The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  It certainly seemed that the Duchess of Darby was as multi-faceted as a diamond of the first water. But he was an expert at delving beneath layers, at unraveling mysteries. He knew she would be a challenge to seduce—or swive as she’d so delightfully put it—but he was definitely up to the task. Reprobate that he was, he was going to enjoy working out his plan of attack.

  A sudden gust whipped through the dark garden. Shadows stirred and rain drops pattered from leaves onto the wet ground. Senses suddenly on high alert, he squinted at a patch of darkness, perhaps inkier than the rest beneath the horse chestnut in the far corner. Had there been a flash of something paler against the black trunk? A movement separate from the swaying lower branches?

  Stop starting at shadows, Markham. You’re retired remember? It’s probably just a trick of the light. You’re not in Madrid or Paris or St. Petersburg anymore.

  But his instinct to investigate anything the least bit out of place was still strong. At the sound of the salon door snicking shut, Rafe eased away from the wall and keeping to the shadows, edged toward the balustrade, studying the darkness, but nothing else caught his eye. Perhaps it had just been a stray cat. The mews ran alongside that side of the garden wall. Nevertheless, the spy in him insisted that he should investigate further.

  A squall of rain hitting the garden made his mind up for him. Lifting up his collar against the freezing droplets, Rafe made a quick dash toward the salon doors. Whatever, or whoever had been out there was going to get a soaking, that was for damn sure.

  Searching the mews could at least wait until the rain stopped.

  Chapter 2

  Jonathon escorted Georgie through the throng toward the supper room. “So, aside from feeling chagrined about being cornered by Markham, how are you coping with your loss at the card table?”

  Georgie grimaced. “Everyone’s talking about it, aren’t they?” She hadn’t failed to notice the susurration of voices behind fans, the turning of heads toward her and Jonathon as they passed by. The occasional smile of sympathy from someone she knew. Or smirk.

  Jonathon smiled. “A little. But it’s not every day that you see the Ice Duchess defeated so spectacularly. And by someone as mysterious as Markham. But don’t worry,” he paused by one of the decadent buffet tables and began piling a plate with all manner of delicacies, “it’s only because the haut ton have no one else to gossip about at the moment. Lobster pattie?”

  Georgie declined the proffered treat with a small shake of her head. She was still too out of sorts to even think about eating. “No thank you, dear brother. I think champagne will be sufficient.” And it might make her feel less disgruntled.

  She took a flute from a passing footman, then led Jonathon over to a small table and pair of chairs situated in a quiet nook beside a potted palm. She imagined that it wouldn’t be long before some of their myriad acquaintances wandered over to pay their respects. Already, Georgie could see Lady Billington glancing their way as she simultaneously fussed over the attire of her two daughters; she was obviously making sure they were presentable.

  Georgie sighed with a weariness that was bone deep. It was time to slide on her mask of composure again. To appear cool and collected when she felt anything but that.

  Jonathon seemed oblivious to everything around them as he munched his way through his plate of hors d’oeuvres. “You know, these lobster patties are exceptional, sis. You really should try one.”

  A decided hush suddenly descended upon the whole gathering. Even the orchestra ground to a jarring halt.

  Georgie craned her neck in attempt see what had caused such an astounding thing to happen. Jonathon, having no hesitation in being a busybody, stood up to peer into the next room. “It’s Helena’s brother, Lord Rothsburgh, and his new wife. They’ve just arrived.” Jonathon smiled down at Georgie. “See, I told you it wouldn’t be long before there was someone else to talk about.”

  The orchestra started up again as did the hubbub of excited conversation. The Marquess of Rothsburgh, renowned for being a great snubber of society, had set tongues wagging like mad when he’d wed the newly widowed Countess of Beauchamp, Elizabeth Harcourt. The ton was agog with the scandal.

  Jonathon continued to unashamedly spy for Georgie. “Oh. It’s all right. Phillip and Helena have reappeared and are chatting to them. Along with Markham and the equally scandalous Lady Rosemont.” He slid her a glance and waggled his brows. “You might have some competition, dear sister. Shall we go and join them?”

