“It’s the least I can do.”
When they reached the silent vestibule, he released his hold on her arm to open the front door for her. “I know you are concerned about appearances, but it’s very foggy out there. I should escort you to your carriage.”
Georgie peered out into the night. Sure enough, a thick gray fog swirled about. The gas lamps flanking the bottom of the stairs were barely discernible and she couldn’t even see her carriage. Nevertheless, she shook her head. “It’s only a few feet away. My footman will be waiting to hand me in. I shall be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Markham’s brow creased in concern. He stepped closer—too close—and the rich, spicy scent of his cologne enveloped her, immediately reminding her of the kiss they’d shared.
Georgie had to stop herself from leaning into his large, warm body. “I’m sure.” That was a lie. She wasn’t sure of herself at all; she really needed to leave right now before she changed her mind and threw herself into Markham’s arms. “Goodnight then.”
He bowed his head, a mysterious, almost regretful smile curving his mouth. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
Georgie lifted her skirts and stepped carefully down the stairs into the roiling, gray miasma. The dark shape of the carriage loomed ahead. She’d only taken a few steps across the pavement when something—someone—crashed into her, almost knocking her down. A startled cry escaped her as a man roughly clutched her arms. Helena’s shawl fell away.
“Pardon me, Fraulein.”
She had a fleeting impression of a male face obscured by a high collar, a hat, and a mess of dark hair, and then he was gone. The swiftness with which he released her sent her flying again. She stumbled back, grabbing the wrought-iron railings to stop herself falling.
“Are you all right?” Markham was suddenly at her side, gently grasping her about the shoulders. “What happened?”
“Georgie.” Jonathon, with a footman close behind him, appeared behind Markham. “What in God’s name? Markham, what’s going on?”
Georgie’s gaze darted between her brother and Markham. “A man bumped into me. That’s all... I’m quite all right. Maybe a little shaken.” She rubbed her upper arm and grimaced. “And perhaps a little bruised. But nonetheless fine.”
Markham’s gaze was as hard as steel. “Describe him. Which way did he go?”
Georgie frowned, puzzled at the intensity of Markham’s concern. “He was tall. Dressed in a greatcoat and beaver hat. Both black. Oh, and he was foreign—he spoke German. I think he went that way.” She gestured with a nod of her head. “Toward Grosvenor Square, I imagine. But it was only an accident, Markham. Don’t fuss.”
Markham ignored her and directed his next comment at Jonathon. “See her safely home.” And then he was gone, sprinting off into the fog in the direction she’d indicated.
Georgie’s mouth fell open. “Why on earth...?” The man had been rough, but it wasn’t as if he’d collided with her on purpose. It was impossible to see anything in this fog; he’d obviously been in a hurry and hadn’t seen her. Markham was completely overreacting by haring off after him.
“Georgie,” Jonathon grasped her arm and attempted to steer her toward the carriage. “Come. Let’s get you home.”
Giving up on trying to see anyone or anything at all through the impenetrable, chill gray cloud surrounding them, Georgie sighed then followed her brother. Although she believed Markham’s act of gallantry was unnecessary, she couldn’t help but be flattered by his concern for her.
The carriage had just started to pull away when a wholly unpleasant thought burst into her mind: what if Markham was putting himself in danger? A sharp spike of panic speared her heart. What if the stranger who had barreled into her was a nefarious character after all?
Their collision had been accidental, but why had he been in such a hurry on such an inclement night at such a late hour? There could be a hundred reasonable explanations for his haste and brusqueness, but still... If he were up to no good and then Markham caught up to him, what then? Even though she knew little of Markham’s past, he appeared to be the type of man who could hold his own in a physical altercation. But what if he and the stranger came to blows, all because of her? She couldn’t bear to think of it.
“Jonathon, get the driver to stop the carriage.”
“Whatever for—”
“I’m worried about Markham.”
“Georgie, I’m sure—”
She sat forward and rapped sharply on the carriage wall behind the driver. “Stop, Benson.”
The carriage immediately drew to a halt. As Georgie reached forward to grasp the handle of the door, Jonathon gripped her wrist. “Markham will be fine.”
