The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Helena’s blush deepened. “Yes... Well—”

  At that moment, a pair of chambermaids appeared with the tea trolley laden with a Spode china tea set, a silver urn and tea caddy, and plates bearing an assortment of cakes, biscuits and sandwiches. Once everything had been deposited on the low table gracing the hearthrug between herself and Helena, Georgie dispensed the tea for both of them. She was about to take a fortifying sip from her own cup when Helena surprised her with a question.

  “Why do you dislike him—and others like him—so much, Georgiana?”

  Georgie put down her tea untasted; the cup rattling against the saucer revealed all too well how perturbed she was by Helena’s question. She glanced to the door to make sure it was fully closed—it wouldn’t do for any of the servants to overhear their conversation. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Helena put down her cup as well. “Of course you do, my darling friend,” she said softly, the expression in her eyes gentle. “The only time you give a man like Lord Markham a glance is when he’s sitting across a card table from you. And even then, it’s usually with cool calculation in your eyes.”

  Helena was being kind. It was more likely to be a look of disdain. But Georgie only shrugged. “I like to win.” Her mouth lifted into a rueful smile. “Or at least I did until last night.”

  Helena inclined her head, studying Georgie’s face. “Markham rattled you, didn’t he? More than anyone has before.”

  That was true. Georgie couldn’t deny it. “Yes. But perhaps it’s because I’m widowed now. I must confess to feeling quite vulnerable without Teddy by my side.”

  Helena laughed. “You mean, you don’t have your personal guard dog with his razor sharp wit and hard black stare scaring any potential suitors off anymore.” Her brow suddenly creased in thought. “All the years of your marriage, you never did take a lover did you?”

  “No.” Helena was perhaps the only person in the world—apart from Jonathon—who would dare venture such a personal question. Indeed, Helena and Phillip were the only friends who had known about the true state of her marriage. And the clandestine—illicit—relationship between her husband and Jonathon. There were few who could be trusted with such a powder keg of a secret.

  Georgie fiddled with the tassels at the end of her shawl and stared into the fire as she spoke. “To be perfectly honest, I occasionally contemplated the idea. Teddy and Jonathon even suggested that I should find someone. They reasoned that it wasn’t unusual for a married woman of some years to do so. Aside from that, Teddy assured me that he wouldn’t have minded in the least if I’d produced an heir that wasn’t actually his. But in the end I just couldn’t.” Georgie couldn’t disguise the sudden rough edge to her voice. Clearing her throat, she reached for her tea, blinking away sudden tears as she took a careful sip. She had lost so much. Too much. And all because of a scoundrel of the worst kind.

  The worst part—the part that hurt the most and still kept her awake and fretful in the dead of night—was that she didn’t know if she would ever recover what had been stolen from her. Even after a decade.

  But what if Lord Markham was her remedy? Remember his kiss, Georgiana. How he made you feel deep inside. Alive. Her cheeks burned so fiercely as she recalled the feel of his mouth and hands on her, she had to take another large sip of her tea to mask her unease. Or was it sexual frustration?

  “Georgie, darling,” Helena said softly. “I don’t know who wronged you, or how exactly, but I’m sure Lord Markham is different. Phillip has known him for quite some years and swears he is a man of honor. A good man. He is not the rogue you suppose him to be. You should give him a chance.”

  Georgie bit her lip to stop her lower lip trembling. Helena saw far too much. She drew in a shaky breath and shook her head. “Despite what you or Phillip say, I don’t think I can. Markham’s far too...” Too arrogant, too clever, too devil-may-care, too handsome. Too dangerous. She lifted her chin, determined to make Helena understand she would not be swayed. “He’s not the type of man I would consider a suitable suitor.”

  Helena sighed heavily and picked up her tea again. “Pity. I happen to know that despite appearances—and what you may have heard—he is looking to settle down in England. And he has quite a sizeable income and inheritance headed his way—not that you need worry about that—but he’s certainly not a fortune hunter. So perhaps he’s more suitable than you think.”

  Oh. Georgie frowned. “Jonathon told me he was in diplomatic service in Russia or perhaps it was Sweden. At any rate, I assumed he would be returning to his post before winter set in.”