  As much as Georgie wanted to avoid Markham and his smug, knowing stare, now was as good a chance as any to bid adieu to Helena and Phillip. She really did wish to go home. Especially since Markham was still hovering around.

  Catherine, Lady Rosemont, she knew next to nothing about—aside from a pack of malicious gossip. It had been long rumored that the very beautiful, enigmatic Catherine had once been an ‘actress’ who had snared the attention of the elderly roué, the Earl of Rosemont. After only two years of marriage, the earl had passed away, leaving Catherine with a sizeable inheritance. Some elements of the beau monde even dared to whisper that Catherine was nothing more than a grasping jade, and that perhaps she’d had a hand in her husband’s demise. Georgie had never been formally introduced to the woman, but she seriously doubted that would have been the case. The last time she’d crossed paths with Lord Rosemont—and it would have been several years ago—he had the look of a man with one foot already in the grave.

  “All right,” she agreed, standing and smoothing her skirts. She took one last sip of champagne before putting the glass aside. “Elizabeth is such a lovely thing. I should like to see how she is before we go. And as for Lady Rosemont, she is welcome to Markham.”

  Jonathon quirked a dark eyebrow as he offered his arm. “Giving up so soon?”

  Georgie cast him a disdainful look before she placed her hand on his sleeve. “There’s nothing to give up. I was never going to play along, no matter how much you and Helena wanted me to.”

  As they wended their way through the tight knots of chattering guests, Jonathon wisely steered the conversation to safer ground. “You know, I expect Elizabeth is much happier with Rothsburgh, despite all the gossip surrounding her. Her first husband was nothing but a scoundrel.”

  “Now that is something we can definitely agree upon,” replied Georgie with a wry smile.

  As they approached the small group—and Georgie steadfastly refused to make eye contact with Markham—she couldn’t help but admire what a fine pair the marquess and his wife made. Swathed in diaphanous, silver-gray muslin and silk, and a mine’s worth of diamonds, the fair-haired Elizabeth looked as ethereal as an angel. Lord Rothsburgh, impossibly tall and strikingly handsome—one might even say diabolically good-looking—stood close by her side, his dark gaze daring anyone outside their present circle to give him or his wife the cut direct.

  Of course, he was nothing but charm personified when Georgie and Jonathon exchanged greetings with him and his new marchioness. As was Catherine, Lady Rosemont.

  The elegant countess certainly commanded attention. Georgie was immediately struck by the confident glitter in Lady Rosemont’s lavender-blue eyes as she scanned the room, and the slightly feline smile curving her lips whenever she regarded members of the opposite sex—including Lord Markham. Georgie couldn’t help but revise her opinion of the woman. Perhaps some of the rumors about her—those related to her past profession—might be true after all. But then, surely Helena wouldn’t have formed an attachment to the countess if she were actually guilty of the things whispered about her.

  Phillip soon claimed her attention, diverting her thoughts. “I’m so sorry to have reneged on our game, Georgie,” he said with a rueful grimace. “I hope you don’t mind that Markham stepped in.”

  “Not at all,” lied Georgie with a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Markham—to the other side of Jonathon—watching her. “We shall simply have to arrange a round between us another time.”


  Phillip returned her smile. “Most definitely.”

  Markham leaned her way, as if about to speak, but Georgie turned to Helena. If he wanted to flirt with a woman so badly, he should transfer his attention to Lady Rosemont. She was certainly casting a great deal of appreciative glances his way. “So Jonathon tells me that poor little Phillipa is unwell,” she said to her friend. “I hope it is not too serious.”

  A slight crease appeared between Helena’s elegantly arched brows. “Just a bad cold the physician thinks, compounded by the fact she’s cutting another tooth. But with this infernally cold, wet weather we’ve had all year—and because it so easy to catch something dreadful in autumn—I just thought it would be best if...” Helena clutched Georgie’s hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How inconsiderate of me to be blathering on so.”

