Deeply In You

Book 1: Wicked Dukes

by Sharon Page

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

A game of deception with a seductive duke will unmask a young woman's deepest desires in this “sensual and delightful” Regency romance (FreshFiction.com). Anxious to save her brother from debtor's prison, Helena Winsome agrees to find proof that the Duke of Greybrooke is a traitor. Well aware of his wicked ways, she takes on the guise of a demure governess. But his smoldering sensuality overwhelms her—as does his vow to make her his lover, a scandalous promise that leaves her weak with desire . . . Darkly handsome and powerfully seductive, the Duke of Greybrooke is a man of deep passion. When the lovely Miss Helena Winsome turns down an offer to become his mistress, Grey takes on the challenge. He'll expose Helena to the erotic thrill of carnal pleasure and tease her senses until all she can do is beg for more . . .

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

London—May 1819

If a governess’s wildest fantasy was to take shape and come to life, he would look exactly like the Duke of Greybrooke.

From her vantage point on a bench in Berkeley Square, Miss Helena Winsome surreptitiously studied the duke as he vaulted down from his glossy black carriage with effortless grace. A tall beaver hat added a foot to his already remarkable height. A three-tiered greatcoat fell from broad shoulders and swung open as he walked to the front steps of an imposing town house, giving her a glimpse of trim hips and long legs. His tailor must sew his trousers to him, for they fit like a glove over his muscular thighs.

Unmarried, with a fortune and stunning good looks, Greybrooke was the catch of the year. He had been the catch of the last five years. No lady had snared his heart and tempted him into marriage. But it was said that matrons and widows ardently pursued him for the chance to grace his bed—even just once—and delicate maidens fainted in Hyde Park when he smiled at them.

Sensible Helena had scoffed at the gossip, even as she absorbed every detail. How could a gentleman’s smile render a woman unconscious? She had encountered many handsome, young men in her years as a governess to the ton’s families, and never once had she swooned at the sight of one.

She squinted, trying to see more.

Would the duke notice her peering at him? The risk of capture made her pulse pound with thrilling nerves. If he saw her looking, what would he do? Come and reprimand her? It would be more likely he would give her a scoundrel’s knowing smirk from across the road, then ignore her.

At least she had one thing in her favor. He would never suspect a nondescript governess of being a spy.

She withdrew opera glasses from a pocket in her skirts and flicked them open. Other governesses and nurses strolled through the park, pushing perambulators or holding the hands of small children. The sun-soaked square was busy on this delightfully warm May afternoon. But she had chosen a quiet corner near the street, and she sat on a bench ensconced beneath a large oak. No one looked in her direction.

Her three young charges were sitting on a blanket on the grass beside her—Lords Michael and Timothy played with a ball; Lady Sophie had her nose buried in a book; and their young aunt, Lady Maryanne, sat with them, braiding colored ribbons by the feel of their textures. Although nineteen, Maryanne was still very childlike because she was blind. Helena looked after her too, for the girl had been without her sight since fourteen.

Helena also had a pram, and it was positioned in front of her, which gave her something to hide behind if necessary. If the duke glanced her way, she could quickly turn her attention to fifteen-month-old Lord Edward, slumbering happily amongst his blankets. She had offered to bring Edward since it was Nurse’s afternoon off, and he made her look even more innocent. What spy would bring a baby along?

Helena put the glasses to her eyes. They let her magnify detail, and she trained them on the duke.

Her breath evaporated in one swift whoosh.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already watched him whenever she could for the past three weeks, after taking a week to settle into her post as governess to the duke’s sister, Lady Winterhaven. But each time she saw Greybrooke, her skin would grow dewy with perspiration, making her uncomfortably hot beneath her corset.

How she now understood the term “loose woman,” for she yearned to take off her dress and tear her stays open, she felt so heated.

It must be nerves that made her feel as tense as an overwound clock. Yet she had taken quite a few risks in her pursuit of scandals, and she’d never experienced anything quite like this oddly anxious feeling before.

Before mounting the steps to Lady Montroy’s house, Greybrooke paused to survey the street around him, perhaps to ensure that Lady Montroy’s husband wasn’t returning to the house early.

His action gave her a full view of his face.

Of full, wide lips that looked scandalously sensuous on an Englishman. His cheekbones were as striking as the Pennines or the cliffs of Dover—high, sharp, and beautiful, with deep wells of shadow beneath. Beneath his hat, his hair was a tumble of coal-black waves. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but his thick black lashes were unmistakable. That fringe of pure black gave his eyes the arresting quality that robbed her of breath.

Perhaps she could see why less wary, wise, and knowledgeable girls fainted.

