“Hmm.” Markham frowned then rubbed his thumb along his jaw—a completely masculine gesture, no doubt designed to make her heart flutter—then declared again. “Sixieme.”
Oh no. He had six cards of one suit in a sequence. She did not. And that gave him an additional sixteen points making his score eighty—only three points behind her.
Her heart began to hammer. This would be a close game after all. “Good.”
Markham smiled slowly. “Quatorze of aces.”
Oh God, no. Four of a kind. Fourteen more points. And she only had a trio of knaves. Markham was now at ninety-four and he hadn’t even won a single trick yet. She would undoubtedly be lost if the cards didn’t fall her way in the course of play. Swallowing, she found her voice and forced herself to make the required response. “Good.”
Markham inclined his head. “May the best hand win, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” she agreed faintly. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to pull out her last dirty trick to stop him reaching one hundred points first. Beneath the cover of the table, she eased off her slipper then reached forward with her stocking–clad foot and found Markham’s ankle just as he played his first card, the ace of hearts.
Markham jumped. His gaze flew to hers. Then smiling, he leaned back a little and moved his leg forward so that her toe brushed against him again.
The cad. He knew what she was about. And he was laughing at her.
Heat scalded her cheeks and she jerked her foot away.
God help her. She was mired in the mud on the wrong side of one hundred and it seemed there was nothing—bar a miracle—that would save her.
As expected, her miracle did not eventuate and Markham won six sequential tricks. Within a matter of minutes he effortlessly reached one hundred, claiming victory with a flourish and a wolfish smile.
Helena, Jonathon and Farley clapped and Phillip handed his friend another cognac. “Well done, old fellow.”
Georgie dropped her gaze to the table and quite unnecessarily gathered the cards, attempting to make a neat pile; anything to avoid Markham’s too observant eyes.
Don’t be so sensitive. It’s only a game at a private party. It doesn’t matter. That’s what Jonathon and Helena—even Teddy if he’d been here—would say.
But it did matter. She’d gambled and she’d lost. And the price was heavy. Her reputation, her confidence, and her self-respect lay in tatters all around her. Three times she’d played Markham and three times he’d soundly thrashed her. Not only that, this time, she’d all but prostituted herself into the bargain.
And to make matters worse, he knew what she’d been up to. The wicked smile curving his mouth after she’d attempted to tease him beneath the table had said it all. How could she possibly attend a house party hosted by him? She’d rather die.
“Your Grace?” Markham’s voice was soft with concern. “Are you—”
“Congratulations, Lord Markham,” she offered crisply. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anything from him. Plastering a smile on her face, but keeping her gaze averted from him and everyone else, she pushed away from the table. Her vision blurred and her throat tightened so much she could barely breathe. The humiliation was too much. She had to get out of this room before she lost control of herself. “Excuse me.”
Thankfully, no one followed her as she rushed from the room into the hall then up the stairs that led to the ladies’ retiring room. Praise God it was deserted at this late hour. Collapsing onto a settee before the dying fire, Georgie buried her face in her hands and at last gave herself up to a flood of angry tears.
She was such a fool. And she only had herself to blame. Hopefully Markham would be gone by the time she was ready to emerge.
If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.
Rafe lounged against the balustrade on the upstairs landing, pretending to peruse a finely rendered painting of the Palace of Holyrood with a backdrop of Edinburgh’s Salisbury Crags. Save for the ticking of the longcase clock farther along the passage, all was deathly quiet in this part of Latimer House.
He permitted himself a deep sigh. He’d been waiting half an hour for the duchess to emerge from hiding. To his surprise, it had been Helena who’d suggested he go after Her Grace to see if she was all right—and Jonathon had readily agreed. Whilst Rafe appreciated their match-making efforts, he rather thought that Georgiana wouldn’t.
Indeed, he suspected this whole evening had been engineered to throw them together again. No wonder the duchess was livid. And fool that he was, he’d made it worse by bruising her pride yet again; not only had he beaten her, but he’d teased her mercilessly. He’d definitely pushed her too far.
This time, even a simple apology wouldn’t be enough.
The longcase clock struck a quarter to one and Rafe started down the hallway, counting doors. At the risk of increasing the duchess’s wrath tenfold—and having a chamber pot hurled at him—he was going to have to invade the hallowed sanctuary of the ladies’ retiring room. Although he was generally a patient man, he really didn’t want to wait all night. And he wouldn’t leave the Latimers until he’d made peace with Georgie.
Fourth door along on the right, Helena had informed him. He stopped and listened, his ear to the wood panels but all was silent within. He should knock. But then he wasn’t like other men. Breaking rules like uncovering secrets, was as natural to him as breathing.
He turned the handle and stepped into the small, dimly lit room.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust—the almost extinguished fire, and a pair of low-burning oil lamps in wall sconces on either side of the chimney were the only sources of light. And then he saw her, huddled on a low settee, staring into the dying embers in the grate.
“Your Grace?”
Her whole body jerked. “Markham. What in God’s name are you doing in here?” She rose and even in the poor light it was obvious she’d been crying. Her voice was husky with tears and barely suppressed fury, her toffee-brown hair a disheveled halo. “Get out. At once.”