  “It’s all right, Helena.” Georgie glanced briefly at Jonathon, but he was talking to Lord and Lady Rothsburgh and appeared not have noticed their line of conversation. Swallowing to ease the tight ache in her throat, she returned her gaze to her friend. “It is the season for it. And it never hurts to be careful. I pray that Phillipa is feeling better soon. Now, tell me all about how your charity work is going with The Widows of Waterloo Trust. I understand Elizabeth has now resumed her role as one of the patronesses.”

  As Georgie spent the next quarter of an hour chatting pleasantly to Helena and then Rothsburgh and Elizabeth—or Beth as Rothsburgh now called her—it was clear how in love the marquess and his new wife were. The way they looked at each other, shared smiles and touched, anyone could see they were absolutely smitten.

  Although she’d long ago sworn off the idea of ever finding love, Georgie couldn’t help but be a little envious of their happiness. But then, she’d had nine contented years being wed to the best friend one could ever hope to have, which was much more than others ever experienced in their married lives. She’d been fortunate—nay blessed—to have someone like Teddy in her life. She would always be grateful for what he’d done for her.

  “It seems that luck is still smiling on me tonight. We meet again, Your Grace.”

  Georgie started at the sound of Markham’s deep voice so close to her ear. Glancing about, she noticed—belatedly—that Jonathon had moved slightly away from the group and was now chatting with the Beau Brummel look-alike. Lady Rosemont had also drifted away and was conversing animatedly with another nearby group of gentlemen.

  Hell and damnation.

  “But not for long I’m afraid, Lord Markham,” Georgie managed to return with a falsely polite smile. “Jonathon and I were just about to leave.”

  “Oh no, we weren’t.” Jonathon leaned back toward their group. “I’ve just challenged Lord Farley here to a few rounds of vingt-et-un. We might be a while. You should join the others, dear sister, and have a dance or two.”

  The expletive that flashed through Georgie’s mind as she watched Jonathon and his new found friend depart, was much stronger than the last curse. Especially when she turned around to find Phillip and Rothsburgh escorting their respective wives out into the middle of the ballroom floor to ready for the next dance.

  It seemed there was another attempt afoot to throw her and Markham together. She compressed her lips and clenched her fists, trying to stifle the uncharacteristic and unseemly urge to swear long and profusely at the whole lot of them.

  She felt Markham’s superfine clad shoulder imperceptibly brush against hers, but she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the dance floor. By the positions being assumed by all of the couples, it appeared the next dance was a turning waltz. The music swelled—definitely a waltz. And there was no way on earth she was going to waltz with Markham.

  “Would you care to dance, Your Grace?"

  Georgie kept her gaze dead ahead. “I don’t particularly like dancing.” Why wouldn’t the abominable man take the hint that she was not interested in furthering an acquaintance with him?

  “Well, I suspect another round of cards is out of the question.” Before she could even take another breath to respond, Markham gathered her into his arms and swept her onto the edge of the floor. “Or a good swiving.”

  A furious blush scorched Georgie’s whole face. How dare Markham haul her about like this and how dare he mention such a thing? “You were eavesdropping,” she accused, barely aware that Markham was expertly steering her about the floor. The man literally made her blood boil. “You really have no manners or morals whatsoever.”

  Lord Markham grinned down at her. “Oh, how I love your tongue lashings, Your Grace.”

  A vivid memory of how his tongue had stroked and wound around hers not a half hour ago burst into her mind, and her blush spread downward, staining her décolletage as well. She must look like a beet.

  Markham spun her in a particularly complex turn and she had to focus on her feet for a moment. She wouldn’t focus on the fact that he’d also gathered her closer and one of his muscular legs had pushed indecently between hers.

  “For someone who professes not to like dancing, you are exceptionally graceful,” he said in a low voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  Because I’m afraid of men like you... Georgie quickly buried the brutally honest thought and at last met his gaze, determined not to show how perturbed she really was. “Because you’re insufferably arrogant and you irk me no end,” she said instead with false sweetness as if bestowing a compliment rather than a blatant insult.