His Grace strode to the front door, rapped sharply, and the door opened. A young footman bowed, and the duke disappeared inside.

Helena folded her opera glasses and stowed them away. Her heartbeat galloped, and no amount of controlled breaths could slow it. Ever since she had been given this assignment one month ago, she’d discovered that one could not watch the Duke of Greybrooke and escape unscathed.

For the last three nights, she’d dreamed about him. She, the most pragmatic, practical woman in England; the one governess in the country who did not harbor any fantasy that she might catch a rich man’s eye and be whisked from her mundane life to blissful happiness.

But the fantasies her mind invented at night—

About lush caresses she didn’t even know she knew anything about, until she had experienced them in scorching, thrilling, naughty dreams.

Stop this, Helena.

She must remember the reason why she was watching the Duke of Greybrooke in this clandestine manner. This was not one of her usual missions, where she was working to unearth a scandal for her column in her half brother’s newspaper—her very popular column, Lady X’s Society Papers. She was here to learn everything she could about the duke’s habits and his schedule. Here to find out where he went, whom he met, and when he was regularly away from his house. All information she required so she could devise a plan to get the proof she needed.

Proof the Duke of Greybrooke had been a traitor, a spy for Napoleon during the war.

But she was also a governess. She had tucked a book at the bottom of the pram, and now she took it out. She motioned the children to gather. “It is time for a story.”

“Not yet!” Michael, the oldest boy, the heir to the Earl of Winterhaven, got up and ran to her. He clutched the cricket ball he’d been tossing to his brother. “Winnie,” he said, using his nickname for her, “will you play ball with us first? Timothy is too young to throw. His nose runs all the time.”

Four-year-old Lord Timothy tottered up, rubbing his nose on his sleeve.

She laughed. “You, young man, have a handkerchief.” Helena drew out the square of linen and pressed it to the boy’s small nose. “Now, you must blow.”

But Timothy sucked in, then coughed.

She coaxed and blew her own nose, but she could not get the little boy to do it himself. Michael proudly showed that he could do it, and she praised him.

“Of course I can do it,” he said seriously. “I have to learn how to be a gentleman, for I’m going to be the earl. I’m already a viscount.”

Michael already bore a title—a courtesy title—and he reminded his siblings of it several times each day.

“A gentleman also behaves with some humility,” she gently pointed out.

“No, they don’t.” Michael shook his head, his golden waves tumbling around his face. “Uncle Grey says they don’t. He tells me I am going to break hearts when I’m big and that I have to be prepared for the adulation I will eventually receive.”

“Oh, he does, does he? That is very wrong of him. A gentleman should not break hearts. That is the behavior of a scoundrel.”

Uncle Grey was the Duke of Greybrooke—and the reason she had sought out employment with the duke’s sister and brother-in-law. As governess, Helena could hear the servants’ gossip and discover all sorts of information about the duke—including the fact that his most recent paramour lived on Berkeley Square.

Her thoughts strayed to the duke. In her mind’s eye, she followed him into the house.

Was Lady Montroy, his lover, waiting for him in her bedchamber? Helena could imagine the duke making his way up the stairs to her ladyship, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

He would grasp his cravat before he reached her door, yank it open with one tug, bare his throat. Dark stubble would shadow his jaw, and when the countess kissed him on his neck, she would taste his clean skin and smell the exotic sandalwood that imbued his soap, and he would gather her in a passionate, scorching kiss—

But would they do it in the countess’s bedchamber? What did people do exactly in clandestine affairs? From studying scandals and love affairs and naughty seductions for the newspaper, Helena knew, in general what couples did.

But how did they actually go about it? How could a woman share a bed with a husband and a lover and not be crippled with guilt? Did they perhaps steal moments of passion on a settee in the drawing room? On the pianoforte bench? In the garden, hidden by the roses?

What would it be like to have a handsome gentleman roll on his back on the soft grass beneath fragrant roses and pull you on top of—?

Be sensible!

Lurid descriptions sold newspapers. Helena knew that from experience. But such thoughts were not appropriate here in the park, when her duty was to her four charges and Lady Maryanne.

“No, we will have reading first,” she said firmly. She left her bench to sit with the children on the blanket. It proved a challenge in her snug corset and skirts, but she managed it. As Timothy, Michael, and Sophie sat and Helena opened the book, she took one more glance at the countess’s house. It towered four stories tall, fashioned of deep red brick. Elegant and sedate, the house gave no hint at the sinful happenings taking place inside.

The duke usually remained there for exactly one hour—he appeared to be a gentleman who lived by a schedule. Something Helena understood but hardly expected in a careless rake.