“You don’t know that. Let me out, Jonathon. I don’t know why Markham felt the need to chase after that man, but at least we could ask our footman, even the Latimers’ staff to assist. What if… what if that man is dangerous?”
Jonathon’s forehead furrowed into a deep frown. “I seriously doubt that. This is Mayfair after all...” He sighed and released her arm. “But if it makes you feel any better…”
“It will.” Perhaps, like Markham, she was overreacting too. She certainly wasn’t going to leave here until she knew he was all right. Her heart still thudding uncomfortably in her chest, she unlatched the door and waited impatiently for Perkins, the footman, to attend her, all the while scanning the fog in the direction the stranger and Markham had headed toward. But she could see nothing. Not only that, all was deathly, eerily silent save for the rattle of the steps as Perkins let them out, and the jangling of the horses’ harnesses. She really didn’t know if that boded well or ill for Markham. Either way, she must find out.
Alighting on the pavement again, she picked up her skirts and started back toward Latimer House. “Tell Perkins to head for the Square, I’ll speak with the night footman,” she called over her shoulder to Jonathon.
“Georgie... Wait.”
Ignoring her brother, Georgie increased her pace, anxiety gnawing at her belly. Her breath puffed out in short, ragged spurts. Latimer House was just up ahead—the gaslights shone like beacons through the mist.
And then a large shape materialized out of the fog, directly in front of her. A man. Gasping, she stumbled to a halt.
Markham. Thank God.
He grasped her firmly by the shoulders as if to steady her before pulling her close to his hard, lean body. A dark scowl creased his brow as he stared down at her. “Your Grace, why haven’t you gone home like I instructed?”
“I...” She wanted to say she’d been worried for him, but the words jammed in her throat. What on earth had she been thinking? Of course Markham could protect himself. Animal strength and steely assurance literally radiated from the man. Heat flooded her face; she suddenly felt foolish and more than a little embarrassed. And vulnerable beneath his intense scrutiny.
“You shouldn’t be here. Where is your brother?” he continued when she didn’t answer; there was a rough edge to his voice, and he seemed different somehow. Annoyed.
A matching spark of irritation burst into life inside her. She lifted her chin, determined to brazen this awkward encounter out. “I won’t be ordered about by you.”
A muscle worked in Markham’s jaw. “Duchess or not, if we were anywhere but here, I’d tip you over my knee and—”
“Markham. You’re all right.” Jonathon appeared beside them. “See, Georgie, I told you he would be fine—”
“Be quiet, Jonathon,” Georgie snapped, pulling away from Markham’s hold. She didn’t want Markham to hear any more about her misplaced concern. Instead she glared back at him, the irritation she’d felt a moment ago blazing into full-blown anger. The temerity of the man was unbelievable. She couldn’t let him get away with his previous comment, incomplete or not. “What was it that you were saying, my lord?” she demanded with false sweetness. “That you’d like to tip me ov—”
“Enough,” he growled before taking her firmly by the elbow and marching her
back toward the carriage. “Whilst I’m flattered you are concerned for my welfare, you really have no need to be.”
“Just as you have no need to be concerned about mine,” she retorted, trying but failing to wrench her arm from his firm grasp. “Why did you set off after that man? Did you actually catch up with him? Demand he make an apology to me? Chivalry is all well and good, but your actions… well, they do not make sense.”
Halting by the coach, Markham shook his head. “It’s half-past one in the morning and I really don’t wish to discuss the matter with you right now,” he bit out in a clipped tone; he was clearly exasperated. “Please, just get in, Your Grace.”
She turned and faced him, standing her ground. She knew her contrariness was now bordering on absurd, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “You are so… high-handed.”
The corner of Markham’s mouth suddenly twitched with amusement. He drew her close, one hand still at her elbow, the other at her waist. “You have no idea,” he murmured, his gray eyes glinting with a devilish light. “Right at this moment, I’d like nothing more than to lift up your skirts and apply my hand to your delectable arse for potentially putting yourself in harm’s way again. So you’d best get in the carriage before I do.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
The hand at her waist slid downward to cup her buttock cheek. “Oh, indeed I would,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her gently. “But rest assured I’d offer to soothe the sting later with a kiss.”
