His hand lingered at her elbow, his touch gentle, his fingers warm. She should admonish him and tell him to remove it, but she didn’t. “He... he called me Fraulein. His speech was heavily accented.”
“Do you recall anything else about him? Anything at all.”
She shook her head. “Not really. It happened so quickly.”
“Even a minor detail.”
Markham’s intense interest puzzled her. Nevertheless she closed her eyes for a moment and summoned the memory. “He had dark hair. Messy. Low on his brow. I couldn’t see his eyes properly.” She opened her eyes and shook her head again. “That’s all I remember, Markham. I don’t understand your fixation. Do you know this man?”
Markham dropped his hand and the expression in his eyes became shuttered. “Forgive me, Duchess. I cannot help but feel responsible that you were hurt. I should have escorted you to your carriage.”
“I asked you not to. You should not blame yourself. I certainly do not.”
Markham inclined his head and stepped backward a pace. “Thank you. You are indeed gracious. Now I really should bid you adieu.” Bowing over her hand, he brushed a light, almost perfunctory kiss over her knuckles. “Until we meet again, Your Grace.”
And then he was gone. Just like that.
Georgie pressed herself against the wall behind her, feeling unexpectedly flat with disappointment. How ironic that she’d been fending off Markham’s advances and playing the affronted Ice Duchess, but when he didn’t press her for anything more, she felt put out.
What did you expect, Georgie? That he would offer to promenade with you in Hyde Park? Or that he would attempt to kiss you again? After you’d warned him off?
Do you really want him to pursue you?
For once the answer that sprang to mind wasn’t a decided no.
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to the soft flesh of her lips—dry and cool. Untasted. He’d awakened her. She couldn’t ignore that fact. No matter how much her body trembled, or her heart frantically pounded with an apprehension that bordered on terror at the thought of being with him, she owed it to herself to at least consider exploring what could be. She’d be a fool to turn away now.
She smiled, realizing that instead of dreading the idea of Markham’s house party, a small part of her thrummed with anticipation. How strange to think she might actually be counting the days until she saw him again.
“There’s been no activity in ‘anover Square today at all, milord or in Limmer’s Hotel on the corner. An’ the duchess an’ ‘er brother, ain’t left their ‘ouse, not even for a jaunt about ‘yde Park. Which is no’ at all surprisin’ given, it’s still rainin’ cats and dogs.”
Just like every other day and night for the whole week. “Thank you, Cowan.” Rafe sighed and ran a hand down his face. He was slightly relieved that his team of men had seen neither hide nor hair of anyone—at least no one fitting the description of being tall, dark and foreign—watching his own movements, the Latimers or more importantly, the comings and goings of Georgiana. But then, constant pouring rain would discourage most, except for the very determined, from conducting outdoor surveillance.
Rafe wouldn’t let down his guard though—not yet. The watcher, whoever he was, might simply be biding his time. To do what, Rafe didn’t know, but he’d been in the spy game too long to let go of the matter prematurely. A viper always strikes when you least expect it.
Cowan cleared his throat, claiming Rafe’s attention again. “As for the other matter…”
Craven. Markham’s gut tensed. “What have you managed to find out about him?”
Cowan’s shrewd, pale blue eyes lit up. “The last few nights e’s been seen frequentin’ some of the less reputable gamin’ dens around Soho ‘an the Strand. As well as spendin’ ‘is coin on the company of several—shall we say cheaper—ladybirds from Tothill Fields.”
“It sounds as if our Lord Craven is a little down on his luck then,” mused Rafe. He rubbed his chin. A well-heeled gentleman’s playground of choice was usually the more exclusive gaming establishments and high-end brothels around St. James’s or Pall Mall.
“It would seem so, milord,” agreed Cowan. “One of my contacts says the earl walked out wi’ naught but vowels from a cockfight two nights ago. Do you want me to make discrete enquiries about Town regardin’ ‘is accounts, an if ‘e is known to any of the moneylenders or debt collectors?”