She had wondered if this might prove to be a good time of day to search his home. The only problem was servants. The duke was unmarried and lived alone in his enormous mansion on Park Lane, but he had dozens of servants.

She read a chapter, with Timothy cuddled up to her left side and Sophie sitting on her right. Michael, who wanted to behave like a gentleman, sat at the edge of the blanket with his back erect and his shoulders straight. Lady Maryanne sat demurely at the other end, her walking stick resting beside her legs.

Helena paused to begin chapter 4 when, across the street, a window shot up with a rattle of its sash. A female scream of fury exploded over the square. “You wretch! I’ve given you everything and you cannot leave!”

Helena jerked her head up. The children gasped and strained to see. The duke was leaving the house, jauntily sauntering down the front steps. His cravat was untied, his blue-black hair tousled and falling over his eyes, and he carried his hat in his hand.

Michael hopped up from the blanket. “It’s Uncle Grey!”

Above the duke, white curtains fluttered in the open window. Suddenly, blond hair tumbled out—long, curling tresses of golden hair, falling like Rapunzel’s locks. The fairy-tale image lasted only a moment, for the Countess of Montroy leaned forward, revealing her face—scarlet and contorted with rage. “Seducer. Scoundrel. Wretched sod! You made me believe—you told me—I hate you!”

Helena was transfixed, stunned by the countess’s terrible behavior. The entire square could hear what was happening. Now everyone knew about the woman’s scandalous affair with Greybrooke. The only one who paid no attention was the duke, sauntering toward his carriage—

Michael. Panicked, Helena looked around her. Michael was gone. No, he was there—running along the winding path, racing toward his uncle . . . and the street. Helena scrambled to her feet, but before she took a step, she spun around and gave orders. “The rest of you stay here. Lady Sophie, watch the others, watch Lord Edward in his pram.”

Sophie paled—at nine, she was young to take charge. But there was no other choice.

Then Helena ran. Her feet flew over the path, but an eight-year-old could sprint terribly fast. Her heavy skirts flailed around her legs, threatening to send her tumbling.

“Michael, stop now!”

Her command only made him run faster.

Lungs burning, she sprinted as she would have done as a young girl, when she used to chase her brother. When Michael was within arm’s reach, she released her grip on her skirts and lunged, wrapping her arms around the boy. She whisked him off the ground, hugging him tightly.

Still gasping, she plopped her charge back on his feet. Even when out of breath, a governess must be stern when necessary. She wagged her finger. “Michael, you mustn’t run away like that—”

He pointed past her, at the countess’s house, and gasped, “Look, Winnie!”

Helena whirled around, pressing her hands on Michael’s shoulders to keep him trapped. The countess had leaned out of her window again, but this time she clutched the sides of a large, white pot—a chamber pot—and she held it over the duke’s head.

“Your Grace!” Helena bellowed it across the street, which was utterly improper. But she was a governess, accustomed to thwarting disaster before it happened, and she could not simply ignore a mess in progress. “Your Grace, above you! Look up!”

The duke did just that, and with a cry of fury, Lady Montroy turned the chamber pot upside down. Liquid flew downward, and the heavy pot slipped from her grasp. Greybrooke leapt nimbly to the side, landing with a panther’s grace at the edge of the street. The fluid—it was too impolite to name— spattered on the sidewalk. The porcelain pot hit the cobbles beside the duke and shattered to pieces.

The duke looked up—but not at his furious lover who retreated from the window with frantic speed. He stared at her. Helena.

Magnetic, even with the distance of the street between them, his gaze captured hers. Slowly, like the spill of sun at dawn, his gorgeous, full lips curved into a devilish grin. She could do nothing but gape at him, her practical half-boots stuck to the spot.

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.

Or had he? Biting her lip, Helena glanced back. The duke was watching her, stroking his chiseled jaw, frowning. When he saw her head swivel, he lifted his hat in a gentlemanly farewell. His lips quirked in a smile, and his eyes glittered with amusement.

Had he just been teasing her because she’d chastised him?

It didn’t matter, did it? She’d discovered from gossip that Greybrooke was arrogant, licentious, and without any moral compass. Now she could imagine he was capable of anything.

Perhaps even treason.

A woman in a corset, tied up, positioned on her hands and knees, with her naked derriere sticking up in the air. Normally this erotic scene would have him hard, intrigued, and ready to play.

Not tonight.

Damian Caldwell, the fifth Duke of Greybrooke—known as Grey—sighed. He rose from his engulfing black leather chair, which stood in front of the raised dais like a throne. He prowled to Ruby, who awaited him, positioned for his pleasure on a throw of purple velvet. She squirmed with antici