The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Every time Georgie recalled that moment, her whole body tingled with warmth and a thrill that went beyond mere happiness. It was joy. She now wasn’t afraid to admit to herself that she loved Rafe and she instinctively knew he felt the same way. Even if he hadn’t made a declaration yet. Or revealed all of his secrets.

  Georgie smiled to herself as she slipped her fingers beneath the velvet of her cloak and touched the delicate, teardrop shaped gemstones resting just below her collarbone. Secrets—his and her own—didn’t matter to her anymore. Not when she felt like this. Before this night was through, she would confess her feelings to Rafe. And she had no doubt he would reciprocate.

  She closed her eyes as another rush of excitement warmed her from the top of her head to the very tips of her toes. The thought of Rafe telling her that he loved her made her pulse race and her heart soar. She suddenly couldn’t wait to meet him inside. To feel the caress of his hot gaze and the press of his hard body against hers as they waltzed. To hear him whispering wicked, yet wholly welcome suggestions in her ear. He’d planned to arrive with Phillip and Helena, for appearance’s sake.

  After tonight, she knew she would not care about maintaining appearances any longer.

  “Georgie? I swear being in love has turned you into an addlepate.”

  Georgie turned her head to look up at her brother. Even though Jonathon’s expression was somewhat obscured by a black, crimson and gold Harlequin style mask, a nearby gas lamp cast sufficient light for her to catch the twinkle of fond amusement in his eyes. “My apologies,” she said, offering him a smile. His teasing didn’t bother her in the slightest. And it wasn’t as if she could deny what he’d just said. “Ask me again.”

  “Do you, by any chance, have our invitation?” He patted the pockets within his evening jacket and black wool cloak. “I could have sworn I had it with me.”

  Georgie checked inside her ivory silk and crystal beaded reticule. “No, I’m afraid I do not. Did you leave it in the carriage?”

  Jonathon swore under his breath. “Yes. I left it on the seat. It seems I’m an addlepate as well.” He clasped her gloved hand between his. “Georgie, I’m so sorry, but we’re going to have to relinquish our place in the queue so I can retrieve our invitation. I don’t know Derwent or his wife that well, and with so many guests, I doubt the attending footmen will admit us without it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “I will stay here and mind our place. I am sure you will only be gone a minute or two at most.” She peered around the broad-shouldered bulk of the tall gentleman in front of her to better view the receiving line. “It will take at least another five minutes for us to reach the bottom of the stairs in front of Derwent House.”

  Jonathon’s mouth flattened with concern. “Hmm. I really don’t think this is a good ide—”

  “Just go.” Georgie gave him a gentle prod in the ribs. “We are in Berkeley Square and I am surrounded by members of the ton. I will be fine.”

  “All right, then.” He shook a finger at her. “But do not, under any circumstances, talk to strangers. And do not tell Markham. You know he will kill me.”

  Georgie laughed softly. “I am not a babe in the woods. And you’re wasting time. Hurry up.”

  Jonathon disappeared into the milling crowd behind them; she suspected he’d head toward the adjacent mews or one of the other nearby thoroughfares in an attempt to locate their carriage. Hopefully, he would return before she reached the front door.

  A sudden gust of chill wind tore at her hair, cloak and ivory silk skirts, and the black satin domino of the man in front of her whipped dangerously close to her face. Pulling her own cloak tightly about herself, she attempted to step back a pace, but was hindered by the close proximity of the elderly couple directly behind her. Deep in conversation with another party of three—a pretty young woman in a pink muslin gown and matching mask and a middle-aged couple, her parents perhaps—they all seemed oblivious to her plight. And then before she could even draw a breath to politely ask them to move a little, the man before her stepped back, the heel of his black leather shoe crushing the toes of her right foot. Georgie’s cry was little more than a strangled gasp as white-hot agony knifed through her foot. Breathless with the pain, she clutched at the man’s arm, frantically trying to push him forward. Away from her.

