The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  The moment one of his long fingers slid between her wet folds and unerringly found her throbbing core, the only sound that left her lips was an inarticulate moan. Touching herself had felt glorious, but this... This feeling was sublime. Sweet Lord, why had she resisted this amazing man for so long?

  Markham lowered his head and began feasting on her breasts again, and all the while his clever fingers circled and stroked, expertly building the hot, sweet tension inside her. Her inner passage began to wind tighter and tighter. So tight. And then somehow, everything went wrong.

  A noise—a log falling in the grate—made her jump at the very moment Markham slid a finger deep inside her. She gasped at the unexpected intrusion, her sheath clenching in protest. And her pleasure began to ebb away. No. Oh no… Don’t think, Georgie.

  “Your Grace,” Markham withdrew and caught her gaze; a deep frown creased his brow. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  Georgie shook her head. “No. You just took me by surprise. It has been such a very long time since…” She closed her eyes, determined not to revisit her last time. Shut it out. Don’t think of him. Not his name, not anything. There’s only Markham. She forced a smile and reached past the tangle of her rucked up skirts to Markham’s hand that now rested on her thigh. “It’s all right. I want... What you were doing before, I want that.”

  “This?” Markham bent forward and placed a tender, almost chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth as he renewed his erotic finger-play between her thighs.

  “Yes,” Georgie whispered and closed her eyes. But it was no good. It didn’t matter what Markham did—kiss her mouth, her neck, pleasure her breasts, circle or rub or stroke any part of her quim—or how much she tried to empty her mind and relax, rekindling the spark of desire within her was a hopeless exercise. Her body had become as unresponsive as one of the lumps of wood stacked in the pile beside the fireplace. Bone dry and completely lifeless.

  Georgie’s stomach knotted with humiliation and bitter disappointment. Hot tears stung the back of her eyelids and she crammed a fist to her mouth to stop a sob escaping. Oh God, even Markham can’t help me. I can’t bear it.

  “Georgiana?” Markham’s fingers stilled. He’d obviously noticed something was amiss. How could he not? The evidence of her desire had all but dried up.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” Georgie swallowed, trying in vain to dislodge the hard lump of embarrassed anguish jamming her throat, but there was no disguising the fact that her voice was thick with tears. Pushing Markham’s hand away, she sat up, twisting away from him.

  “I did hurt you.” The rich timbre of Markham’s voice was tinged with remorse.

  “No. You didn’t. It’s not anything like that. Or you.” Her fingers trembling, her movements frantic, Georgie clumsily jerked her clothing back into place. “It’s definitely not you.”

  “Well then, if you’re worried about becoming pregnant if we take things further, I swear I’ll take care so that won’t happen.” The touch of Markham’s hand on her shoulder made her flinch. He must have felt her recoil as he immediately let go. “I’m sorry if you thought—”

  “Please. Don’t apologize.” Somehow Georgie found the strength to stand. She couldn’t look at Markham. Instead, she simply tried to concentrate on doing up her bodice. Tears dripped onto her fingers. “I need to go.”

  “Georgie.” Markham stood and tried to catch her hand but she snatched it away.

  “Don’t.” Still unable to meet Markham’s gaze, she stepped away, heading toward the door. The gathering ache in her throat was almost unbearable. “Just let me go. This. You and I. It was a mistake. God knows, I tried to tell you as much last week.”

  “No.” Markham closed the short distance between them and grasped her by the shoulders. “Look at me. Talk to me. I can’t let you leave like this, Georg—”

  “Don’t call me that! I’ve never given you permission to use my name,” Georgie snapped, wrenching herself away. It was a completely ridiculous thing to say given the liberties she’d let Markham take with her body only moments ago, but right now, blind anger was the only thing stopping her from dissolving into a blithering mess upon the floor at his feet. “And don’t follow me.”

  She bolted for the door and as it slammed behind her, the flood of scalding tears she’d only just been keeping at bay, gushed forth. She’d meant it when she’d told Markham she needed to go. She couldn’t stay at Rivergate. Not now.