“Yes, that would be a good idea.” Rafe would also enlist Phillip’s help in gleaning additional information from the ton bucks frequenting White’s, Boodle’s and Brook’s. Rafe had already learned that Craven had sold off a good portion of his estate’s unentailed assets in the past year, and he’d also given up his rented townhouse in Curzon Street during the Season proper. By all accounts, it appeared the man was desperately short of funds at present. And there was nothing Rafe would enjoy more than pulling the purse strings a little tighter to make Craven squirm just that bit more.
And if in the process, the bastard ended up living in penury, even better. It would undoubtedly be poetic justice for one of the ton’s worst hellions. If Craven had ruined Georgie—and everything he had learned so far indicated the cur had—Rafe would ruin him.
Hauling himself out of his dark musings, Rafe turned his attention back to Cowan. “If you find out anything of import, you know where to find me.” The house party at his Richmond residence was due to start tomorrow. However, due to the abysmal weather, he suspected that many of the invited guests would be put off. Ruthless man that he was, as long as the Duchess of Darby kept her promise and attended, he really didn’t give a fig if anyone else came.
After issuing a few further instructions, he dismissed Cowan, then abandoned his desk in favor of gazing out the rain spattered window to South Audley Street below. But it wasn’t the teeming gutters and cobbles Rafe saw, or the passing traffic. All that filled his mind’s eye was the image of a lithe, toffee-haired siren with rose-pink lips and sapphire blue eyes, and how she would look in his bed.
If only Georgiana would let him take her there.
Chapter 8
Rivergate House, Richmond, 1st November 1816
“This is madness, Jonathon.” Pushing aside the plum velvet curtains, Georgie peered out of her carriage window, but saw little more than sheets of driving rain hammering down upon the swollen, murky brown surface of the Thames. “What does Markham think we are all going to do for the entire party? Play charades and chess whilst we watch the river rise?” She knew she sounded terse, but as their destination drew closer, her nerves had begun to wreak havoc upon her body. Her pulse raced and her stomach churned. Even her cheeks felt warm. A whole two days and nights, perhaps more with Lord Markham. In close quarters. The prospect was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Jonathon snorted and stretched his legs out, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “Well, perhaps you might have those pursuits in mind Georgie-bean, but I, for one, will be seeking out other diversions.”
“Well, I hope for your sake, and mine, that Lord Farley attends with his sister and aunt,” sniped Georgie. Her brother seemed far too laissez-faire considering the potential for social disaster. “We already know Phillip and Helena have sent their apologies because they and little Charlie are both unwell, and Lord and Lady Rothsburgh have beaten a retreat to Scotland before the snows set in up north. What if there’s no one at Rivergate but us? I tell you, we should turn back now.”
Jonathon regarded her with a considering look. “You’ve got cold feet haven’t you, sis?
She puffed out a small, exasperated sigh. Her brother’s ability to read her so easily was annoying in the extreme. “Perhaps a little,” she admitted. Well, perhaps a lot. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since she’d last seen Markham at Dudley House, and like the rising Thames, her old insecurities had returned to overwhelm her. She might have wanted his kisses—or perhaps even more than that last week—but now, she wasn’t so sure.
There was a dec
ided glimmer of mischief in Jonathon’s blue eyes even though his forehead lowered into a frown. “I thought you promised Markham that you would come. You really shouldn’t go back on your word.”
Georgie sighed again, this time in defeat. “I know.” And there was the rub. She’d never be able to face Markham again if she bailed out now. She just prayed there would be so many other guests attending that he, as host, would be sufficiently busy with entertaining them, rather than spending time with her.
“Here we are.” Jonathon tugged back the curtain from his window to reveal they were approaching an impressive set of black, ornately fashioned, wrought-iron gates. “Oh, I say…”
Georgie’s breath caught as her gaze drifted across the large expanse of emerald green grass to a magnificent, three-story Palladian style manor. Flanked by groves of golden-leaved lime and beech trees, Rivergate was stunning. Even though the drive and grounds were awash, and the lowering sky behind it was a canvas of sullen, dark gray, its beauty was in no way diminished. The simple, geometric lines and white-washed façade of the house, the formal parterre-style garden beds gracing the lawn before the circular drive, all conveyed an air of understated elegance.