A potent combination of shocked outrage and white-hot desire flashed through Georgie; her breath caught and her lower belly quickened as she imagined Markham doing exactly that—slapping her, then placing his lips on her bare behind as she lay across his lap with her skirts around her waist. Splaying her hand against the wall of Markham’s impressively wide chest, she only just managed to crush the urge to press herself into his crude embrace. Lord, the man was turning her into a wanton of the worst kind. How could that be when another part of her also itched to slap him back for his impudence? She must be going mad.
The sound of Jonathon and the footman returning pulled her out of her lust-induced stupor, and she immediately scrambled up the steps into the carriage away from a chuckling Markham. Thank God the interior was dark so he couldn’t see her burning face.
But Georgie could see his large frame, silhouetted in the doorway, even if she couldn’t see his expression. “Goodnight again, Duchess,” he said in a velvet-soft voice. Then he was gone.
“Lord, what a night. Too much excitement all round, what?” Jonathon declared a few moments later as he threw himself into the seat opposite her. “I’m done in.”
And I’m undone. Her pulse racing, the secret place between her thighs throbbing again, Georgie squirmed on her seat, pressing her legs together in a futile attempt to try and ease the pressure. She’d never, ever felt this way before. Markham had teasingly threatened to slap her delectable arse but instead of being affronted, she was aroused. In fact, it felt like she’d been aroused for hours—perhaps all night. She couldn’t bear feeling this frustrated for much longer. When she got home, she was almost tempted to touch herself where she ached most, to see if she could relieve the agony.
“Georgie-bean. Did you not hear a word I just said?”
She started guiltily. “No. I’m sorry I didn’t, Jonathon…” Forcing herself to sit upright and perfectly still like the lady she was supposed to be, she then focused on her brother. “Tell me again.”
“I said, Markham will call tomorrow about three o’clock.”
Tomorrow? Oh God. She didn’t want to see Markham tomorrow, next week at his Richmond house, or ever again for that matter. “Did he say why?” Her voice sounded strained and breathless but her brother didn’t seem to notice.
He shrugged a shoulder. “He didn’t say specifically. I imagine it would be to see how you are faring after the accident. And perhaps he wants to seek my permission to formally court you, Georgie. He seems quite infatuated with you.”
Infatuated. Georgie could no longer deny feeling that way about Markham either. However, she didn’t say anything, just looked out the carriage window. Although, it wasn’t dark, mist-shrouded streets she saw. It was a wickedly handsome man tempting her to engage in all manner of wicked, wanton things. Things that made her yearn for more from this life.
If anyone in this world could melt the icy core within her body as well as her heart, it would be Lord Markham. Rafe.
The question was—as it had always been since she’d first laid eyes on him—was she willing to take the risk and give him the chance?
Rafe strode through the blanket of fog in the direction of his townhouse in South Audley Street, ears and eyes alert for the slightest indication of activity. The foreign stranger—whoever the hell he was—had disappeared without a trace.
Which was deeply frustrating on a number of levels. Rafe bunched his fists and paced faster as he skirted Grosvenor Square again, scanning the murky, shifting darkness. Not only was he precluded from exacting revenge on the brute for hurting the duchess, he also hadn’t discovered the man’s identity—and whether or not he was someone from his past.
A threat.
Georgiana might believe it was an accidental collision, but Rafe’s gut told him otherwise. It seemed odd that a German-speaking man was barreling about this corner of Mayfair in the dead of night. That coupled with the unsolved broken gate mystery meant that in the space of a week, two decidedly unusual incidents had occurred in the vicinity of the Latimers’ residence. And on both occasions, he and the duchess had been together; on the rear terrace and then on the front steps of Latimer House.
Someone had been watching him with the duchess. He could sense it.
It would be easy to shrug off both occurrences as being insignificant and unrelated. However, for a man like himself—someone with a good deal of skeletons in the closet—complacency was a luxury he could ill afford. He needed to exercise the utmost caution, if not for his own sake then for others he cared about.
