Poor, sweet Solange.
Rafe hastily pushed away the guilt and lingering sorrow that always accompanied his recollections of her and their time together. Even though their affair had been eight years ago, the way Solange had died—so unexpectedly and so brutally—it still took his breath away. Yes, it was best that he kept the manner of her passing and his pain, buried.
He’d never spoken to anyone—not even Phillip—about the horrendous circumstances.
He certainly couldn’t disclose the details to Georgie. Indeed, he was loath to share anything at all about his former life with her.
Rafe sighed deeply. He knew Georgie was curious. No, that wasn’t the right word—she was suspicious of his diplomatic activities. And rightly so. She was smart. She’d have noticed the scars upon his body. She’d already jested that he was a spy.
The problem was, if he confessed she was correct and told her all about the sorts of nefarious activities he’d really been engaged in over the years, she’d probably run a mile. He was used to redirecting the attention of both men and women alike onto topics other than himself. And for the most part, his strategies worked. But Georgie had seen through him. Her observation that he frequently used his charm to deflect inconvenient interest was quite accurate.
If she knew what he was really like. What he was capable of. The things he’d done...
Would she want anything to do with him?
No, Rafe couldn’t take the risk of letting her know everything about himself. Not when he felt like this.
He groaned and took a moment to indulge in the simple pleasure of holding Georgie in his arms. He was on the brink of falling in love. There was no point denying it. It seemed he’d completely lost control of his usually tightly reined-in emotions.
If truth be told, he’d almost let slip how he'd felt in the unguarded moments after his nightmare. But it was too soon to confess such things. He doubted Georgie would believe him. Not yet. It would take time for her to have complete faith in him. To let him into her heart.
But how was he to win her trust and love when he couldn’t be totally honest with her?
Rafe’s jaw tightened. Face it, man. Your bloody past will always be a thorn in your side—a filthy, cankerous burr that you must keep hidden.
Georgie stirred a little, pulling him away from his dark, circuitous and altogether frustrating thoughts. He brushed her tumbling curls away from her face; her cheeks were adorably flushed with sleep and her breath sighed in and out of her slightly parted, oh-so kissable lips. She looked vulnerable and alluring in equal measure.
And he needed her.
He cupped her face with deliberate delicacy and kissed her gently, rousing her from slumber. When she kissed him back, he smiled, against her lips.
Even if he couldn’t tell her, he would clearly demonstrate exactly how he felt before she left Rivergate.
When Rafe took a seat in the morning room with a laden breakfast plate an hour and a half later, he caught himself grinning like a besotted boy. Indeed, when he’d returned to his own rooms to attend to his usual morning ablutions, his valet had even had to prompt him to stop smiling during his shave.
Now, as Rafe attacked his eggs, bacon and grilled kidneys with relish, he regretted not inviting Georgie to take breakfast with him. She’d fallen into a light doze after he’d made slow, delicious love to her, and he’d been reluctant to wake her. He assumed she’d probably send for a tray in her room when she did eventually rise. Even though a scant half-hour had past since he’d left her bed, he realized he already missed her.
He shook his head. Besotted indeed.
He’d begun to glance over yesterday’s broadsheets for any vaguely interesting stories he might have missed—the rain had eased somewhat, but the roadway was obviously still cut as this morning’s deliveries and post hadn’t arrived—when the door clicked open and Georgie stepped into the room. Dressed in a simple, lavender blue morning gown, she looked as fresh and lovely as a rain-washed sky in spring.
His blood thrumming with anticipation, he immediately stood and bowed. “Your Grace.”
Her answering smile was radiant. “Lord Markham. I am rather hoping that you will not mind some company as you partake breakfast this morning.”
“Of course not. I would be honored if you joined me.”
After Georgie had selected a simple repast of a roll, butter and marmalade from the buffet, she chose the seat at the opposite end of the cherrywood dining table. As one of the attendant footmen served her hot chocolate, Rafe rued his decision to staff Rivergate so well. Breakfast rolls and hot chocolate be damned. If they were alone, he would have loved nothing more than to ravish her upon the very table that separated them.
