The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Thankfully, Markham kept his distance. “No, I was simply taking my leave as well, Your Grace. It has been an eventful evening.”

  Georgie ignored him and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The rain was icy cold and she could feel it trickling down the back of her neck. She started to shiver.

  Jonathon cleared his throat. “Would you like a ride, Markham?”

  Georgie wanted to kick Jonathon, but she was saved from displaying more unseemly emotion by Markham himself. “Thank you, but no, Sir Jonathon. My residence is but a short stroll away. I bid you good night. And you too, Your Grace.”

  Georgie turned her head a little and inclined her head. She was relieved when she managed to reply without her voice cracking. “Good night, Lord Markham.”

  Just then, their carriage rounded the corner and halted before her. Steadfastly ignoring both the footman and Jonathon’s outstretched hand to help her in, she lifted her damp skirts and climbed the steps herself. She didn’t dare turn back to glance at Markham, although she fancied she could feel the weight of his all too perceptive stare upon her back.

  The dark interior was indeed a welcome relief. She sank into the Moroccan leather seat, leaning her head against the squabs as she closed her eyes. A moment later she heard Jonathon settle himself on the seat opposite before he knocked on the front wall of the carriage to indicate to the coachman they were ready to drive on.

  Thank heavens their Hanover Square residence wasn’t far. She pressed a hand to her temple—her forehead had begun to throb in earnest. All because of Markham. She didn’t want this attraction, this stirring of lust within her. Between her friends and her charities, her properties and affairs in general to manage, she had more than enough to fill her days and nights. She didn’t want a man like Markham, or any man for that matter, to make her feel this way—like something was missing from her life. She suddenly felt as brittle and empty as the discarded champagne flute she’d left sitting on the Latimers’ terrace. And she didn’t like it one little bit.

  “Penny for your thoughts, sis?”

  Georgie opened her eyes and sighed wearily, a shaky, rattling breath that clearly betrayed how close she was to tears. “There’s nothing for it, Jonathon...” To her dismay, her voice trembled too. She took another quick breath, grateful for the near darkness inside the carriage. “I’m going to return to Harrow Hall tomorrow.” The depths of Lincolnshire had been a much needed sanctuary during her mourning period. There was no reason why it couldn’t be again.

  “Tosh. All because you lost a couple of piquet rounds to Markham? No one will care, Georgie. No one that matters. I won’t let you disappear down a rabbit hole to lick your imagined wounds.” Jonathon reached forward and squeezed her hand.

  “You know it’s not just about the cards.” She paused and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, as if wrapping herself up could somehow contain her pain. “Without Teddy...”

  “You’re worried that you’ll be beset by unscrupulous suitors who think you’re desperate for a man. Who’ll use you and then discard you like yesterday’s scandal sheets. I know, Georgie, believe me. But not everyone is like that bastard Lord Craven.”

  Georgie sucked in a sharp breath and her heart stuttered oddly. Painfully. A toxic combination of shame and fear roiled about in her belly and she had to swallow down a sudden wave of nausea. “Please don’t mention that man’s name to me,” she whispered, her voice edged with such harsh bitterness, she almost didn’t recognize it.

  Jonathon sighed and he reached for her again, but she kept her hands clenched tightly in the damp silk at her chest. She was too furious and heartsick to even accept that small gesture of comfort.

  “I’m sorry, Georgie-bean,” he said softly and sat back again, clearly accepting that she’d retreated behind a wall of sullen anger. “That was unthinking of me. But I honestly don’t think Phillip and Helena would have introduced you to Markham if he was a complete cad. Or worse.”

  Georgie snorted. “I’d never even heard of the man until he sat down in front of me and bold-as-you-please introduced himself. How much could Phillip and Helena really know about him? He could be exactly like Lord Cra—” She couldn’t finish the word and she glared at Jonathon through a haze of hot, stinging tears. The light from a lamppost revealed his guilt-stricken face for a fleeting moment, and her heart twisted a little more—this time with her own remorse. Jonathon meant well, she knew that. She swallowed past the ache in her throat then drew in a steadying breath before attempting to speak in a gentler tone. “How much do you know about him?”