  Helena smiled at Georgie over the rim of her cup. “No. He’s here to stay. His days gallivanting about the Continent—and gallivanting about in general—are well and truly over I’d say.”

  Georgie leaned forward and absent-mindedly selected a piece of shortbread then placed it on her plate. Damn and double damn. Markham would probably be dogging her heels until she left London. Her cold was definitely about to become much worse. Pulling her lawn handkerchief from her pocket, Georgie raised it to her nose and sniffed delicately.

  “Oh, my dear. Are you all right?” asked Helena, her brow furrowing with concern. “I thought you sounded a little under the weather. I hope you haven’t caught the same cold as Phillipa.”

  Georgie sighed for effect. “I’m sure it’s nothing but I should probably rest for at least the next few days.” Or weeks. Perhaps months.

  “Of course. And I should go.” Helena put down her cup and reached inside her reticule. “You must get better so you can attend the dinner party I have planned for next week. A small, intimate affair.” She handed Georgie a heavily embossed ivory envelope bearing the Clan Maxwell family crest and Helena’s initials—her personal stationary. A mischievous smile quivered on her lips. “Markham shall be there. As well as a card table or two.”

  Georgie took the proffered invitation as if it were an offering of hot coals. “It’s a fait accompli isn’t it? You really are quite determined to pair us off.”

  Helena laughed. “Guilty as charged. But I only have your best interests at heart.”

  Georgie would like to debate that, but for now, she chose not too. A sudden wave of weariness washed over her and another headache was beginning to pulse in her temple.

  “You can beat him you know.”

  Georgie sharpened her gaze on her friend’s face. Trust Helena to choose exactly the right type of lure to tempt her. “How?” Headache or not, she was burning to know.

  Helena’s mouth curved into an enigmatic smile. “I have a plan.”

  Chapter 4

  Latimer House, A week later...

  Inwardly ruing the need to keep a clear head, Georgie accepted a glass of ratafia from one of the Latimers’ footmen, all the while wishing it was champagne or even claret she was drinking. Maybe then the sudden pounding of her heart and the unfamiliar feeling of breathless anticipation in her throat would ease. Perhaps her cheeks wouldn’t be aflame and her skin wouldn’t tingle with awareness. For across the room, standing in the doorway to the drawing room, was Lord Markham. And despite the fact that Helena and Phillip were in the process of greeting him, he was looking directly at her.

  The intensity of his gaze followed by the sudden flash of a roguish smile triggered a shiver—a strange combination of arousal and fear—that coursed through her entire body. Tightened her belly. He reminded her of a hungry lion sizing up his next meal.

  God in heaven, she should run now. She had foolishly thought she was fully prepared for this encounter. But she wasn’t. Not at all. In the space of a week she had forgotten how devastatingly handsome the man was. How the very air around him seemed to vibrate with a strange energy, giving an overwhelming impression of leashed power barely contained beneath an urbane façade and superbly cut evening wear.

  Stop imagining things, Georgiana. Perhaps the ratafia had been laced with something stronger than brandy—an opiate of some kind. With a trembling hand she deposited
the barely tasted drink onto the tray proffered by another nearby footman. She clearly wasn’t in her right mind. But she needed to be if she was to have any hope of salvaging her tarnished card-playing reputation. And sanity.

  Jonathon’s hand was at her back. “Breathe, Georgie-bean,” he murmured into her ear. “Markham won’t bite you know.” He suddenly chuckled. “Well, maybe he will considering how scrumptiously dressed you are this evening. I swear you are making me blush. And you know I don’t blush easily.”

  “Be quiet, Jonathon,” Georgie hissed under her breath as she attempted to feign a composure she did not feel in the least. She’d regretted Helena’s plan from the moment she had donned this ridiculously risqué gown in her bedchamber at Dudley House. The burgundy satin clung indecently to her curves and barely covered her plumped up breasts; she looked more like a courtesan than a duchess of the realm. “With comments like that, you are not helping.”