“I hope I am not disturbing you, my lord.” Georgie was studying his face, a slight frown of concern creasing her forehead.
Rafe obviously hadn’t hidden his scowl of annoyance as well as he’d thought and quickly replaced it with a smile. “Not at all. I apologize for my less than hospitable manner. I was silently lamenting the abysmal state of the weather. I’m afraid our activities will be confined to the indoors.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I dare say we shall be able to entertain ourselves one way or another.”
A faint blush stained Georgie’s cheeks as she darted furtive glances to the apparently disinterested footmen by the door and buffet respectively before her gaze returned to his. Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “No doubt,” she replied smoothly enough. “I would be particularly interested to hear more about your adventures abroad. I’m certain you have many interesting tales of derring-do to share.”
Touché. “Indeed I do, Your Grace.” Rafe was going to have to regale her with some of his tried-and-true—and largely fabricated—stories in an attempt to quell her persistent curiosity. He didn’t want to lie to her, but it appeared that he must.
“So...” She took a sip of her hot chocolate before pinning him with a sharp look. “Given your French is quite impeccable, it would seem that at some point you have spent time in France or its territories. Perhaps the Caribbean or Saint-Domingue? Pardon me, I should say Haiti.”
“Nowhere as exotic as Haiti I assure you.” Rafe let the silence stretch as he sipped his coffee. Georgie’s keen scrutiny continued; her head was tilted to the side and her frown had grown deeper. He was evidently still a mystery she was intent on solving.
With a sigh, Rafe placed his cup down and pushed aside a fresh pang of guilt. Perhaps a tale or two about his long ago affaire with the fictitious French émigré, Solange, the Comtesse de Fougères would suffice; he most certainly wouldn’t reveal his former lover had really been the wife of a man named Duchamp, one of old Boney’s generals. But relating any cock-and-bull story about Solange would have to wait until they were at least out of earshot of the staff. For now he would tell her something that approximated the truth.
“In actual fact, most of my French was acquired in the schoolroom at Avonmore Park,” he offered with one of his most charming smiles. “My father insisted my brother and I receive expert tuition in several languages from quite a young age. Our French tutor, Monsieur Bastien was actually an émigré—”
Over the ever-present patter of the rain against the windows came the distinct sound of carriage wheels crunching upon the gravel drive.
“Jonathon.” Georgie discarded her napkin and sprang to her feet before rushing from the room. Rafe followed her out to the terrace and sure enough, the duchess’s carriage had halted before the stairs. Two of Rivergate’s footmen waited nearby with umbrellas at the ready.
“Hey ho, sis, did you miss me?” called a grinning Jonathon as he alighted and took one of the proffered umbrellas. Lord Farley followed before assisting his aunt, Lady Talbot, and then his sister, Lady Lucinda, to alight also.
Damn. Rafe pushed down an exasperated sigh. So much for having Georgie all to myself.
“You know I missed you,” replied Georgie when her brother reached the shelter of the portico. She steppe
d forward and clasped his hand. “If truth be told, I was worried to the point of being quite ill. What if you had been caught in flood waters?”
Discarding his umbrella, Jonathon leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You are such a peagoose sometimes, Georgie-bean,” he said with an affectionate smile. “You had nothing to worry about. I would never have let Benson drive me into harm’s way. And I must say, the White Swan Inn where we holed up for the night does a splendid pie. We must stop there on the way home so you can sample one.” His gaze shifted past her to Rafe and his smile became impish. “I trust that you have been taking good care of my sister.”
Georgie’s mouth flattened as a bright red blush stained her cheeks. “Jonathon...” Her voice was tinged with warning.
Impudent sod. I’m sure you’d rather not know... Rafe struggled to keep his expression neutral as he inclined his head. “Of course. But I might add, it’s very good to see you have arrived safe and sound.”
