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 heard 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.
Too much! Her orgasm exploded through her feeble attempt at control. Bound by the ropes, she thrashed helplessly on her bed, giving into wild cries and moans. On a flood of juices, the wand in her cunny slid out. She wiggled just a bit—
The teasing of the wand in her bottom unleashed another climax. She let it take her, toss her about. She’d never been this slick and wet.
She wanted Greybrooke inside her. Right now.
Was he going to join her? Suddenly Helena heard harsh breaths. They came faster and faster. She wanted to see what was happening. Wriggling her head against her pillow, she jerked the knot of the blindfold up and down.
Greybrooke let out an intense growl.
Was he going to come to bed with her? Get on top of her? Make love to her? She was pulsing inside still, but she wanted more. She ached to feel his cock slide in her while the walls of her cunny clutched madly in pleasure.
An arch of her back snagged the blindfold in her pillow and worked it down.
Greybrooke stood at the end of the bed. His open trousers had fallen to the tops of his thighs. He still wore his gleaming leather boots. His linens were pushed down too, exposing his enormous, straight erection. But she couldn’t see much more than the shiny, acorn-shaped head. His hand was gripping his shaft hard, jerking back and forth along the length.
Suddenly he shuddered. His stomach tightened, revealing the muscles like cobblestones. His hand gripped tight. White fluid shot out, pouring over his hand while his hips rocked. His seed, the salty, sour liquid she’d tasted. His eyes shut tight, his breathing seethed between his teeth. He looked in pure agony, but she knew it must be pure pleasure.
He had made her climax intensely. So much so, she was still sobbing. He came so hard, his legs buckled, and he grabbed the bedpost. He released his cock, gasping for breath.
They had touched before, when he’d given her sherry. He’d let her touch him. But for making love, he hadn’t touched her.
It shocked her. Confused her.
Why had he not wanted to touch her? Why had he wanted their pleasure to be experienced in the same room but to be thoroughly separate?
She shouldn’t care, as long as he wanted her; as long as she could remain his mistress and pawn jewels and support her family. But she did care. Deep in her heart, she hurt.
In front of her, Greybrooke drew out a linen handkerchief and cleaned himself. Then he moistened a towel in a basin of water. Her maid was told to always leave one in the room. He withdrew the ivory wand from her bottom, took away the one that had fallen out of her cunny. She marvelled at them—they were carved to look exactly like male cocks. With soft strokes, he cleaned her, wiping away her sticky juices and the warm oil he’d use on her rump.
Helena wanted to say something, but what? Was he not going to touch her with his hands anymore? But what right did she have to complain, since she’d been lying to him since that first day she’d met him in Berkeley Square. Worse, she was
still
lying to him.
He left her tied up, and he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. Green eyes gazed down on her. “I know I want to keep you, Miss Winsome. But I need to know everything about you.”
“You know everything. There is nothing more to tell.” She had to divert him from more questions. “Please untie my hands,” she whispered. “I want to touch you. May I?”
The coolness of his response chilled her heart. “I will untie your hands, but no touching. As you can see, it’s not necessary for pleasure.”
G
rey had watched Miss Winsome a great deal since he’d caught her searching his desk. He’d discovered that when she lied, she made a tiny frown just before the lie came out. It was as if telling a lie hurt her. She’d had that look when she’d said she had nothing more to tell.
She sat up on the bed, and he handed her a robe.
He couldn’t let her touch him. Not after what he’d felt when he let her caress his face. Her hand had been soft, gentle. Comforting. For one moment he’d just savored being caressed by her. He’d needed her touch. And he knew the danger of that.
Miss Winsome would try to use caresses to con him, just as his mother used to try to use touch to control him. His mother used to embrace him before and after having him whipped and brutalized. As a child, he’d been too pitiful to reject her hugs, her kisses. Even when he was bleeding, his body screaming in pain, he needed her to hold him. He wanted to believe that her touch meant she loved him and would stop hurting him.