  She tore her gaze from Markham’s strangely spellbinding stare and searched the elegantly appointed drawing room for someone else to speak with. To distract her. Phillip and Helena had only invited a relatively small number of guests for tonight’s dinner—perhaps a dozen couples in total—most of whom she knew. Lord and Lady Rothsburgh chatted with Baron Dunwood and his wife, but they were too close to the Latimers and Markham on the other side of the room. However, not too far from where she and Jonathon currently lingered by the white marble fireplace, stood Lord Farley and an attractive, fair-haired woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She so obviously resembled Farley in coloring and features, the pair must be siblings.

  “We need to circulate,” Georgie whispered to Jonathon with an urgency she couldn’t disguise. “Introduce me to Farley’s sister. Now.” Markham was headed in their direction and she didn’t want to speak with him. Not until she absolutely had to—hopefully much later during a round of postprandial piquet. A game she would win. Somehow between now and then she needed to regain some of her much vaunted composure.

  “You can’t elude him forever, you know,” said Jonathon as he took her arm and escorted her toward their intended conversational partners. “He wants you. ”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Jonathon,” she scolded before assuming her polite social smile in preparation for the introductions to Farley and his sister.

  She resisted the strong, almost overwhelming urge to glance back at Markham. The real reason for her shaken equilibrium—if she were brutally honest with herself—was that perhaps, she wanted him too.

  Incomparable.

  That was the word that had immediately sprung into Rafe’s mind the moment he’d laid eyes on the Duchess of Darby this evening. She had, quite literally, taken his breath away. He’d heard via the Latimers that she’d been indisposed with a chill for several days following the ball, but tonight she looked absolutely stunning. Provocative.

  His gut told him she was up to something.

  Now, as he observed her—she sat diagonally opposite him at the vast dining table—there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever. For a woman who professed to eschew rakehells, it seemed decidedly odd that she’d worn such a revealing gown; a gown that would obviously invite male attention—especially from men like him. Yet her manner, toward him at least, had been completely standoffish throughout the entire dinner service.

  It was as though she’d set out to deliberately tease him—You may look at me but don’t address me. You may desire me but I despise you.

  If it was her intention to drive him wild with wanting what he couldn’t have, she was succeeding.

  Indeed, over the last few hours it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to prevent his cock from hardening at the sight of her. He thanked God he was seated with a napkin over his lap. With her glossy, spun-sugar brown hair piled into an artful arrangement of curls, and her full, rounded breasts almost spilling from the neckline of her lush red gown, he felt like he was dining in the presence of the goddess Aphrodite. Or perhaps Artemis, the feisty huntress would be more accurate.

  His mouth quirked into a slight smile. On another, less sexual level, her continued ire secretly amused him. From the way the duchess’s sapphire blue eyes darted fire whenever she glanced at him through the space between the silver candelabra and a rather elaborate floral centerpiece, he could tell she hadn’t yet forgiven him for his behavior at the Latimers’ ball. Or the fact he’d defeated her at the card table. The roses obviously hadn’t soothed the sting. Not that he’d really expected them to.

  Yet even though the duchess was clearly as cross as a hellcat with him beneath her aloof exterior, he was still determined to have her. The question was, how the devil was he even going to engage her in conversation at this point, let alone attempt to seduce her, given she continued to openly snub him?

  He sipped at his claret, contemplating his stratagem. There would be no dancing this evening. And he doubted she’d take a turn about the room with him after dinner. Or the terrace. So all that he could feasibly do was invite her to play piquet with him again. On his arrival, he’d noted that several card tables had been set up at one end of the drawing room. Surely challenging the duchess to another bout to win back her crown would appeal to her pride if nothing else. He could but try.

  Perhaps sensing his speculative gaze, the duchess—Georgiana—suddenly flicked him a glance from beneath her long dark lashes. He cocked an eyebrow and bright color flooded her cheeks.

  Interesting. Although she’d been pretending otherwise, she was undoubtedly aware of his avid attention. Maybe he wasn’t quite dead in the water yet. Holding her gaze, he reached for his glass of claret again, then ventured a smile at her over the rim as he took a sip. And for one long moment she didn’t look away.