Georgie caught herself smiling despite her nervousness. One thing was certain: she couldn’t fault Markham’s taste.
In no time at all, their carriage and a second coach which conveyed Georgie’s lady’s maid, Jonathon’s valet and most of their luggage, negotiated the streaming gravel drive and stopped before the entrance. Two sweeping flights of divided stairs led up to a covered portico and the main doors of glossy black wood. As Georgie peered upwards, a small retinue of liveried footmen materialized as if from nowhere, armed with what appeared to be a forest of wide umbrellas.
“Someone’s prepared for your arrival, dear sis. And obviously keen to impress.” Jonathon winked at her before tugging on his black kid gloves and checking the fastenings of his great coat.
“Pish,” she retorted. “A display of good manners is hardly a sign that Markham—”
“Wants to win your heart?” Jonathon grinned. “We’ll soon see. As the expression goes, ‘faint heart never won fair lady’. And Markham doesn’t strike me as faint-hearted or a man that’s easily dissuaded once he’s set his mind on achieving something. I’d suggest you be prepared for a well-mapped out campaign.”
Before she could even draw breath to protest—she was certain Markham’s primary mission wasn’t to win her heart—the carriage door swung open to reveal Markham himself, smiling up at her from beneath a vast green umbrella. Even simply dressed in a well-cut, navy blue tailcoat over a white linen shirt, form-fitting buff breeches and Hessians, he was heart-stoppingly handsome. He bowed and offered his hand. “Your Grace, welcome to you and your brother. Please, let me assist you inside.”
Georgie consciously smoothed her brow and painted a polite smile on her face. “Why, thank you, my lord.” She gathered her blue-gray merino wool skirts and matching pelisse in one hand before placing her other gloved hand in Markham’s. His fingers clasped hers firmly but gently as he helped her alight, then his hand slid to her elbow, drawing her in close to his side beneath the cover of the umbrella. “Just making sure that you don’t get too wet,” he murmured into her ear.
Georgie pressed her lips together, trying desperately not to dwell on the double entendre his choice of words brought to mind—especially after the week of restless nights she’d had since she’d last seen him at Dudley House. She definitely did not want to think about being wet in any way, shape or form around Markham right at this moment. But it was hardly his fault if she was the one having errant thoughts.
As Markham escorted her up the slippery stone stairs, she was painfully aware of the closeness of his warm body and the scent of his expensive cologne. Huddled beneath the umbrella, his arm and thigh occasionally brushing against her, she was becoming increasingly hot and flustered. She was nothing but relieved when they at last gained the shelter of the portico and she could step away from him into the elegantly appointed vestibule.
It was an eye-catching, elegant room—an airy space, which was octagonal rather than square or rectangular. The floor was laid with black and white parquetry tiles, and the white walls and high ceiling were decorated with delicate plaster work. A large arrangement of exquisite hot-house flowers stood on a walnut table in the center. Retreating to the opposite side of the room to regroup, Georgie shook the raindrops off her skirts and then removed her gloves, hoping beyond hope that she didn’t appear as she felt—both breathless and flushed.
“Are you all right, Duchess?” Markham’s forehead was etched with the lines of a concerned frown as his gaze traveled over her.
“Yes. Of course.” Hadn’t she uttered those same words in the carriage? Dear Lord, could she not think of anything else to say? “I mean... I’m a little damp... Only my boots are... Nothing else.” Fierce heat scorched her cheeks. Oh, God. Stop speaking, Georgie.
Markham’s wide mouth curved into a rakish grin. “I’m sure I can soon remedy that.”
Does he mean what I think he means? Georgie’s mouth dropped open but she was saved from being subjected to any further inappropriate quips as the butler appeared to take her gloves, bonnet and pelisse.
Grateful that she had an excuse to avoid Markham’s disconcerting gaze she turned away and set about making her suddenly clumsy fingers undo ribbons and buttons, her mind buzzing desperately all the while. Where on earth was Jonathon? Or anyone else for that matter? Hadn’t there been a whole army of servants about only moments ago?
