The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Georgie gave him a small smile. “Thank you, very much. I must, too confess, Jonathon’s whereabouts and his safety are weighing heavily upon my mind. I have never seen so much rain. The Thames looks fit to burst.”

  “There should be news within the next hour or so. Until then, I believe some sort of distraction, aside from drinking tea, may be in order.” It was a delicate balancing act Rafe was undertaking—an exercise in gaining Georgie’s trust and challenging her to take a risk, to step outside of her safe sphere of existence. Somehow he had to simultaneously ruffle and beguile her, tease and coax her, and break down her walls of resistance without frightening her away.

  Somehow, he had to tempt her to stay.

  God, he hoped he was up to the task.

  Georgie didn’t appear suspicious of his motives—yet—as her smile had widened in response to his comment. “Ah, the tour,” she remarked and placed her cup on the table. “I should like that very much.”

  Rafe stood and bowed, the perfect gentleman. “If you are ready, Your Grace…”

  “Yes. Indeed.” Georgie rose and when she pulled her shawl about herself, hiding the creamy, delectable flesh above the neckline of her gown, Rafe had to stifle a disappointed sigh. Patience and gentle persuasion with a dash of excitement are the tactics required, Markham. Not a full frontal assault like last time. If you play your cards right, it won’t be long before she’ll let you discard more than her shawl.

  After offering the duchess his arm—and Rafe was heartened that she readily accepted it—he guided her about the drawing room, pointing out the various pieces of art and curios on display: a set of Ming vases; a cherrywood cabinet containing an array of figurines carved from jade; an intricately carved, ivory Chinese puzzle ball; and beside it, a delicate Boulle table inlaid with brass, mother of pearl, tortoiseshell and lapis lazuli.

  “How long have you owned Rivergate, if you don’t mind my asking?” Georgie queried as she traced a pattern on the tabletop with one elegant fingertip. “For a residence that you have only recently acquired, well I must say, you seem remarkably well settled. I’m truly astonished at the beauty of this room, indeed the whole house.”

  If Rafe had been more certain that she wouldn’t rebuff him, he would’ve remarked it was her beauty alone that truly astonished him, but he set the comment aside. Instead, he simply answered her question with a conventional response. “I purchased the property at the beginning of this year. Whilst I have a townhouse in Mayfair—South Audley Street to be exact—I also have a great desire to escape Town on occasion. And this residence is perfect. Whilst it possesses a rural aspect, it is still relatively close to London which makes it easy for me to attend to any Crown business that occasionally comes my way.”

  Georgie’s brow furrowed. “But I thought you had retired.”

  Ah, but she was quick. And obviously a little bit curious about his background. Encouraged by her interest, Rafe smiled. “Yes, for the most part. I sometimes need to deal with a few odds and ends from time to time. Such is the nature of the beast.”

  “Hmm. Your work sounds altogether too mysterious, my lord,” Georgie said with a sly look from beneath her lashes. “You haven’t even told me where you were posted. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if the term ‘diplomatic service’ is really a roundabout way of saying you were engaged in some sort of espionage. I know Phillip works in Lord Castlereagh’s office and I suspect you do too.” Her lovely mouth suddenly curved into a coquettish smile as she looked at him directly. “I think you’d make a rather good spy for the Crown. Tell me, was charm one of your chief weapons?”

  Far too quick. Rafe needed to deflect her line of questioning. Leaning closer, he murmured beside Georgie’s shell-like ear, “Of course, but I’m also particularly adept at deep cover work. Shall I show you?”

  As he’d anticipated, Georgie immediately stepped away and fixed him with a frosty glare. “So much for your assurances that you would act with gentlemanly decorum.”

  Rafe simply shot her a rakish grin. “If you are going to flirt with me, Your Grace, you need to expect that I will flirt with you in return. It seems only fair.”

  “I wasn’t—“

  “Oh yes, you were and you know it.”

