a new mistress. You are intriguing, lovely, and accustomed to meting out discipline. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to submit to a gentleman who wishes to discipline you? I would love to see you on my bed, completely bound, utterly at my mercy.”
She tried to talk but squeaked instead. Then she gasped, “This is scandalous. You cannot say such things to innocent women. Your behavior is shocking and appalling . . . and wrong!”
“I don’t think I was wrong at all, Miss Winsome. I am right about what you want. That’s why your cheeks are so pink. On the surface, you are very proper and good. But I suspect, deep in your soul, you would like to be bad.”
“I would not.” She pulled away from his hand and planted her fists on her hips. “I know what scoundrels do to foolish women who fall for their repugnant propositions. You would ruin me in a heartbeat and it wouldn’t matter to you in the least.”
His gaze bored in her. His green eyes seemed to glow. “If I were to make you my mistress, I would give you a king’s ransom in return. A house, gowns, carriages, jewels. All you would have to do is be my submissive. I would tie you up and show you unbelievable pleasure—orgasms that would make you melt and beg—and reward you with a settlement that would keep you in luxury for the rest of your life.” He paused. Repeated, “
If
I were to make you my mistress.”
“I cannot listen to this. I must go, Your Grace. I must take the children home.”
His gaze flicked to his nieces and nephews. The children had almost gathered up everything. Lady Sophie led Lady Maryanne to help her.
“Of course.” His deep baritone rumbled over her. “But tonight, while you are asleep in your small room, on a bed that I assume is not very comfortable, I want you to imagine what it would be like to be bound to a bed with a soft, thick mattress and silk sheets. Then imagine a gentleman’s mouth tasting you, everywhere—”
“Stop
this
.”
The children were returning. “Come,” she said hurriedly to them. “Hold hands and we must hurry back home.” She planted one hand on the pram’s handle and pushed, clasped Lady Maryanne’s hand with the other, and walked swiftly as the children trotted behind.
Now she knew the Duke of Greybrooke was no hero after all. He had boldly propositioned her—a decent, respectable governess.