As she handed her damp clothes to the butler, she heard a man’s voice calling—was that Benson, their coach driver?—followed by the sound of carriage wheels crunching on the drive. Still no sign of Jonathon. Then one of Markham’s footmen appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me, my lord.” The young man bowed to Markham before he turned to Georgie and bowed again. “I have a message for you, Your Grace. From your brother.”
“Yes?” Heart hammering, Georgie forced herself to retain a dignified stance rather than fleeing the vestibule to chase after Jonathon. She knew what the footman would say before he spoke. He’s abandoned me.
“Sir Jonathon wanted to inform you that he has taken the carriage in the hopes of assisting Lord Farley.”
“What do you mean?” Markham took a step forward, frowning deeply. “Is Lord Farley all right?”
The footman turned to his master. “I believe so, my lord. He has simply been stranded at the White Swan Inn. As you were escorting Her Grace inside, a messenger arrived on horseback with a note for either you, my lord, or Sir Jonathon, requesting an alternative means of conveyance to Rivergate. Lord Farley’s carriage has apparently been mired in the mud and the inn does not have any other suitable transport. Sir Jonathon said he would return with Lord Farley as soon as possible. Although, according to the lad from the White Swan, the river is rising and there is some local flooding on many of the laneways that lead to the inn.”
Georgie’s hand flew to her throat, her heart freezing in her chest. “Oh, heavens.” If anything happened to Jonathon…
Markham crossed the vestibule and took her other hand between his. “Your brother will be fine, Your Grace.” His voice was low, his tone, like the gentle clasp of his fingers about hers, was reassuring. “I’m sure if conditions were not safe, Jonathon would turn back rather than put himself and your staff in danger.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Jonathon was sensible and Benson was an experienced coachman. She offered Markham a small smile, touched that he so obviously cared that she should have peace of mind. “How far away is the White Swan? I do not recall passing it on our way here.”
“Only two miles. Ordinarily it would be less than a half hour’s journey, but considering the conditions”—Markham gestured toward the doorway and the pouring rain just beyond—“I would say it will take longer than that.”
Georgie nodded and attempted to withdraw her hand, but Markham
simply tucked it into the crook of his elbow. His thumb brushed across her bare knuckles and a shiver of awareness ran through her. Whether the brief caress was by accident or design, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she was effortlessly aroused and she didn’t like it. When she glanced up to meet Markham’s gaze, he smiled at her—a knowing gleam in his eye—and her heart tripped over itself. Not an accident then.
“Now, let me escort you through to the main hall,” he continued as if nothing had just passed between them, “where my housekeeper, Mrs. Chalmers should be waiting to show you to your rooms upstairs. I’m sure your luggage is being conveyed there as we speak. And when you are feeling restored, might I suggest you come to the drawing room to take tea? Say, in half an hour or so if that suits you?”
She inclined her head and attempted to return a smile—Markham might have promised to be a gentleman, but beneath his veneer of concerned civility, he was an out-and-out rake and she must always remember that. Nevertheless, she would take his offer at face value. For now she would give him the benefit of the doubt that he meant well. “Yes, it will,” she replied. “Thank you.”
As he led her from the vestibule, into the adjoining hall where the main staircase—a grand, gleaming mahogany affair—was located, she couldn’t help but notice how quiet Rivergate seemed. Deserted. Not even Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper, could be seen. A nervous fluttering recommenced in the vicinity of her stomach. “Will the other guests also be joining us?” she asked, attempting to feign a lack of concern.
Markham paused at the bottom of the stairs. Warning bells clamored in Georgie’s head when he smiled a little sheepishly. “Until your brother and Farley return, I’m afraid you are my only guest, Duchess.”
What? She swallowed and forced herself to hold Markham’s gaze, determined not to show one iota of trepidation. “I know Phillip and Helena, as well as Lord and Lady Rothsburgh are not coming. Do you mean to say the other parties have not arrived yet? Given the appalling weather, I suppose that does not surprise me...” She looked at her host expectantly.
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 11