  Without warning, he swung around and seized her by the shoulders. “You should be more careful, Your Grace.” His voice was a low growl, his speech heavily accented. His leering Pulcinella half-mask in no way obscured the malice glittering in his pale eyes or the hard sneer contorting the line of his mouth. She knew who he was even if she didn’t know his name.

  Oh, God. Georgie sucked in a breath to scream but he clamped a hand over her mouth then crushed her face into his chest, effectively smothering her and cutting off her sight. Why hasn’t anyone noticed what he’s doing? And what in God’s name does he want with me?

  The press of something hard and sharp beneath her left breast made her blood freeze. Her heart stuttered. A blade.

  “Do not utter a sound and do not move unless I tell you to,” he hissed into her ear.

  Despite the almost paralyzing fear gripping her body, blistering anger suddenly seared through Georgie’s veins. No. I will not let this happen. Never again.

  Drawing in another shallow breath, she jerked her head and sank her teeth into the gloved fingers that cruelly covered her mouth. As hard as she could.

  “Blyad!” The foreigner released his hold on her face and she screamed.

  Chaos erupted around them.

  Heads turned and other women shrieked as Georgie poured every bit of air from her lungs into the longest and loudest ear-splitting scream she could manage. With a grunt, her assailant shoved her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her; although dark spots peppered her vision, and a strange squeezing pain gripped her chest, she caught a glimpse of her attacker dashing toward the park in the center of the square; the dark shadows of the plane trees swallowed him up within seconds. The elderly couple, now white-faced, had backed away, but the young woman in the pink gown and her parents knelt down beside her.

  “Are you injured?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Did that man hurt you?”

  “Someone summon the Bow Street Runners.”

  Georgie, shaking and still gasping for air like a fish out of water, ignored the barrage of questions from the gathering crowd of onlookers as she attempted to sit up a little straighter. She’d landed on her bottom, her arms outstretched behind her. She supposed it was fortunate that she’d decided not to care about appearances.

  Then a vaguely familiar face materialized in front of her. She shook her head and then blinked attempting to clear her hazy vision. Then she realized her silver filigree mask had slipped over her eyes. She tugged it off. “Lumsden?” she wheezed, still short of breath. Dudley House’s new footman, clothed in a greatcoat, and an ordinary shirt, waistcoat and breeches instead of his livery, squatted beside her. “I almost... didn’t recognize you... without your wig. What... are you doing here?” Perkins had accompanied them tonight. It was Lumsden’s evening off.

  “Yes, it is me, Your Grace,” he confirmed, ignoring her other questions. “Are you hurt?”

  Georgie shook her head. “No... I don’t think so.” Apart from being winded, having crushed toes, a wet and bruised backside and a ruined gown, no other damage had been done.

  The young man smiled reassuringly. “Good to hear. Would you like me to help you up? I’m sure your brother is somewhere hereabouts.”

  She swallowed and grimaced. Her throat was dry and raw from screaming. “Yes. Thank you.”

  No sooner had she regained her feet, Jonathon appeared at her side, puffing as if he’d run a mile. “Good God! Georgiana,” he gasped as he took her arm. “Was that you...? Screaming? What happened?”

  “The man in front of us—me—it was the same man who ran into me at Latimer House.” Georgie began. “He tried to—”r />
  “Georgiana?”

  Rafe. Georgie didn’t resist as he pulled her into his arms. She sagged against him, winding her fingers into the lapels of his evening jacket, breathing in his familiar scent. His chest was heaving as if he’d been running also. Tears of pure relief pricked the back of her eyelids.

  “Thank God, you’re all right,” he whispered against her temple, hugging her even closer.

  Georgie only rested against him for a moment longer. Too many unanswered questions and troublesome doubts twisted and tumbled about her mind. Wanting to see Rafe’s face, she drew back a little. He wasn’t wearing a mask and she was nothing but relieved. If she never saw a masked man again, it would be too soon. “How... how did you know something had h-happened?” she asked, her voice fragile and trembling. “That I was in danger?”