  She blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. No doubt her obvious embarrassment was mixed up with a good deal of indignant anger at being caught out. The way her body had tensed—she’d fisted her hands and her back had grown ramrod straight—he had the distinct impression that she would dearly love to stamp her foot. Or slap him.

  He pressed his lips together for a moment to suppress another smile. “Come now, Duchess. Surely a little harmless flirtation is permitted. And as much as I would love to ravish you, I shall only do so at your invitation. Shall we continue the tour?” He offered her his arm again.

  Georgie scowled. “You are a scoundrel to your very bones. Your comments and actions in no way inspire the trust you wished me to place in you.”

  “I would suggest to you that most men are scoundrels when it comes to the fairer sex, Your Grace. At least you are left in no doubt of what is on my mind. Furthermore, I have just admitted you are safe from any attempts at seduction unless you so desire it. Is it not better to know where I stand on the matter rather than pretend an indifference? Surely you must give me credit for being honest.”

  Georgie studied his face for a moment. Her blue eyes gleamed—whether with amusement or anger or both, he couldn’t be sure. “Yes. I suppose I must,” she acknowledged grudgingly. “But even though you have been quite frank, you try my patience, Markham. Heaven knows, I’ve made it abundantly clear where I stand on the matter of flirtation.”

  Rafe quirked an eyebrow. “Contrary to all appearances.”

  “Ugh.” This time she did stamp her foot. “Just show me the rest of the house, or I will bury myself in my room.”

  Rafe bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself chuckling as he moved toward the door. “This way if you please, madam,” he said with polite solemnity as he opened it wider and gestured toward the main hall beyond.

  Chin raised and her shawl wrapped firmly about herself, Georgie swept past him.

  Rafe didn’t dare offer her his arm this time.

  Chapter 9

  The Boulle clock on the mantelpiece was striking three o’clock when Markham escorted Georgie into Rivergate’s library. Perhaps to dispel the gloom of the afternoon, Markham’s staff had built up the fire and many of the candles and lamps had been lit. Even though it was tempting to select a leather bound volume from the oak shelves and take a seat before the fire, Georgie ignored the impulse. Crossing to one of the windows, she peered out through the rain-lashed glass to the driveway below. There was no sign of activity. No sign of anyone at all.

  “I can see how worried you are, Duchess,” said Markham softly from behind her. “I anticipate that my footman and groom should be back very soon,”

  Georgie released a shaky breath and wrapped her arms about her middle to contain a shiver. It seemed as if the cold bleakness of the day had penetrated her as well. As Markham had shown her through the main living areas of the house, her apprehension had risen steadily, to the point where she could no longer concentrate on anything he said to her. And he’d obviously noticed. “I really hope so,” she replied. Even her voice trembled, but she didn’t care. “Better still would be the return of Jonathon himself. Wait—”

  Markham moved to her side and drew the claret-red velvet curtain back. “Speak of the devil, it’s Ridley and Fanshaw.” Two men on horseback had appeared between the wrought iron gates.

  But not Jonathon.

  Before the men had even made it halfway up the drive, Markham had taken her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Come,” he said, tugging her toward the door. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

  Georgie didn’t even think to protest about Markham’s familiar hold on her hand. Her heart pounding, she simply rushed out into the hall with him, past Rivergate’s
astonished looking butler in the vestibule and then straight out to the covered portico. Within moments, a sodden and very breathless footman appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “My lord… Your Grace,” he began.

  “Is my brother all right?”

  The footman turned to her and bowed. “Yes. I believe so.”

  Georgie released a sigh as heady relief washed over her, but Markham frowned. “You believe so?” he asked tersely.

  “Yes. All thoroughfares between Rivergate and the White Swan have been cut off by local flooding, and we did not see any sign of Her Grace’s carriage, my lord. We believe Sir Jonathon must have made it across. One of the local landowners—a Mr. Chapel—who was in the process of sandbagging his property, Lowood House, also reported seeing a fine carriage pass by about an hour and a half ago before the roadway became impassable.”