Like Georgiana.
It was a sobering notion indeed to realize that in the space of a week he’d been completely entranced by this woman. And he would be a fool to dismiss his desire to look out for her as being nothing more than an extension of the wild lust he felt for her—both in and out of her presence. He knew the protectiveness he felt toward her, the need to be near and to please her, were the symptoms of a growing tendre. And he hadn’t even bedded the woman yet. Christ, how far gone would he be when that happened?
But did she want to be with him? It was encouraging to find out that she’d been worried for his safety. Even so, whilst she may care for him, even just a little, one thing was clear—seducing Georgiana was still going to be a challenge like no other.
He’d been thrilled when she’d first responded to his kisses and bold caresses with eagerness. But then she’d pushed him away, both physically and emotionally. Fear of being hurt undoubtedly held her back to some extent. Helena and Phillip had told him as much a week ago. Recalling the tears in her eyes, the catch in her voice when she’d told him to find someone else to pursue, made his heart twist in the strangest way. Finding out who had harmed her in the past—and how deeply—would be the key to understanding her. He wouldn’t rest until he knew.
Leaving the Square, Rafe entered South Audley Street, then immediately ducked into the pitch-black shelter of a narrow laneway. He may have lost the suspicious foreigner, but that didn’t mean the man had lost him. Folding his arms across his chest to ward off the biting cold, he leaned against the wall and waited to see if anyone should happen by.
Fifteen minutes passed, but aside from the occasional clatter of a cab rolling past and then the more distant sound of discordant singing from a group of drunken men stumbling through the streets, all was quiet as the grave.
Time to go home and get some rest before tackling the problem again tomorrow. Slipping back onto South Audley Street again, Rafe walked quickly, hand
s buried in the pockets of his greatcoat. He might need to sleep, but he wondered if he would be able to given that whenever he had time to think, his thoughts drifted straight to Georgiana—her in that sinful red dress, with one of her full, beautiful breasts exposed, writhing beneath his mouth and hands. Then there was her delightful intake of breath and dilated pupils when he’d teased her about spanking then kissing her arse. It was a risk provoking her in such a fashion, but his instincts told him she secretly enjoyed his boldness—that he dared to tread where perhaps others feared to.
God, he needed to stop thinking about her. A stiff cock and aching balls were not conducive to a peaceful night’s slumber. As soon as he was alone in his rooms, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands if had any hope of getting any rest at all.
Although Georgiana had declared that she wanted him to find someone else, he didn’t want another. He wanted her. And he was going to damn well have her. Once he set his mind to something he wouldn’t be swayed.
Georgiana, the Duchess of Darby, would most definitely be his.
She couldn’t sleep. Lying in her bed, staring at the walls and how the flickering firelight danced over the striped blue wallpaper and rose-patterned plaster-work, Georgie groaned then threw her arm over her eyes.
Sweet heavens above. She’d never been this miserable with desperate need before in her entire adult life. As she’d earlier suspected, she was going to have to try to ease the throbbing ache inside her if she was to get any sleep. The problem was, even the very thought filled her with sheer panic if her racing heart was anything to go by. It had been four years since she’d tried such a singular thing, and it had been an epic failure that had only brought her to tears rather than satisfaction.
Like tonight, it had been lustful thoughts about another man that had brought on her fit of neediness—a handsome, quiet, scholarly young man with soft brown eyes and a gentle smile. He’d been a friend from Teddy and Jonathon’s club, Sir David Gilbert. Over the course of that long ago season, she’d played cards with him, chatted with him, even danced with him. Let him kiss her once when they’d got lost in the maze at Harrow Hall one summer’s afternoon. It had been a soft, gentle kiss—a sigh like the touch of a butterfly across her lips, or the kiss bestowed by the prince at the end of a fairytale. Her body had been stirred by desire and she’d believed that perhaps at long last she would be able to achieve fulfillment, at least by her own hand. She definitely wasn’t going to embark on an affair with Sir David unless she could.
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 9