  Jonathon’s shoulders heaved with another weary sigh. “Only what Phillip told me, to be honest. Markham’s recently become the heir to the Marquessate of Avonmore. His older brother, who was much given to living quietly in the country, passed away about a year ago without issue—a hunting accident—so Markham’s now an earl and next in line for his father’s title.”

  Georgie nodded. She only vaguely recalled the details of the marquess’s son’s death because it had occurred about the same time as Teddy’s. But still... She frowned. Rafe Landsbury, the new Earl of Markham was almost a complete stranger in the realm of the haut ton. And she was intrigued as to why that should be so. She knew nearly everyone. “That still doesn’t explain why you and I have never laid eyes on him before tonight.”

  “Apparently Markham’s been overseas in diplomatic service for some years. Russia, Sweden and the like. Though, I believe he attended Cambridge at the same time as Phillip and Rothsburgh. However, he would have been known as Lord Rafe Landsbury then.”

  Georgie sighed and lessened her vice-like grip on her shawl. That piece of information reassured her a little. Perhaps Markham wasn’t rotten to the core. But nevertheless, he was still very much a rake. And for that reason alone she should avoid him. One broken heart was enough for one lifetime. She’d never risk giving it to anyone again.

  “Well, all of that hardly signifies,” she replied stiffly, “as I’m not interested in cultivating any sort of relationship with another man. Least of all someone like him.”

  “Really?” Jonathon’s voice quivered with sudden mirth. “Then why did you let Markham kiss you?”

  Georgie huffed out an exasperated sigh. There was no point insisting that Markham hadn’t kissed her when Jonathon had seen her emerge all flustered from the shrubbery-screened corner of the terrace with fir needles in her hair. As to why she’d let Markham talk her into such an encounter... No, she still didn’t want to think about it. “It was the champagne and well... Markham is devilishly handsome.” She was willing to concede that much. “But it was only one kiss. And that is all there will ever be between us.”

  “But what if you could have more? You might not want another husband but surely—”

  “I don’t need more of anything, Jonathon,” she bit back. “Why won’t you drop this subject? I don’t want to talk about Markham any longer. Besides, I have a fiendish headache.” She leaned back against the squabs again and rubbed her fingertips up and down along her temple to prove her point.

  “All right. I’ll drop it... for now. But promise me you won’t hare off to Harrow Hall tomorrow. You need to rest by the looks of you. I pray you’re not coming down with something after all.”

  “You are such the mother hen,” Georgie chided but without any real venom this time. She opened her eyes and attempted a small smile. “And I promise I won’t bolt. Not tomorrow at any rate.” She really did feel unwell. Shivery with an achy back, and the beginnings of a scratchy throat. Perhaps she had caught a simple chill. Probably from lingering on cold, wet terraces and standing in the rain. But she wouldn’t mention how she truly felt because she didn’t want to worry Jonathon unduly.

  Jonathon reached out and touched her hand again. “Good.”

  The carriage slowed and Georgie glanced out the window. By the glow of the lamplights she could clearly discern the marble Corinthian columns flanking the portico of Dudley House, their rat
her grand four-story townhouse—an unentailed bequest from Teddy. Perhaps having a cold would work to her advantage—she could hardly attend any social events if she was unwell. And then she could legitimately claim she needed to retreat to Harrow-on-the-Wold to take the country air.

  With any luck, Markham would have disappeared to resume his mysterious overseas duties—whatever they may be—by the time she returned to London for the Season proper next year.

  After Georgie had alighted from the carriage, Jonathon took her arm. “It’s lovely to see you smiling again,” he said in a low voice as they ascended the stairs into the inviting warmth of the vestibule, “although I suspect it’s not just because we’re home.”