  Ignoring the gaping footman in the hall, Georgie made a dash for the vestibule and the front door.

  Chapter 10

  Christ, I’m a fool.

  Rafe stared at the gleaming mahogany panels of the library door—the door Georgie had soundly slammed on him—then dropped his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to control his ragged breathing and riotous thoughts.

  No, I’m wrong. I’m worse than a fool. I’m an arrogant, selfish arse, too busy thinking with my cock instead of using my brain.

  He knew Georgie had been deeply hurt by Lord Craven, but he’d been too quick to dismiss her initial reluctance to share any degree of intimacy with him. A reluctance that was no doubt, entirely justified.

  No, reluctance wasn’t the right word. It was more than that. In the moments just before Georgie had fled the library, Rafe had sensed deep-seated anxiety, perhaps even fear within her. Bitter anger and despair. The same emotions that had flared up during their fraught encounter at the Latimers’ last week. Yet on both occasions, he’d callously disregarded her apprehension and like an inept, horny adolescent, he’d charged in anyway. God, he’d even thoughtlessly quipped her propriety was self-imposed.

  But it wasn’t.

  Be honest with yourself, man. You didn’t want to consider the full ramifications of what might have befallen Georgiana at Craven’s hands because it didn’t suit your prick’s agenda.

  Shame welled within Rafe’s chest as he contemplated how his own roughshod indifference had hurt Georgie. He knew at least on some level she desired him. The sweet, breathy moans that had escaped her as he’d pleasured her wet quim were clear enough evidence. But when he’d entered her, her arousal had died almost immediately. And she’d been devastated.

  One thing was certain, whatever fragile trust Georgie had previously placed in him, it was now shattered. Although she’d stated he didn’t need to apologize for anything, the pain in her voice, in her tear-filled eyes—he couldn’t help but feel responsible. He’d pushed Georgie too far, too fast without due care or regard. What he’d done was unconscionable.

  Rafe dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Standing about mentally flagellating himself wasn’t going to repair the damage he’d done. He needed a clear head. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his groin, he crossed over to the cabinet beside his desk and poured himself a good measure of the strongest, peatiest whisky he owned, then downed it in one gulp. The alcohol burned his gullet, but ironically it also helped him to regain control of his body as well as master the dark and turbulent emotions still roiling around inside him. Stow your lust, guilt and thirst for vengeance, Markham. They won’t help Georgiana.

  Rafe tossed back another whisky then proceeded to remove his loosened cravat. The memory of Georgie wild with desire, tugging at the linen to get to his skin suddenly filled his mind. Yes, she definitely wanted him. However, even after a decade, her past—whatever Craven had done to her—it was still holding her captive. He’d stake his life on it.

  With a plan already taking shape in his mind, Rafe strode to the library door, determined to find Georgie. As he suspected the hall was deserted; she’d probably retreated to her room. He headed for the staircase.

  If Georgie needed more time to feel comfortable with the idea of being with him, she could have it. Indeed, after leading the life of a spy for near on a decade, patience was one attribute he possessed in spades. He most certainly wasn’t going to give up on her now, not after he’d tasted such sweetness in her arms. He would have her. No matter how long it took.<
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  “My lord.”

  Frowning, Rafe turned around to find one of his footmen hovering in the vestibule. The lad’s brow was also creased with a deep frown.

  “Yes, Harris?”

  The footman swallowed. “Ah, it’s probably not my place to say anything, but the duchess… After she left the library, I saw her rush out of the front door, my lord.”

  What? Surely not.

  Rafe shot a look past the footman to the half open door. Rain still teemed down in buckets. Christ, was Georgie that upset that she’d decided to bolt altogether?

  “Did you see which way she went? Did she take a coat?” Rafe’s voice was harsher than he intended but sharp panic was shooting through his veins.

  Harris blushed a little. “I didn’t like to pry, my lord. But no, she didn’t take a coat. However, I did see her turn toward the portico stairs on the left. I don’t know why, but I thought she might be headed for the stables.”

