Deeply In You (8 page)

She should let him take her to his home. But she was nervous. She needed to stall for time while she gathered her wits. “I would like to see more of the gaming club.”

His brow quirked. “I could give you a climax first, my dear. Then we could gamble.”

“Oh, Your Grace, I really wish to see it now. You must remember I’m a governess and I always go to bed early. I’ll fall asleep at the gaming table if I wait too long.”

He moved closer to her, and she could focus on nothing but him. He towered over her, his black hair in fashionable disarray—it looked how it would if her hands had run through it. She was so wickedly tempted to touch him. . . .

“I’ve been aroused for you all day,” he said softly.

Those words made her melt, even as they made her panic. She didn’t dare touch him. It would be like unleashing a predatory lion, she feared. “Please, Your Grace. This is—it is too fast for me. I am sorry but I’m just not ready.”

“Not ready for an orgasm?” His eyes twinkled.

Hers opened wide. “Oh, heavens, no.”

He laughed gently. “All right. Follow me.”

Apparently gentlemen liked to play cards in gloom—the light of two candelabras barely cut through the shadows. Helena blinked until she could finally see.

She gasped in shock.

Half-naked, buxom women were draped all over the men. One female had her bodice pulled down to reveal her whole plump breast. The nipple sitting on top was as red as a robin’s breast. Her gentleman was idly—and openly—pinching her nipple.

“Why do they have such vividly colored nipples?”

The duke’s brows shot up. “They use scarlet cream to heighten the color.”

Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud. “Oh—er, I thought maybe women with bright red nipples tended to become strumpets.”

Greybrooke smothered a laugh. “Come along, cousin. The cards are waiting for us.”

Broad-shouldered and tall, the duke moved easily between the tightly spaced tables. He had such presence that men promptly made room for him, despite being in the middle of games with large piles of money on the tables.

Greybrooke selected a table that included a pair of gentlemen. He drew out a chair, sprawled elegantly on it, and motioned to the one across from him. “Sit, Caldwell.” Introductions were made swiftly. Their opponents were the beefy Earl of Brace, and his partner, Viscount Deverell: tall, slender, blond.

Champagne was brought to their table by Melman, who yanked out the cork with a resounding pop. He filled flutes, placing them around the table. A fresh deck of cards was laid in front of Greybrooke.

“This should prove entertaining.” Greybrooke split the deck. “This will be George’s first attempt at whist.”

Deverell and Brace nodded, impassive, but she saw the gleam of anticipation in their eyes. At a table behind them, a man suddenly moaned, “Damnation, I’m
ruined
.” His chair scraped, and he staggered toward the door. No one appeared to care.

How could they be so cavalier, so heartless . . . so ruthless? Luxury and excess surrounded her—in polished wood, exquisite art, extravagant champagne. She should feel anger at the men that owned places like this—who had made all this wealth on the back of naïve young men like Will. But she understood them. They had a living to make, just like she did. It was
Will
who made her furious. How had he faced these merciless gentlemen and believed he had even a chance of winning?

Greybrooke dealt with controlled flicks of one hand. The cards fell swiftly, and when he was finished, she stared at the ones in front of her.

“Wagers first,” Greybrooke said, picking up his own hand.

She had no idea how to play whist, and they were playing for money. What happened when she caused the duke to lose? Would he expect her to pay? Unless—

Unless her debt to him was going to grow and grow.

“The wager is a night with a half dozen ladybirds of their choice,” Greybrooke said.

She made a choking sound—and quickly took a long sip of champagne to cover her shock.

Bother, she’d drunk
half
of it. At once.

“You’re blushing, Caldwell,” murmured the duke.

She pushed her glass away from her as if it were the devil. The last thing she should do was get drunk.

Cards flew quickly. Helena had played hundreds of games with children, and she caught on promptly, following the duke’s lead. After several hands she could understand how he played—not in a wild or daring way, but aggressively, as long as he was confident he had the cards to back his strategies. With a quiet word to Melman, he replaced her champagne with water. She was thankful. Their opponents downed glass after glass of alcohol, seemingly without effect.

Ruthless play and hard drinking. Her brother had been
far
out of his league.

Greybrooke threw down his last card, winning the trick and that game. Leaning back in his chair, he winked at her, then gazed over her head and crooked his finger. She knew he was up to something devious, but she coolly looked over her shoulder.

A large bosom heaved into her face. Two fleshy mounds the size of watermelons wobbled above the low neckline of a crimson velvet gown. Helena looked up into the childishly pretty face of a dark-haired girl with a button nose, plump cheeks, and large blue eyes. The girl giggled her name, which sounded like Ellie, and suddenly her voluptuous bottom settled on Helena’s lap. “How handsome you are, Mr. Caldwell!” Ellie grasped Helena’s hand and plopped in on her huge left breast.

She was touching a girl’s bosom. What in heaven’s name should she do?

She glared at Greybrooke. He looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Sorry, Ellie. I have to play my cards,” she muttered, trying to make her voice sound gravelly. Ellie giggled and wriggled her bottom.

Helena bit the inside of her cheek. She was definitely going to
spank
Greybrooke after this.

A blonde plunked down on
his
lap, legs spread, skirts hiked up to reveal plump legs and stockings.

A strange pain spiked through Helena’s belly as she watched the girl—then watched Greybrooke put his arm around her. It felt suspiciously like jealousy. Which was foolish! The duke caught her eye and winked again.

She couldn’t even tell Ellie to leave. No normal male would unseat a beautiful, voluptuous young woman from his lap.

Viscount Deverell began the game. Helena peered around Ellie, who kept jiggling in the most distracting way. It was awkward, but she was determined not to give the duke the satisfaction of seeing her shocked. She tried to play her cards coolly, except she couldn’t even see them for Ellie’s jutting bosom. She threw down a diamond instead of a heart, costing them the point.