  Rafe pushed a snarled curl away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “As Phillip’s carriage entered the square, I heard you scream and then I saw a man bolt for the trees. I gave chase but he jumped into a waiting hackney cab on the other side of the square, on the corner of Bruton Street.” He lowered his voice and his gaze hardened. “It was the foreigner, wasn’t it?”

  Georgie nodded. “Yes. He knows who I am. He called me, Your Grace before he tried to force me to go somewhere with him. I don’t understand what’s going on.” She searched Rafe’s face. She read concern, caring, and something else... She could have sworn it was guilt. Swallowing past the obstinate lump in her throat, she firmed her voice and said, “But you know what this is all about, don’t you?”

  Rafe released a shaky breath. “Yes.” The haunted look in his eyes frightened her almost as much as the memory of the stranger’s blade pressing against her breast. “Let me take you home. Then I will tell you everything.”

  Chapter 16

  Dudley House, Hanover Square

  Rafe tossed back his brandy in one gulp. His reliance on alcohol to quell the tempest of dark emotions rampaging inside him had become an ingrained habit over the years. While the rational part of his brain knew it was far from healthy, perhaps even destructive, tonight was not the night to wrestle with overcoming his uncontrollable need for the demon drink in times such as these—those particular moments when his inner turmoil threatened to overwhelm him. Pull him asunder.

  No, he had other, more important demons to deal with. Actually there was one in particular...

  Scherzfrage. Riddle.

  Dashkov.

  It had to be him. From Georgie’s succinct recount of the events outside Derwent House, it sounded like the viper had cursed her in Russian. Blyad. Whore. But no matter his name or his agenda. The devil had gone too far tonight. And Rafe would crush him.

  He had to. If Georgie hadn’t had the wherewithal and the guts to retaliate and scream for help... He inwardly shuddered as razor-sharp guilt sliced into his heart all over again. I should have been with her. She should not suffer because of my past mistakes.

  “Rafe?”

  The sound of Georgie’s voice pulled him out of the wild tumult of his thoughts. With an effort, he loosened the white-knuckle grip on his now empty brandy glass—he was surprised he hadn’t shattered the vessel—and placed it with deliberate care upon the mantel in Georgie’s sitting room. His drinking might be a vice, but at least it was having the desired effect; the excruciating tension within his body had begun to ease. The ferocious, red haze that had clouded his vision and played havoc with his thoughts had begun to fade.

  But no, it wasn’t just the brandy that had succeeded in calming him. If he were honest with himself, he would acknowledge that it was Georgie who soothed his tormented soul. Breathed life into his dark heart.

  Rafe ran a rough hand through his hair as he turned to look at her. They were alone; after he’d listened to both Georgie’s and her brother’s accounts in the carriage on the way back to Dudley House, he’d told Jonathon he wanted to speak with his sister in private. Jonathon hadn’t looked pleased, but Rafe had been so incensed with him for leaving Georgie alone, he didn’t give a fuck. As for his own lack of care and foresight—he should have escorted Georgie to the masquerade ball, not her brother—he doubted he’d ever be able to forgive himself.

  The woman he loved had been placed in mortal danger, and it was his fault entirely. And now he had to tell her. Cold dread chilled his blood at the mere thought of her reaction.

  Still dressed in her ruined ivory silk evening gown, Georgie perched on the edge of a brocade-covered settee, watching him with worried eyes. Yet the firm line of her mouth and her ruler straight posture suggested that beneath her apprehension, there was also a good deal of steely determination. She might be shaken, but she wouldn’t be put off in her quest to unearth the truth about him. Not this time.

  I don’t deserve her.

  “Rafe,” she prompted again. “I’ve told you everything I know about the attack. Now I want you to tell me about that man.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to deny her request. “He’s someone you know from your past, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Shedding his evening jacket, Rafe approached the settee and took a seat on the ottoman directly before her. Now that he was going to confess all to her—his dark past, his culpability for placing her in harm’s way—he wasn’t going to hide, come what may.