  Markham nodded. “That would also fit the time frame I had in my mind.” He turned to Georgie and after curving his hand about her elbow, drew her gently to the other side of the portico, out of earshot of the footman. “Your Grace, I’m sure your brother has made it safely to the White Swan. The road on the other side of Lowood House leads to much higher ground. If your carriage was able to cross earlier in the afternoon, there is no doubt your driver would have been able to negotiate the rest of the short journey. It seems that Jonathon may be spending the night at the inn with Lord Farley.”

  Georgie frowned as a different kind of panic fluttered within her. “Surely not the whole night.” She really didn’t want to be spending the entire night alone at Rivergate with Markham. Not at all.

  “I doubt the waters will subside between now and nightfall. And it would be foolish indeed for your brother to try to cross a flooded road in the dark. Rest assured, I’m sure Jonathon is swigging ale and claret and feasting on the inn’s very good beef and suet pudding as we speak.”

  Georgie closed her eyes and sighed heavily. Jonathon was safe. And she could easily imagine he was making the best of the situation with Farley. She should at least do the same. It was no one’s fault unforeseen circumstances and the elements had prevented so many of Markham’s invited guests from attending the party.

  “Your Grace?”

  Georgie opened her eyes to find Markham studying her face intently, a concerned light in his gray eyes.

  “I am fine,” she reassured him. “Just very relieved that there is some encouraging news about my brother.”

  “I’m sure he and Farley’s party will join us as soon as they are able to.”

  Georgie nodded. “Yes.” She offered Markham a smile. “Thank you for all you have done. Your concern and your help, mean more than I can say. You see, Jonathon is the only family I have...” Her breath hitched for a moment and she swallowed to clear the tight feeling from her throat. “I am truly grateful.”

  Markham returned her smile. The light in his eyes was soft. “You are quite welcome, Your Grace.” He then turned to the sodden footman. “Thank you, Fanshaw. Now go and get warm and dry, man, before you catch your death.”

  Fanshaw bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  Markham gestured toward the door. “Shall we return to the library?” he asked. “And if looking through Rivergate’s substantial book collection doesn’t take your fancy, I have a very nice chess set if you’d like to play. Unless,” he smiled devilishly, “chess, like cards, is also not permitted.”

  Georgie really didn’t think she was up to playing any sort of game with Markham right at this moment. He might have declared she was safe from any further overtures from him, but given the look in his eye, she wasn’t so sure. Especially since he’d boldly stated seducing her was on his mind. Finding a book and then taking refuge in her room suddenly seemed very appealing. Her reply was guarded. “Hmm, perhaps another spot of tea would be a better option for now.”

  “And something to eat,” Markham added. “You didn’t have a single bite of anything in the drawing room earlier. You must be ravenous. I know I am.”

  Before Georgie could even respond, he caught the eye of the butler then placed his request for tea and a light luncheon for two.

  “Thank you,” Georgie said as Markham gently steered her back toward the library. Now that she knew Jonathon was all right, she realized she was actually famished. Breakfast seemed a long time ago.

  She approached the arrangement of chairs before the fireplace and hovered uncertainly behind a settee upholstered in burgundy damask. Should she take a seat or peruse the shelves? Just like before when they had taken tea, she felt painfully self-conscious and couldn’t think of a single thing to say, especially now she could sense Markham watching her. He’d crossed to one of the ebon oak bookcases beside the fire. With one arm resting along one of the shelves, he appeared quite relaxed as he frankly studied her.

  Annoying man. Why was it up to her to initiate a topic of conversation? She glanced about the room, desperately looking for something—anything—to remark upon. She’d been quite cold when she’d been out on the portico earlier, but now an uncomfortable warmth enveloped her. Her cheeks began to burn and it wasn’t because she’d drawn closer to the fire. Swallowing to moisten her suddenly very dry mouth, she ventured the first, most mundane question that sprang to mind. “Is the collection of books here yours, or did they come with the sale of Rivergate?”