  One glance at the footman told a different story. His periwig, the broadcloth upon his shoulders and the emerald satin of his waistcoat were rain-splattered. He’d no doubt followed the duchess at least part of the way, but Rafe wasn’t about to berate him at this point for that or his slight variation upon the truth. He liked to think the man was motivated by concern rather than the desire to collect a tidbit of salacious gossip to share with the other staff. But he would have to deal with that later.

  Rafe thanked Harris then dashed out to the portico and down the stairs into the driving sheets of freezing rain. There was no sign of Georgie on the drive. And it was rapidly growing dark. He could barely see the gates or the Thames beyond.

  Jesus, what was the woman thinking? Would she really attempt to leave in these conditions? Heart already thundering against the wall of his chest, he broke into a flat out run, heading toward the rear of Rivergate where the stables were located. She only had a ten-minute head start on him at most. He had to believe that given the appalling weather, she wouldn’t venture far, if indeed she dared to venture out at all.

  Perhaps that depends on how desperate she is. Anxiety and guilt might be twisting his guts, but one single thought dominated Rafe’s brain. I have to find her.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Georgie bit her lip to stop the course expletive escaping from her frozen lips. The precious minutes she needed to make good her escape were fast slipping away and there was nothing much she could do about it. Blinking away tears of frustration, she continued with her all but useless attempt to tighten the bridle on one of her own carriage horses. But her numb, wet fingers shook so much, she couldn’t manage it. She glanced around the dimly lit stables, hoping beyond hope that there might be an acquiescent stable lad lurking about in the shadows who might help her, but aside from the occasional equine snuffle and soft whicker, nothing else and no one stirred.

  Georgie let out a shaky sigh. There was nothing for it, she was going to have to ready the horse all by herself. She was already soaked to the bone so taking a ride through the rain to find an alternative place to stay for the night was a small price to pay if it meant she didn’t have to face Markham again. There must be some other lane or thoroughfare she could take that would lead her to the White Swan. At the very least she could entreat the owner of Lowood House—Mr. Chapel if she recalled correctly—to accommodate her until it was safe to cross or get word to Jonathon.

  She was definitely not going back inside Rivergate. The thought of seeing Markham again filled her with such mortification and dread, her cheeks burned despite her half-frozen state.

  With the bridle now as secure as she could make it, Georgie rushed from the stall to search for a saddle. There. Along the back wall was an array of neatly arranged tack items. The traitorous head groom had disappeared as soon as she’d requested that her second carriage be readied for her—the one that had conveyed her maid, Jonathon’s valet and most of their luggage—but instead of doing her bidding, the man had given her a strange look before informing her the traces were broken and needed repairing. And before Georgie could even draw breath to order him to find her own carriage driver, he’d promptly left—and she was in no doubt he’d summon his employer... which meant she probably only had a few more minutes before Markham appeared to try and stop her.

  Surely you can saddle a horse, Georgie. How hard can it be?

  She spied a sidesaddle on a rack and attempted to hoist it up. However, her numb fingers and trembling arms clad in wet, slippery silk couldn’t manage the hefty leather bulk and she immediately dropped it into the straw at her feet. Cursing, she bent down and somehow dragged it up again then headed back to her horse’s stall. Perhaps sensing her anxiety, the beast was restive and moved way from her when she attempted to throw the saddle over his back. It fell again and this time it landed on one of her slipper-shod feet. A sharp stab of pain assailed her and she cried out as another wave of tears scalded her eyes.

  This is hopeless. And completely mad. What on earth am I doing? Pulling her foot free, Georgie hobbled into a vacant stall before gingerly lowering herself into the hay to inspect the damage. The light was poor and her stocking was torn, wet and filthy, but as she carefully probed her throbbing flesh, she ascertained her foot was only bruised. How fitting she thought. It will match my bruised pride just nicely.