  “So all the years you spent abroad,” she continued with a quiet strength that he couldn’t help but admire, “you were never just a diplomat, were you?”

  “No,” he replied steadily, holding her gaze. “I was mostly involved in intelligence gathering for the Crown.”

  “In other words, you were a spy.”

  Rafe suspected Georgie wouldn’t be at all surprised by his disclosure given she had often quizzed him about the exact nature of his work over the past few weeks. “Yes,” he confirmed. “But I think you already knew that.”

  She swallowed then nodded. “Are you... are you still a spy?”

  “No. I mean to say, I’m not actively involved in that line of work any longer. I was decommissioned for want of a better way to put it, a little over a year ago. As you know, my brother passed away in September last year, and as the threat posed by Bonaparte and his army had been effectively neutralized, I returned home. There was much less of a need for the sort of investigations I conducted. But men like me...” He felt a muscle tic in his jaw. How could he put this so she’d understand? “I may have resigned, but it can be difficult for someone like me to leave the past behind. And I’m afraid that is currently the case.”

  Georgie tilted her head and her expression grew pensive. “You have enemies. Like the man who attacked me. Who is he?”

  “I have little to go on, but I believe he is Baron Viktor Ivanovich Dashkov. A Russian general and former French sympathizer. He and I crossed paths in St. Petersburg in early 1812.”

  Georgie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “But that was over four years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why has he come to London? And why am I his quarry rather than you?” Her forehead arrowed into a deep frown and her blue eyes glinted with suspicion. “What happened between you two? Is this man plotting some bizarre kind of revenge?”

  “If it is Dashkov, then yes. Revenge is most certainly on his agenda. I suspect he wants to hurt me... by hurting you.”

  “Because he thinks you care about me.” Georgie’s voice might have grown soft but her gaze didn’t waver.

  Neither did Rafe’s. “Yes.”

  “Because you hurt him or someone he cared about.”

  “His wife.”

  “Oh.” Georgie dropped her gaze to her tightly clasped hands in her lap. “You had an affair with her.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes. But it’s more complicated than that.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Georgie’s tone had a bitter edge to it and Rafe didn’t blame her in the least for feeling resentful toward him.

  He blew out a sigh. Speaking about his past liaisons—which for the
most part had been contrived affairs simply because they had helped him gain some type of ground during a mission—was going to be harder than he’d initially anticipated. Exposing his flaws—and sins—to the woman he loved, felt like one of the biggest risks he had ever taken. If she rejected him...

  Ignoring the apprehension tightening his gut, he drew in a steadying breath. “You understand that what I am about to tell you is very sensitive information. Information that has always been kept under lock and key. Indeed, only a handful of men in the Foreign Secretary’s Office have been privy to it.”

  Georgie’s mouth lifted into a wry smile. “So after you’ve told me, you will have to kill me?”

  Rafe’s answering smile was fleeting. “No. But please understand, the more you know about what I’ve done and who I’ve pretended to be, the greater the danger for you.”

  “Wouldn’t you say that leaving me in the dark has also put me in danger?” she demanded. “If Jonathon and I had known that this Dashkov was following me, intending me harm—”

  “Jonathon knew.”

  “What?” Georgie bolted to her feet before stalking toward the fireplace. Away from him. When she turned around to regard him, her eyes practically darted blue fire. “Jonathon knew I was being hunted by a mad Russian baron, but he didn’t say anything? Or stay with me tonight? I will kill him.”

  Rafe barely resisted the urge to haul Georgie into his arms. To try and douse her understandable anger with kisses. “While I agree that he shouldn’t have left you alone outside Derwent House, I shouldn’t have done so either.”

  Georgie’s voice vibrated with anger. “He... You... Both of you should have told me I was in danger.”

  “I swore your brother to secrecy, Georgie. Without any credible evidence to hand, we both decided that we didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

  Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “I knew there was something going on. Ever since that man—Dashkov—ran into me outside Latimer House. Is that how long you’ve known?”