Eventually he realized that it was all part of his mother’s vicious game.
Miss Winsome drew on her robe. “You don’t trust me, I know. I’m so sorry that I had to lie to you. I had no choice but to do what Mr. Whitehall asked. It is the truth that my brother owed a fortune in gaming debts, and Whitehall claimed that the Crown would pay the debt if we helped him.”
“Your half brother, you mean?”
Her head jerked up. He saw the watchfulness in her eyes. “Yes, he is my half brother.” She paused. “I hate myself for having lied to you.”
“That I believe,” he said.
“I wish you trusted me. I want so very much to touch you. I know it is because of your past, and I understand.”
Do you?
He’d wager she had no idea how his mother used touch to torture him.
“But you tried kissing me, and it worked,” she went on. “I’ve told you about myself. Could you tell me about your past—?”
“No. Do not ask me to speak about my scars or my past, Miss Winsome. Tying you up and listening to you scream with ecstasy helps me to forget it. There’s nothing to be served by digging it up. I can’t change it. I wear the scars. I don’t like to be touched. There’s no reason for that to change.” Grey paused. “If there is one thing I learned, it’s that a black past means a bleak future.”
The next morning, Helena returned to her town house from a jeweler’s shop, one of the disreputable ones not to be found on Bond Street. She had sold the jewels Greybrooke had given her; everything except the pendant with the sole ruby. But soon it would have to go too.
She sat down in her morning room to pen a letter to Will. In it, she told him she had money—money to be used to send her sisters away to school, to create a dowry for Elise, and to pay bills to keep the newspaper running. Her maid entered and curtsied.
“Beg your pardon, miss. Mr. Rains has come to see you. Should I bring him here?”
He’d come to her. How horrible her first reaction was worry. “Yes, bring him at once.”
When she reached Will, he was sweeping his gaze around her lovely morning room, taking in the delicate plasterwork, the rich carpet on the floor, the exquisite Queen Anne furnishings, the white china figurines of doves. All beautiful, all selected by Greybrooke for her. She had no idea how he’d found the time to do it. It stunned her that he had bothered.
She could stay here for a while, as long as she didn’t push Greybrooke to let her touch him.
“You’ve done well for yourself, sister,” Will said.
“I only had to give up everything to do it,” she said drily.
Will frowned. “Are you unhappy?”
No, that was her problem. She might be tossed out on the street at any moment. But even that couldn’t spoil the decadent, delicious thrill of making love in the wickedest ways with Greybrooke. Even if he didn’t want her touch . . . when he made love to her she could do nothing but explode in pleasure.
She knew she was blushing. “No, I’m not, for I am now able to help you. I have enough money to put our sisters back in school, to ensure Elise can marry, to keep the newspaper afloat. And
that
is what the money will be used for.”
“Of course. The thing is . . .” Will scratched his ear. “I don’t want you to be with the duke.”
“For heaven’s sake, now is a bit too late to want to protect me, Will.”
Her brother sank down to the settee. He wouldn’t look at her. His hand scrubbed his jaw.
Oh no. “What is it, Will?”
“A maid to the Earl of Blackbriar came to see me. To sell me information about Greybrooke.”
“What information?”
“She claims she knows that Greybrooke murdered the Countess of Blackbriar.”
Helena gaped at him. “
How
did she know?”
“She says she witnessed the entire thing. The duke forced Lady Blackbriar to write a note. He held a pistol on the countess and forced her to drink the laudanum that killed her. Whitehall came to see me—I told him about this. He insists that I publish this story.”
“You can’t!” It would destroy Greybrooke. She couldn’t let this happen. “We have no real proof. This woman could be lying. And Whitehall is not an agent of the Crown. We’ve been duped. Oh goodness, Will, why did you tell him?”
At his look of shock, she explained that Greybrooke had discovered Whitehall was a fake.