  Her whole body quaking with cold and misery, Georgie drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head forward. Unless the earth suddenly cracked open and swallowed her up, it was time to face the painful truth. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Your Grace?” Rafe pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and squinted into the gloomy interior of the stables, scanning the shadows for Georgie. There was no immediate sign of her but he was not discouraged. On his headlong dash here, he’d run into the head groom who’d informed him that the duchess was indeed in the stables. And she’d requested a carriage.

  Rafe took a few steps farther inside and stopped to listen. Above the insistent tattoo of the rain upon the roof, he could just hear something else—the sound of a woman quietly weeping. Bloody hell. His heart clenched at the thought he’d caused Georgiana so much distress. He prayed she wouldn’t flatly refuse to speak with him. But he suspected she very well might.

  He grabbed a nearby lantern then advanced forward, checking each stall to right and left until midway along, he found her. Huddled in a dark corner, she sat with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around her knees. The sight of her brought so low pierced his heart with another sharp stab of guilt.

  He cleared his throat to ease a sudden feeling of constriction. “Your Grace?” he repeated.

  Georgie lifted her head slightly and swiped at her eyes. Rafe could barely see her face through the tumble of her sodden brown hair. “Leave me alone, Markham. I’ll be all right.” Her voice might be husky with tears but there was no mistaking the authority in her tone.

  “Perhaps.” Rafe placed the lantern on a hook by the entrance before approaching her. “But I am not sure that I will be.”

  He shrugged off his wool coat—at least it was relatively dry inside—and slid to the hay strewn floor beside her. “You’re cold,” he said softly as he placed the garment over her quaking body. He was heartened when she pulled it around herself rather than ordering him away again.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You’re welcome.” Rafe risked placing his arm around Georgie’s shoulders and when she leaned against him, he permitted himself a shaky sigh of relief. “It’s the least I can do.” Georgie might have hidden behind her cards, her title, her frosty glares and sharp quips and a marriage of convenience for a long, long time, but she couldn’t hide from him. He wouldn’t let her. “We need to talk.”

  Georgie shrugged then sighed deeply. “Talking won’t make things better.”

  Her tone was so dejected, Rafe wanted to pull her into his arms and hug her fiercely to his chest, then kiss away all her fears and doubts. But he didn’t. He needed to proceed carefully so he simply murmured,
“It cannot hurt.”

  She didn’t respond, however, Rafe noticed her shivering had started to ease. Taking this as a good sign, he ventured, “I have one question for you, Your Grace. Why did you let me kiss you? The first time we met.”

  “Are you fishing for compliments now, Markham?”

  Rafe smiled. That was better, her spirit wasn’t entirely gone. “No, not at all. While I sense that you are as deeply attracted to me as I am to you, I just want to make absolutely certain that you feel the same way.”

  “How I feel hardly matters,” she said bleakly.

  “Of course it does. I know exactly why I kissed you that night. And why I want you. Despite what you might think, I believe we could be very good together.”

  Silence. Georgie’s head remained bent and Rafe could have sworn she was holding her breath.

  “Will you not answer me?” he asked gently.

  Georgie’s voice when it emerged was the merest whisper. “I hardly know the reason myself. You... you are different to any other man I have ever met.”

  “How so?”

  She raised her head and roughly wiped the tears from her eyes before looking at him. “You aren’t intimidated by me for one thing.”

  It wasn’t an acknowledgement of her attraction to him, but it was a start. And what she’d just admitted was very true—Rafe wasn’t intimidated. But while that may be so, he was currently suffering from a bout of gut-churning nervousness when he contemplated how she would react to his next course of action. It was a gamble, but he was going to take it anyway. He drew a fortifying breath. “I know all about your past—”

  Georgie gasped and her whole body stiffened as if she’d been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water. “What? Whatever do you mean?” she demanded, pulling herself away from him. “Explain yourself.”

  Rafe met her furious gaze. “I know your marriage to Darby was in name only. I know how things really were between your husband and your brother... And I know about that bastard Craven.”