“No.” He advanced toward her. “We need to speak.”
“No. We don’t,” she bit out. She took a step back, then another, edging away from him toward the other side of the room.
“I beg to differ.” He followed her around the settee as she continued her retreat.
“You can beg all you like.” Her blue eyes glittered with cold derision. “I don’t want to hear your gloating condescension dressed up in pretty words. I don’t want an apology. And I certainly won’t be mollified or appeased or anything else you want to call it this time.”
She bumped into the oak-paneled wall and before she could fire another verbal shot at him, he crowded her in with his arms, one hand at the level of her shoulder, the other beside her head; his body almost pressed against hers, but not quite. At these close quarters, the scent of her floral perfume teased him. The heat of her body aroused him, made his pulse race, his cock twitch.
“How dare you? Leave me be,” she hissed. Her chest heaved and judging by the hard set to her jaw, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was contemplating clawing his eyes out. “Your attentions are not wanted.”
“Are you sure?” he murmured thickly as he pushed a wayward curl behind her ear. “Because it didn’t seem that way at all during the game. And you’re wrong you know.” He trapped her furious gaze again. “I didn’t come here to gloat or apologize. Or to appease you...” He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “I came here for this.”
Before she could even utter a sound of protest, he captured her tear-stained face with his hands and ruthlessly claimed her mouth. She gasped beneath him; her hands clutched at his shirt, her fingernails biting into him even through the linen. But she didn’t push him away.
Far from it.
She moaned then swept her tongue into his mouth, even before he could taste her. Kissed him back with needy, almost desperate abandon. Her hands slid up to his neck and she speared her fingers into his hai
r, dragging him closer. Lust immediately roared through his veins, thickening his cock, at the thought she was actually mad for him too. He devoured her, sucking her tongue further inside him, thrusting himself into her in return.
God in heaven, she tasted divine. Hot and sweet and salty. Honey laced with tears. And entirely addictive. More potent than cognac or even opium. He could easily get drunk on her, and perhaps he was so already.
Suddenly ravenous for the taste of her fragrant, satiny skin, he slid his mouth from her lips and traced a line of kisses along her jaw to her throat, and then lower. His tongue delved into the sweet cleft between her breasts as his fingers pushed aside the slippery satin of her bodice to expose her nipple. When his lips closed around the hardened bud and he suckled, she gripped his head and a low moan tumbled from her throat.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. “I shouldn’t... You shouldn’t...”
“Shouldn’t what? Do this?” Cradling the plump mound of her breast with one hand, he circled his tongue around and around the tight, rose-colored flesh. “Or this?” He then delivered a light volley of flicks with his tongue tip before covering her with his mouth, suckling again.
“Any of it.” She tugged at his hair, pulling him away.
“Why not?” He searched her eyes, hoping against hope she’d answer him truthfully. Given the way she kissed him, pushed her body into his, he didn’t think she was a virgin. But perhaps he was wrong—and that might explain her reticence to go further. “Tell me.”
“Because...” She drew in a shaky breath. “You are exactly what I don’t need. And I cannot be what you want me to be.”
“And what is that? Speak plainly.” He narrowed his gaze, suddenly exasperated with her for always thinking the worst about him. “How can you possibly know what I want from you?” he demanded. “And maybe I’m exactly what you need.”
She laughed, a mirthless sound, then arched against him, her belly grazing his already throbbing cock. “So arrogant. And I know what you want, Markham. It’s obvious. The problem is...” She closed her eyes and bit her lip. Then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
A tear escaped onto her flushed cheek and a strange combination of guilt and anger pierced Rafe’s heart. Whoever had hurt this woman, he wanted to throttle him. “Georgiana—”
“I haven’t given you leave to use my name,” she whispered, but there seemed to be no more fight in her. She tugged her bodice back into place, her movements jerky. Then she sagged against the wall. Away from him. The fire in her eyes had died.
“Georgiana. Why do you fight me so? I want you. And if I’m not mistaken, a moment ago you seemed to want me too. We’re both free.” He fisted his hands to stop himself touching her because he knew she would rebuff him. “Why shouldn’t we see if there could be anything between us?”
She sighed, and to his surprise she reached forward and cupped his jaw with trembling fingers. “Find someone else, Markham. I’m not for you.”
He dared to place his hand over hers. He wouldn’t let her go so easily. Not when his heart thundered like this and his whole body ached for her. “Promise me you’ll come to Rivergate. We had a deal.”
Another sigh. Infinitely sad. “All right. I’ll come.” Her hand slipped from beneath his and she gently poked at his chest like he was a naughty schoolboy. “But only if you give me your word that you will behave yourself.”
At least the light had returned to her eyes.
“I give you my word,” he said, inclining his head, trusting his expression was sincere. He suspected his definition of behaving himself was quite different to hers, but she didn’t need to know that.
She drew up straight and narrowed her eyes. “And don’t expect me to play cards.”
Rafe sighed, but he couldn’t hide a smile. “So many rules, Your Grace. A house party is supposed to be entertaining, you know.”