At that moment, Lord Farley, his sister and their aunt all appeared at the top of the stairs. After Rafe welcomed his newly arrived guests to Rivergate, they all moved into the vestibule. Damp coats, hats and gloves were quickly discarded, and then as the housekeeper and butler began to arrange for everyone to be shown to their rooms, Jonathon approached him. The man’s affable expression had disappeared. “A quick word if you wouldn’t mind, Markham.”
Rafe glanced over Jonathon’s shoulder but Georgie didn’t seem to have noticed their brief exchange; she was chatting animatedly to Lady Lucinda as they followed Lord Farley and Lady Talbot into the main hall.
“What is it?” he asked. Jonathon’s expression had turned grave and a sensation of foreboding slid over him. “Is it to do with Georgiana?”
Jonathon ran a hand through his damp brown hair. “Look, it could be nothing at all. But...”
“Out with it, man.”
Jonathon blew out a sigh. “This morning, just after I’d settled the account at the White Swan, I couldn’t help but notice that the next customer who approached the innkeeper was a foreigner. A tall man with dark hair who spoke with a marked accent—very guttural sounding, perhaps Germanic. Not that I’m any great judge. But what caught my interest the most was that he sought directions to Rivergate. After Georgie’s incident last week, and your subsequent concern, I just thought it rather peculiar.”
Christ. Rafe’s blood turned to ice. “Did you catch his name or get a good look at his face? Question him about his interest in Rivergate?”
“Well, no.” The expression in Jonathon’s eyes suddenly hardened. “Are you meaning to tell me that Georgie is in danger?” He gripped Rafe’s arm with surprising force. “Do you know this man? And is there something I should know about him? Or more importantly, about you?”
“Honestly, I have no idea who he is or his agenda,” Rafe replied grimly. “But to answer your last question, ask me anything at all and I will do my level best to give you a straight answer.”
Jonathon released his arm and snorted. “That’s the response of a silver-tongued diplomat if ever I heard one. Phillip and Helena seem to trust you implicitly, but now, I’m not so sure. Georgie was right. You are hiding something.”
Rafe inclined his head. “Your concern is duly noted. But please, you can be rest assured that my intentions toward your sister always have been, and continue to be nothing but honorable. I would never let anything, or anyone harm her.”
Jonathon scowled. “Well, I should bloody well hope so.” He moved away, heading for the hall. “We will talk later.”
Rafe’s mouth tightened. “Of course.”
When Jonathon had disappeared from view, Rafe ordered one of the footmen to have his horse readied before he, too, headed to his own rooms to change into suitable wet weather riding attire. Enough was enough. It seemed the viper had at last stuck its head out of the undergrowth.
And if Rafe had to, he would strike it off.
Nearly three hours later, Rafe returned to Rivergate, soaking wet, in a temper as foul as the weather, and essentially none the wiser. Except for one thing. The stranger had given his name to the innkeeper, a name that must be false—Herr Scherzfrage; its literal translation was Mr. Riddle. And of course, there was no guarantee that his stalker was actually Prussian, German, Austrian or even Swiss for that matter.
There was no doubt in Rafe’s mind that he’d been sent a message—I’m watching you but you don’t know who I am. Scherzfrage or Riddle was clearly toying with him. And his gut told him this was for personal reasons. A vendetta as the Italian’s would say. But why?
One thing was clear to Rafe, this was only an early move in this man’s sinister game. And he didn’t like it, not one little bit.
The White Swan’s staff had also revealed that ‘Riddle’ hadn’t taken a room; he’d dined on simple fare in the main taproom before swapping his hired mount with another from the inn’s stables. He was reported to be well-dressed, polite, moderately attractive (according to one of the innkeeper’s daughters at any rate) with eyes of an unremarkable color, perhaps light gray or blue—which meant Rafe still hadn’t a clue who he might be. Sadly, his mental list of foreign men, dark-haired or otherwise, who might wish to exact revenge upon him was almost too long to contemplate. But then, Riddle could always be an Englishman who’d adopted a foreign guise. And it was easy enough to use paste in one’s hair to mask the color. The fellow could easily be a blond Swede or a red-headed Scotsman for all he knew.