“This is what the Duke of Greybrooke has told you. Obviously he is going to lie.”
“I don’t believe he is lying. I think it’s the truth. And he would know I can verify it.”
Will shook his head. “You are falling in love with him. Your judgment is clouded. Greybrooke murdered an innocent woman and you’re in danger.”
“My judgment is perfectly sound. I’m not in danger from Greybrooke. He is not guilty. Now, tell me this maid’s name.” Why had the servant told the lie? Someone must have paid her—or threatened her. Helena felt a spurt of hope. Here could be the clue she needed. Did she dare tell Greybrooke? Or should she question the maid herself?
“What of your next column as Lady X? I need it for print, Helena.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea how many people I could hurt by unearthing scandals. I cannot do it anymore. You will have to announce that Lady X has gone for good.”
Lady X might have gone for good, but Helena had to use her skills for unearthing scandals. She watched Lord Blackbriar’s house for two days, trying to figure out how to contact a maid whose name she didn’t know. Today another young maid, in her best bonnet and dress, emerged from the house and walked briskly to the street.
Helena caught up with her, showed the girl the four gold sovereigns she held. She knew Greybrooke used money when he asked questions. “I must speak to a maid in Blackbriar’s house.
The young, brown-haired maid looked longingly at the coins, then glanced back at the house like a frightened rabbit. “I can’t talk, miss! I’m not to talk to anyone from outside the house.”
Helena glanced at the enormous mansion. It looked soulless with drapes across most windows. “No one is watching us. I am certain. What is your name?”
“Clarice. Clarice Witticomb,” the girl said nervously.
Helena dropped the coins into Clarice’s trembling hand and told the girl the description Will had given her of the maid: red hair, freckles, a large bosom, and saucy impertinence. The sort of maid a scoundrel would have. The maids in Greybrooke’s house were older women, Helena remembered. Or were a bit slow-witted or had limps. Women who would have a hard time finding employment elsewhere.
She had wondered why a man as notoriously wicked as Greybrooke wouldn’t have filled his home with young, beautiful women. Now she knew why. He was rescuing them.
She dragged her thoughts back to the important issues. “Can you give me her name?”
“It’s Mary-Alice. But she hasn’t been here in days. She’s going to get the sack—without a reference—when she finally does turn up.”
The back of Helena’s neck prickled. “How many days has it been?”
“Three days, miss.”
That was the day Mary-Alice had gone to Will with her story. Mary-Alice could be in danger. “Do you know where she might have gone?”
“Oh, I have no idea I’m sure, miss.” The young maid hurriedly looked down.
“I think you do know,” Helena said. “You must tell me so I can help Mary-Alice.”
“No, miss, I can’t tell you. I have to go!” With that, the maid ran away down the sidewalk.
Helena wasn’t going to be able to get the truth from the girl. But she must find Mary-Alice . . . of course it was obvious what she must do.
Talk to Greybrooke. If anyone could dazzle this young maid and coax her to reveal the truth, it would be the duke. But as she walked home, disaster struck.
On a street corner, a young boy in a cap was selling copies of the
London Correspondent,
shouting to passersby to encourage them to buy.
“Murder of a countess! Infamous duke suspected!” the lad shouted. Copy after copy was being snapped out of his hand by gentlemen who threw him their coins.
She had to jostle through the crowd. Having wrestled to put reluctant children at their school desks or into their nightclothes, she could withstand jabs by elbows, and when a man butted in front of her, she elbowed him out of the way.
Once she had her copy, Helena rushed away from the crowd and found the entrance to a mews. She stood there, not caring about the smells and the squishy muck underneath her shoes.
On the front page was a column filled with information given by a “mystery witness” that claimed a “certain” raven-haired duke known for rakish living had strangled a “woman of close intimacy” in a black-hearted fit of rage and passion.
“Oh heavens, Will, what have you done?” she whispered. “No matter what Whitehall threatened, we shouldn’t have done
this
.”