  Georgie arched an eyebrow as she shrugged off her wet shawl and handed it to Reed, their stalwart butler. “Oh? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Despite what you said before, you’re hatching an escape plan. I know it,” he murmured after Reed had disappeared with their wet things.

  Georgie yawned theatrically behind her gloved hand. “The only place I’m escaping to right now is my bedchamber. Good night.”

  Jonathon’s blue eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief. “Good night to you too, sis. I’m sure you’ll have sweet dreams.”

  Georgie didn’t miss his cheeky jibe. She sniffed then stalked off toward the stairs with as much poise as she could muster given her body was aching more with each passing moment. She’d send Constance, her maid, to fetch some warm milk or even better, an urn of hot water and her tea caddy so she could brew some of her favorite herbal tea, a special blend of chamomile and valerian that never failed to soothe her. With any luck, she’d sleep soundly and have no dreams at all.

  She certainly wasn’t going to dream of the mysterious, odious, Lord Markham.

  Well, at least she could lie to herself until she fell asleep.

  Chapter 3

  After the duchess’s carriage pulled away, Rafe sighed then pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against the insistent, pattering rain.

  The Duchess of Darby was royally mad with him. You didn’t need to be an agent of the Crown or even a keen observer of people in general to notice that obvious fact. She’d been fairly sparking with anger and if he’d continued his pursuit this evening, he was positive the Ice Duchess would have flared up like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes night.

  And he only had himself to blame. He’d kept his promise and had behaved with the utmost gentlemanly decorum throughout their second game. Even though she was undoubtedly a brilliant player, he’d read her as easily as the cards. Winning at piquet—whilst not quite child’s play—had been a relatively straightforward exercise. But in the process, perhaps he’d lost his chance to win the duchess, even for a night.

  He could be such a fool sometimes.

  A sense of heavy disappointment settled over him as he made his way down the narrow laneway leading to the mews behind Latimer House. He could kick himself over his arrogant stupidity later when he got home. But right now, he needed to make sure that he really had seen nothing of concern in the garden.

  Save for the weak glow of an oil lamp hanging at the very end of the lane, it was as dark as Hades. Rafe stepped with care—the cobblestones were slick and no doubt riddled with patches of mud and sodden horse dung. Whilst another lamp would have helped in his investigation, he also didn’t want to draw attention to himself. After a good decade of skulking about in the shadows, staying hidden was still second-nature to him.

  The low rumble of male voices—most likely grooms and carriage drivers—along with the general bustle and clatter of a busy stable, echoed off the surrounding walls. The mews would be packed with the horses and equipages of the Latimers’ guests. In fact, Rafe was surprised that there wasn’t more activity in the lane given the crowd attending the ball.

  He ran his hand along the rough, brick wall as he progressed, and about halfway along, he located what he’d been looking for—the garden gate, tucked away in an alcove. It was constructed of sturdy wood panels and reinforced with iron brackets and hinges—but it was unlatched. Even more concerning was the fact that the lock was broken—it was bent and hung at an odd angle.

  Rafe frowned deeply, his skin prickling with unease. That was odd, decidedly odd. He was sure the Latimers’ gardener wouldn’t leave the gate in such disrepair. It was an invitation to trouble. The gate had clearly been forced open. But why and by whom? Common footpads?

  Perhaps. Or has someone been watching me? And the duchess…

  Muscles tightening, eyes and ears straining for even the slightest hint of another’s presence, Rafe pushed at the gate and it swung silently inwards—the hinges were well-oiled at least. He stepped through into the shadows beneath the dripping, horse chestnut canopy and studied the darkness. But there was no one. Whoever had been lurking here had gone.

  He glanced toward the house. From the lights spilling from the French doors and nearly every window, he could clearly see the terrace was still deserted. The sound of chatting and bright laughter overlaid the dulcet tones of the orchestra—the ball was nowhere near to drawing to a close yet.