  “Some of them came with the house, yes. Mainly the older volumes you see on the wall behind you. All of the books on these shelves”—he gestured at the bookcase he stood next to and the matching one on the other side of the fireplace—“come from my own collection at Avonmore Park, my family’s home.”

  Georgie crossed to the opposite shelf and ran her gaze over the titles at her eye level. Choose a book and leave she told herself, but she asked aloud, “Do you enjoy reading?”

  “Yes. Amongst other things.” When Georgie glanced at Markham, his gaze had become so dark and heavy, she couldn’t mistake his meaning.

  And she couldn’t bear it. The building irritation inside her burst forth. “Why do you do that?” she accused angrily. “Turn everything I say inside-out and upside-down? Turn a perfectly ordinary conversation into something so… so—”

  “So entertaining?”

  “Vexing!” Georgie snapped. “Laden with unseemly undercurrents and double meanings. I swear you could turn even a discussion about the weather or this Turkish carpet beneath our feet into something quite vulgar.”

  His mouth tilted into a thoroughly wicked smile. “Would you like me to?”

  “No!”

  “Your Grace, I can hardly see how making the simple comment that I enjoy other pursuits besides reading could be misconstrued as vulgar.” Markham placed a hand upon his chest. “You wound me.”

  “What rot. It’s not what you say exactly.” Georgie paused as past conversations about swiving, tongue lashings and spanking sprang into her mind and she amended, “Well, sometimes it is... But more often than not, it’s how you say things.”

  Markham raised his eyebrows. “How I say it?”

  “I will not explain further as you know precisely what I mean.” She threw her hands up in the air. “If you are not going to converse properly with me, perhaps we should just play chess after all.”

  He grinned. “I knew you would succumb eventually.”

  “See? You— Oh, I give up.” Now Markham had turned her into an inarticulate dolt. Clutching her shawl tightly about herself, she stalked over to the chess table that was set in an alcove by one of the windows. She’d play a game—and hopefully bring the conceited, frustrating so-and-so down a peg or two—perhaps stay for tea and toast or whatever else arrived, then beat a retreat to her bedchamber. She was certain to have a megrim coming on that would last until Jonathon returned.

  Before Markham could assist her with her chair, she sat down and picked up one of the finely carved, blond wooden pawns directly in front of her. Boxwood perhaps. “Is it a Calvert?” she asked as she reached for a glossy, red knight from the other side, p
robably rosewood.

  “You have a good eye,” remarked Markham as he sat down opposite her.

  “Teddy has... had one.” Keeping her gaze lowered, she returned Markham’s piece to its rightful place before replacing her pawn. She didn’t want to look up and see compassion in his eyes again. Not only would it bring on another wave of sadness, she suspected it would make her regard Markham ‘more favorably’ as he’d put it earlier. And she still wasn’t sure if that was a good idea.

  When Markham didn’t say anything else, she murmured, “The style of the pieces is very distinctive.” Despite her best efforts to remain impassive, her voice cracked a little.

  “I can see you miss Teddy terribly, Duchess,” Markham said softly. “Did you play chess with him often?”

  Georgie needlessly straightened her king and queen as bittersweet memories flooded her mind. “Yes... He used to say it was one of the few games he could actually beat me at.” She took a deep breath and at last looked up, a falsely gay smile plastered on her face. She didn’t want to talk about her marriage anymore. Too many inconvenient questions—about Teddy, Jonathon and her past might arise. She needed to distract Markham, and quickly. “So, how good a chess player are you?”

  Interest flared in Markham’s eyes. “Good enough.”

  She maintained her smile, still pretending nonchalance. “Care to lay a wager?” It was a risky maneuver, but it was a gamble she was willing to take if it kept Markham focused on other things.