Her mouth twisted. “Do you want me there or not?”
He raised his hands in a placatory gesture and took a step back. “I promise. No more cards either.”
She nodded once. “Good.”
“Well,” Rafe took another step away and gave a slight bow, “I shall bid you adieu until next week then, Your Grace.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” The duchess closed the distance between them and laid her hand on the sleeve of his evening jacket. “I... I need your assistance.”
“Of course.” He waited.
“Where are the others?”
Rafe frowned. “Farley departed shortly after our card game. I left your brother and Phillip in the library, but that was a little while ago. And Helena, the last I heard, had headed up to the nursery. Another one of their children is unwell I believe. Young Charlie.”
“Oh...” The duchess worried at her bottom lip for a moment. “Would you mind terribly, if I asked you to help me escape unnoticed?” She gestured at her hair—her curls had tumbled into further disarray during their amorous tryst and her gown was noticeably creased. “I fear I am in rather a state. I can’t be seen by anyone. And I’m loath to disturb Helena or call on her maid at this late hour. I have a redingote—a black velvet one—in the cloakroom downstairs.”
In Rafe’s opinion, Georgiana looked nothing but beautiful even if she was delightfully rumpled, but he understood her need for discretion. “I will fetch your coat and ask for your carriage to be brought round immediately. Shall I also tell your brother to meet you outside?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you so much.”
She began to draw her hand away but Rafe caught it and raised it to his lips. “Whatever you want, you have only to ask,” he said softly. “And I shall make it so.”
Her forehead creased into an apparent scowl but she couldn’t quite hide a twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. “You are a persistent devil, Markham, I’ll give you that much. But your charm won’t sway me into your arms again, you must know that.”
Pleased to see her spirit returning, he couldn’t resist throwing her a deliberately roguish grin. “Well then I shall just have to rely on my good looks, intelligence and wit to sway you instead. I shall see you shortly.” Then without further ado, he slipped from the room before the duchess could react; judging by the flash of annoyance in her eyes he suspected she might just actually be thinking about launching a chamber pot at him.
Chapter 6
As soon as the door clicked shut, Georgie sighed heavily then paced over to the looking glass positioned by the fireplace. Lord she was a mess; her cheeks were tear-stained, her lips were kiss-swollen and her fingers trembled as she vainly attempted to repin some of her tumbled tresses into a semblance of order. But worse still was the tumult of wild emotions and thoughts careening around inside her.
Curse Markham.
Why was he making it so hard to continue despising him?
He was arrogant, undeniably so, but he was also more than a rake; Helena was right. Handsome, witty, intelligent—he did indeed possess all of those qualities he’d jested about. But he also seemed—and she hardly dare think it—caring. Not only did he make her heart race and set her stomach flutter, he made her ache and feel far too much.
He makes me want far too much.
It would be far easier for her to dislike him if she’d been able to hold onto the anger she’d felt when he’d first invaded the room—when she realized he’d sought her out with the sole purpose of seducing her.
But then when he’d kissed her—ravished her—her traitorous body had responded to him in a way that had shocked her. Still shocked her. She could no longer hide from the irrefutable fact that she wanted him, just as much as he clearly wanted her. Even now she could still feel the slickness between her thighs and the insistent pulse of unfulfilled lust low in her belly. The problem she hadn’t wanted to admit to him—the thing she could barely admit to herself—was that she would always be unfulfilled. Desperately wanting yet never able to achieve satisfaction.
She hated feeling this way. Only half-alive. Half a woman.
Markham could never find out.
The idea of spending so much time in Markham’s company next week, beneath his roof, was daunting to say the least. The possibility of exploring if there might be anything between them—as he’d put it—terrified her even more so. And she didn’t believe for a moment that he would hold to his promise to behave. The way he’d looked at her after he’d kissed her, when he’d declared that perhaps he was exactly what she needed—she hadn’t only seen passion in his eyes. There was a promise of… more.
He was tempting her down a treacherous slope, and only untold frustration and bitter disappointment awaited her at the end.
And she just couldn’t put herself through that. Or him.
Georgie, you would be a fool indeed to think anything could come of this.
But how was she to get out of this mess? A deal was a deal. Markham was a determined man and he wouldn’t let her renege, no matter that his own promise to behave was likely a lie.
At least she had a week’s grace to think on it.
By the time Markham entered the room a few minutes later, she’d managed to compose herself a little more. Her hair and dress might still be in a disastrous state, but at least the cool and dignified Ice Duchess had resurfaced. “Thank you.” She was relieved her voice sounded steady when Markham helped her into her coat. He’d also brought her a light muslin shawl of Helena’s to drape over her hair. “You’re thoughtfulness does you credit.”
“You are most welcome, Your Grace.” Markham offered her his arm, then escorted her from the room. “Your brother is waiting for you outside in the carriage with your gloves and reticule. He also bid Phillip farewell for both of you. And you’ll be pleased to find that no one is about in the vestibule at the moment, not even the night footman.”
Georgie peered over the wrought-iron railing as they descended the stairs and confirmed that was indeed the case. “Thank you again, Markham.”
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 8