In the murky world of espionage, nothing was too far-fetched to contemplate.
The ostler hadn’t noted which way Riddle had gone and the imposter hadn’t mentioned his destination either. Once Rafe had established that much, he’d then spent the next hour kicking himself as he conducted surveillance of the road leading to Rivergate and the perimeter of his property. What a fool he’d been not to have brought some of his own men from London to undertake this sort of activity. Instead of being ensconced before the fire with Georgie in his arms, he was soaked through, half-frozen and taut as a garotte rope.
When it was evident his scouting exercise was all but useless—he hadn’t even spied a single squirrel in the woodland behind Rivergate—Rafe headed for the house. Entering the vestibule, he summoned his butler, Spencer, and issued instructions to the effect that a pair of footmen must be stationed at each of Rivergate’s entrances—three in total—at all times, and that no one fitting Herr Scherzfrage’s description was to be admitted.
Even though Rafe had regretted having a surfeit of servants earlier in the day, he definitely wasn’t regretting the fact now. As an added precaution, he also ordered that the front gate was to be secured, and all visitors had to be vetted by an armed male staff member stationed within the gatehouse. And if Scherzfrage, did make an appearance, he was to be alerted immediately, no matter the time of day or night.
Satisfied that he’d done all he could feasibly do to keep Riddle at bay for the moment, Rafe at long last mounted the stairs and headed straight for his rooms. A change into dry clothes and a brandy-laced coffee were definitely in order before he sought out Georgie. And once he found her, he would not leave her side. His instincts still told him Riddle wasn’t only stalking him.
“Markham. I mean, Rafe. Is everything all right?"
Georgie.
The duchess rose from the window seat that was directly opposite the door to his suite. Her forehead pleated into a deep frown as her gaze traveled over his sorry appearance. He dared not think that she’d actually missed him or had been concerned for his safety.
“You’ve been gone for hours,” she continued when he didn’t immediately respond. “Your butler—Spencer, isn’t it?—mentioned you had some sudden business to attend to.”
Rafe swiped a rivulet of water from his nose before summoning a grin. “It seems there is no rest for the wicked.”
Georgie approached him and grasped his arm. “You jest, but I sense there is something wrong.”
Jonathon clearly hadn’t told his s
ister about crossing paths with Riddle. “Mr. Chapel from Lowood House sent word that perhaps the river had broken its banks toward Twickenham,” he lied. “Given we are not far away, I wanted to see for myself. But do not be concerned. Everything is well.”
“I see...” Her narrow-eyed expression told him she was not convinced. “Well...” She stepped away, suddenly looking uncertain, as if she’d only just noticed they were both standing by the door to his room and he’d been dripping all over her skirts. “I’d best leave so you can change your attire.”
“Care to help?”
A deep rosy blush spread over Georgie’s cheeks but nevertheless, she smiled. “If my brother and the rest of your guests hadn’t arrived, I would be very tempted to oblige. But perhaps there is something else I can do for you? Send up tea?”
Rafe took a step toward her and reached for her hand, drawing her close again. “I don’t need tea. I need this.” He bent his head and kissed her, his lips and tongue caressing her mouth with such slow, gentle thoroughness it made his own head spin; it was a tender yet calculated kiss bestowed with one sole intention: to make her breathless with a yearning that matched his own.
When he drew back, her eyes fluttered open and he was pleased to see she looked a little dazed. “We have not had an opportunity to talk privately since your brother and the other guests arrived,” he murmured, brushing her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers. “Please say you will let me come to your room tonight.”
“I would like that,” Georgie replied in such a delightfully husky voice, it made him want to make love to her all the more. “I will dismiss my maid again.”
He smiled. “Good.” He feathered a light kiss over knuckles before reluctantly releasing her hand. “I will meet you in the drawing room in half an hour.”
“Yes.” She turned to go, but after taking only a few steps away from him, swung back. “Rafe, you would tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?”
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 20