  Christ, she’s beautiful. Rafe’s heart rate kicked up a notch as her telltale blush spread all the way down to her bountiful breasts. When he deliberately lowered his gaze, he swore he could see her nipples hardening beneath the satin of her bodice. Was she even wearing stays? His cock jerked in appreciation and his smile widened. Oh yes, the Ice Duchess wasn’t completely immune to him.

  He could hardly wait for dinner to be over.

  “It is such a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace. You are looking well this evening.”

  And so the game began. Strategically installed on a velvet upholstered chaise-longue by the fire, slightly apart from the other ladies of the company, Georgie willed herself to take slow, even breaths when she lifted her gaze and smiled up at Markham with deliberate nonchalance. “Thank you. And may I say, so are you, Lord Markham.”

  He smiled. “You may.”

  Ever since the ladies had retired to the drawing room to let the gentlemen dally over their port, she’d been steeling herself for this moment. And she was inwardly pleased that she’d managed to reply to Markham without blushing or stammering. She just prayed that she could remain as cool as cucumber in his presence throughout the remainder of the evening. And that Helena’s dashed plan to beat Markham at cards would work.

  But remaining calm was easier said than done when Markham’s blatantly admiring gaze roamed over her indecently exposed bosom. Don’t you dare lose your nerve now, Georgiana. Isn’t this what you wanted? Markham to be hopelessly distracted by you?

  Yes, but she had not counted on the effect his focused interest would have on her. A warm, heavy ache pulsed between her thighs and she shifted uneasily on her seat.

  Lord Markham’s eyes immediately lifted to meet hers; something like triumph flared in their dark-gray depths and he smiled like a cat who hadn’t just found a saucer of cream, but had been presented with an entire pitcher. He was enjoying the fact he’d made her flustered far too much. Somehow she had to turn the tables. Say something clever and amusing.

  But what? She suddenly felt as caper-witted as a kitten. To her added chagrin, Markham spoke first. “I was sorry to hear from Lady Maxwell that you have been... indisposed following the ball last week,” he said in a low voice clearly meant for her ears only
. A lover’s voice.

  A flush warmed Georgie’s cheeks. Curse the man’s confidence. But she mustn’t show any more weakness. He was the one who was supposed to be thrown off balance tonight, not her. She tossed her curls and drew in a deep breath, yet again drawing Markham’s attention to her chest. “Just a tiresome cold, but I am now fully recovered.” She smiled and looked up at him through her eyelashes just as Helena had suggested. “I must thank you for the roses you sent. They were both beautiful... and pleasurable. As you intended.”

  Markham’s eyebrows shot up in surprise before he quickly recovered his composure. He inclined his head, amusement sparking in his eyes. “My male pride is appeased, Your Grace.”

  Georgie’s breath snagged in her throat. Dear Lord. The man was too handsome for words, even with his facial scars. They marked him as a man of action—a man who quite possibly, was too much for her to handle. What madness had possessed her to make her think she could actually flirt with him like this? Let alone gain the upper hand? She was clearly out of her depth. Somehow, with a great effort of will, she made her voice work. “I’m glad.”

  Markham smiled but then his gaze slid from her face and began to wander about the room. He suddenly seemed withdrawn. Preoccupied. Unexpected panic gripped Georgie’s chest as an awkward silence descended between them. Surely he couldn’t have lost interest in her already? But what if he had? What if he was seeking out another diversion—or someone else like Lord Farley’s sister, the very pretty Lady Lucinda Tisdale—to entertain him? What if her utterly ridiculous plan to vanquish Markham in this underhanded way was all for naught?

  But then, how arrogant it was of her to assume she would be able to retain Markham’s undivided attention. He was a rake after all.

  The thought stung her feminine pride, more than she cared to admit. She should feel beautiful and desirable and powerful in this couture version of a Cyprian’s gown but instead she suddenly felt like a shabby fraud—someone undeserving of Markham’s admiration. Perhaps she should make her excuses and go before she embarrassed herself further. She couldn’t continue this farce of pretending to be someone she wasn’t.