  Markham’s grin broadened, and he tightened his hold at the small of her back. “You didn’t seem irked when I kissed you earlier. Perhaps we should go out to the terrace again.”

  Georgie’s eyes flashed with blue fire. “You’re baiting me on purpose, aren’t you?”

  Rafe smiled. Yes, he was. And he really should stop torturing her. “I can’t help it, Your Grace,” he teased. “You look so delightful when you’re ruffled.”

  To his surprise, Georgie’s tight-lipped smile curved into a dazzling grin of triumph. “Aha, so I was right. That was your stratagem during cards—employing deliberate flirtation to put me off.”

  Rafe couldn’t resist pulling her closer into him so their hips gently collided as he took a deeper than necessary step in another turn. “You mistake my motives for flirting,” he murmured against her shell-like ear. “And besides, we’re not playing cards anymore, are we?” The blackguard within him was gratified to feel her shiver in his arms.

  “Well you can put the thought of playing at anything else, right out of your head, Lord Markham,” she grated out, her smile now more of a forced grimace. “I’m tired of your games.”

  “What about my kisses?”

  She turned her head away and looked down the room. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I won’t disagree.”

  They danced in silence for a while longer. Indeed, Georgie remained aloof and stiff in his arms as they made another whole circuit of the ballroom floor. Markham knew she was seething beneath her apparently calm exterior. Perhaps he had miscalculated and had pushed her too far. He realized, with an entirely unexpected pang, that he didn’t want her to go.

  He needed to come up with another tactic to keep her engaged.

  The music came to an end with a flourish and Georgie immediately began to pull away. Rafe tightened his hold. “Play cards with me again, Your Grace,” he said with grave sincerity. “On my honor, I won’t flirt.”

  She arched an eyebrow, her expression imperious. “I don’t think so. Two bouts of piquet and a waltz in one evening? I really don’t want to become the main topic of tomorrow’s scandal sheets.” She took a decisive step away.

  Markham reached for her arm and tucked it into his to escort her from the floor. “Coward.”

  She sucked in a shocked breath. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you are a coward, Your Grace.”

  Her glare was scorching. “How dare you—”

  “I didn’t think you’d be the type to swoon at the prospect of a little gossip. Y
ou’re just afraid that I’ll beat you again.” He began to steer her toward the end of the ballroom where the card room awaited, trusting his bait would have the desired effect.

  “No. I’m not,” she all but hissed. “Now that I’ve worked you out, I’m immune to your ploys and dubious charms, Lord Markham. I seriously doubt you could beat me a second time.”

  Rafe stopped outside the card room’s entry and gave her his most charming smile. “Then play with me. I dare you...”

  He trounced her. Again.

  She must be in some sort of nightmare.

  Georgie stormed down the stairs onto the pavement in front of Latimer House, Jonathon following in her wake.

  “Georgie... Wait.”

  She rounded on her brother, her silk skirts swirling and hissing about her legs. “I’ve waited long enough, Jonathon. In fact, I’ve been waiting to go all night.”

  “But it’s drizzling and we’re standing in puddles. At least wait in the vestibule until the carriage is brought round.”

  Georgie scowled at him. He spoke sense, but somehow that made her feel even worse. “I wouldn’t care if I had to wait knee deep in the Thames. The idea of seeing any more of... of that man, even for a second—”

  “I take it you mean me, Duchess?”

  Markham. Here he was yet again, sauntering toward her like some large beast of prey. Why wouldn’t he leave her be?

  “I suppose you’ve come out to appease me a second time,” she snapped then immediately regretted her waspish behavior when Markham flinched. To her added mortification, tears pricked her eyes. It wasn’t just the sting of humiliating defeat, or the fact she was continuing to behave like a fishwife that had her so distressed. It was the fact that she’d let a man like Markham affect her so badly, in ways she didn’t want to think about. She swung away from him and Jonathon and faced the street so they wouldn’t see how upset she really was.