Greybrooke cleared his throat.

“Ellie, my cousin has never fondled a woman’s nipple. Perhaps you should tutor him in what you like.”

Ellie obeyed at once, and the girl dragged Helena’s hand to her breast again. A firm point of a nipple jabbed against Helena’s palm.

Her head was swimming with the embarrassment and scandal of this.
Oh, Greybrooke,
she thought,
I will get my revenge on you.

It took all the daring she had in the world, but she bent over and quickly put her lips to the swell of Ellie’s breasts. The girl squealed with delight.

Greybrooke’s cards shot out of his hands and landed on the table. “Damnation,” he muttered. He gathered up the cards and the viscount dealt again.

She squeezed Ellie’s right breast the next time, stroking the pert nipple through the girl’s dress, and Greybrooke played like a man with no wits. They lost three games in a row.

This time she smirked at Greybrooke.

His gorgeous green eyes narrowed. He paid no attention to the woman on his lap. His gaze was fixed on her—not even on Ellie, but on her. He watched her every movement.

Winning at this game of revenge gave her confidence. She played much more brilliantly, and she and the duke won again. It was a true battle now—she was matching wits with the duke. She watched his every move. Now she realized he was giving signals. A quirk of his brow, a twitch of his lip, the way his fingers rested against the back of his cards. She could tell, without words, exactly what he was thinking. Finally she played a card, and Greybrooke drawled, “I believe that’s it. The match is ours.”

Ellie squealed and clapped her hands. “Now, then, you can come upstairs with me!”

“Upstairs?” Helena echoed.

“To one of the bedrooms.”

“Not now, I’m afraid.” Her voice came out far too high and squeaky. She coughed and tried again. “His Grace is going to . . .” She searched desperately. “Introduce me to hazard.”

But Ellie was not giving up easily. The huge breasts slammed hard against Helena’s flattened chest. Puckered lips pressed hard against hers, and Ellie—sighing, moaning, and wiggling her tongue—kissed her passionately.

She sat, stunned, while Ellie’s tongue slid between her lips and the girl gave her a wet, shocking, open-mouthed kiss.

Her first kiss. And it was with a woman who thought she was a man.

It was a scorching kiss, but she wished, madly, it was the duke kissing her.

“Very persuasive, Ellie,” Greybrooke drawled. “I’m sure you’ll coax young George into bed.”

That brought her to her senses. Helena put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and firmly propelled her back, breaking the molten contact between their mouths.

Gruffly she said, “Not tonight.”

“Oh, gentlemen never want to kiss!” Ellie pouted. She flounced on Helena’s lap, crossing her arms across her chest, sticking out her lip.

“Dramatics will not get you your way—” Helena broke off. She’d sounded far too much like a governess. She threw a withering glare at the duke. Mouthed,
You are in trouble.

Greybrooke leaned back in his seat, trying to look innocent—he was the most disobedient boy in a man’s body she’d ever encountered. Then he cupped his hand against his courtesan’s ear and whispered something to her. The girl pouted, but she got off his lap, then she hauled Ellie to her feet and the two of them left.

Greybrooke slanted a glance toward their opponents, the earl and the viscount.

Relief flooded.

“Congratulations,” Greybrooke threw out. Then he gave her the most devilish of all the smiles he’d given her, and all her instincts went on alert.

He stretched, and said casually, “Now you can look forward to a night with a half dozen whores. All determined to please your cock in whatever way you desire.”

Helena choked on his blunt words. But she had to continue to play his game. “I cannot wait,” she said, in her false deepened voice.

“Can you not?” His gazed burned into hers. “Neither can I.”

He was daring her. She certainly had gotten his interest. Now she had to keep it. “What if what I desire to play with the ladies is a good game of cards?”

Deep, low, his sudden gruff laugh washed over her.

Defiantly, she muttered, “Or perhaps I could share a large bed with all of them.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Since I’m a naïve, innocent buck from the country, Greybrooke,” she said, keeping her voice as deep as she could, “what would you suggest I do in bed with six buxom ladybirds?”

His finger skimmed around the inside of his collar.

She almost danced a jig when she saw him blush. Just as when she’d made him drop his cards, she had actually shocked him—and he was a man who gave shackles as gifts.

Boring his gaze into her eyes, he growled, “I’m afraid to disappoint you, for we won’t collect on the wager tonight. You wanted to play hazard, as I recall. One of the most destructive games.”

Lifting his head, he told the Earl of Brace and Viscount that he intended to collect upon the wager at a later time. The two men rose, bowed, and withdrew. The moment Greybrooke stood, Helena did too. He strolled around the table to her, then he bent and murmured by her ear, “This night has been delightful. I am enjoying every moment with you.”

He said it as if it surprised him.

A young viscount kissed his closed fist, then cast something down the table. Two dice tumbled, rebounded off a barrier at the end, and landed to show their black spots.

Helena turned to Greybrooke. He stood beside her at the table, so close his thigh brushed hers. Even through layers of fabric she felt a sizzle of heat where they touched. At first she thought he’d stood so close to unsettle her. But she saw no twinkle in his green eyes, no smile playing at his sensual mouth. She could recognize moods in children. Anger rolled off the duke—anger that did not seem to suit this silly game.

“How can this be the most destructive game?” she whispered. “They are just throwing dice.”

Greybrooke pointed to the man throwing the dice, who brushed perspiration from his forehead. “The point is, cousin, this game is pure chance. Logic can be applied, but men become addicted. They believe the next throw will be the one that wins. Fortunes are lost this way.”

“Have you lost a fortune?”

“I play games that require skill, not luck. My father, however, was not as circumspect.”