  Rafe sighed and ran a hand across his face, wiping the chill rain from his eyes. Whilst part of him hoped he was simply being paranoid about the broken latch and what he thought he may have seen earlier in the garden, he couldn’t let it rest. Accustomed to a life of subterfuge, being suspicious and trusting his gut instincts were integral parts of his nature.

  He’d hoped that somehow he could leave the dark shadows of his past behind him. But maybe he couldn’t. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t let his desire to lead the life of an ordinary English nobleman compromise the safety of those he cared about. There was no excuse for naivety or stupidity. He needed to go back inside and speak with Phillip.

  The mahogany longcase clock in the corner of Latimer House’s library heralded the hour of one as Rafe took a seat in the leather wingback chair before the fire. The last guests had departed but an hour ago and he really should have been on his way too. But Phillip had insisted he stay for a drink. A tumbler of cognac in one hand, Rafe looked over to his friend. “So all is secure now?”

  Phillip nodded. “Yes. My head groom has put a temporary padlock in place and one of the burlier stable-hands has been posted to keep watch until morning. At first light I’ll send for a Bow Street Runner to investigate.” He took a long sip of his own cognac before catching Rafe’s eye again. “But I really wouldn’t worry too much. I’m sure it’s just the doings of a local thief. You should sit back and enjoy your retirement from His Majesty’s service. Old Boney’s safely locked away and his cronies—if they weren’t killed or captured at Waterloo—have been driven to the four corners of the earth.”

  As long as one of the corners wasn’t Mayfair. “Hmm. I’m trying, believe me.” Even though Phillip worked for the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, and was one of the few men who actually knew of his spying activities, Rafe thought his friend was being more than a little naïve. He sipped at his cognac, focusing on the searing heat at the back of his throat and the subsequent loosening of tension in his shoulders and limbs. “Old habits do tend to die slowly though,” he added. Like old enemies. And Rafe would be a fool indeed not to realize he had a fair number of those.

  Phillip’s forehead creased into a deep frown. “I have no idea what you’ve really been up to for the last decade—I’ve only seen a few of your reports that have come through Castlereagh’s office—but I imagine it would be difficult to put it all behind you.”

  You have no idea. Rafe raised his glass and studied the deep amber glow of the liquid against the firelight as memories he could never quite bury surged to the forefront of his mind—dark, shocking images of deeds enacted for king and country. The sharp stab of guilt for the unforgivable hurt that had befallen others because of him. Things he would never forget no matter how hard he tried. But like always, he easily feigned a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Certain things, yes.” He shrugged and smiled at his friend. “B
ut you learn to live with it. After all,” he took another sizeable sip of his drink before continuing, “it was all for a good cause.”

  Phillip seemed to take him at his word. “Yes indeed. You are a true hero, Markham, yet only a few know it.”

  Rafe snorted. “Hardly. It’s not like I fought in the Peninsular Wars or under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo like our friend Rothsburgh. And all the rest he’s had to endure. Now that’s heroism for you.”

  Phillip nodded. “Agreed. He’s lucky to have found a woman like Beth. He certainly deserves some happiness.” He put down his cognac and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze intent. “Speaking of good women, tell me, what do you make of the Duchess of Darby? You did seem rather taken with her, don’t deny it.”

  Rafe smiled. At last, the chance to discuss something—the someone—who truly interested him. Someone who could perhaps help take his mind off the past, at least for a little while. “She is… intriguing.”

  “Ha!” Phillip slapped his knee in triumph. “Helena was right. She said you’d be smitten by her.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Helena, her tall slender figure wrapped in a rich silk shawl, crossed the Turkish rug toward them. Rafe stood, but she gestured for him to be seated again as she took a seat on the sofa beside her husband. She laid her hand over Phillip’s and smiled at him. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting.”

  “Of course not, my dearest. I’m surprised you’re still up. Can I get you anything? A sherry perhaps?”

  Helena shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve been up in the nursery with Phillipa, and at long last she has settled. But I’m too wound up to retire yet, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”