The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Markham felled Craven with one shot. A leg shot according to Phillip. But he’ll live.” Jonathon grimaced before adding, “More’s the pity. As mad as I am at Markham, it’s clear he loves you too.”

  A knock at the door made Georgie’s heart leap, but disappointment swept through her when she saw it was only one of the maids responding to Jonathon’s call. Tea, a light supper, and a bath were ordered. Jonathon also informed her that he’d summoned Madame Choffard, her usual hairdresser to attend her. The woman waited downstairs and would style Georgie’s hair whenever she was ready.

  “Thank you, Jonathon,” Georgie said, her eyes brimming with grateful tears. “You are too good to me.”

  “Nonsense. You deserve to be spoiled considering everything that’s happened.” He rose and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll take my leave now. I’m sure Markham won’t be long.” As he straightened, he ruffled what remained of her hair. “I look forward to seeing your new a la Titus locks in the morning. Goodnight.”

  As the door closed, Georgie couldn’t help but wonder when Rafe would return.

  The longer he stayed away, the more she began to worry that something was wrong. When he’d rescued her from Dashkov, he’d told her not to thank him. He’d even intimated that he was responsible for everything that had befallen her.

  Was some odd sort of misplaced guilt keeping him away?

  She frowned at the bandages on her rope-burnt wrists. Surely not.

  A knock at the door roused her from her tangled and altogether useless musings, and heralded the arrival of a small army of servants—a maid bearing a supper tray, another with a tea tray, and several footmen who, under the supervision of the housekeeper, set up a bath in front of the fire in her bedchamber.

  After Georgie had partaken her fill of supper—a simple repast of bread and butter, and white soup—she bathed then dressed in a fresh white nightrail and robe with the help of a chambermaid. At last she was ready to receive Madame Choffard. Of course, appearances could be deceiving.

  The moment the middle-aged French woman produced her scissors, Georgie gripped the arms of her chair steeling herself for what would happen next; as she expected, the metallic clip of the blades and the soft fall of her curls all around her brought the memory of what she’d endured earlier in the day flooding back. Her pulse raced and her whole body trembled. Turning her thoughts to Rafe and how he would smile at her helped a little.

  Fortunately, Madame Choffard was efficient. Within a quarter of an hour, Georgie had a stylish new coiffure of cropped, bouncy curls.

  “You have worked a miracle,” Georgie declared as she examined the hairdresser’s handiwork in the looking glass.

  The middle-aged woman beamed at her as she fastened a pale blue ribbon about Georgie’s crown. “Bien sûr, madame. You will be the toast of le bon ton.”

  Georgie summoned a smile to acknowledge the compliment. However, attending society functions was the last thing on her mind. If truth be told, she’d much prefer spending most of her time with Rafe and Rafe alone. Given it was nearing the Yuletide season, life in London would be growing quieter anyway.

  She wondered where she would spend Christmas. With Rafe of course, but at Harrow Hall in Lincolnshire or at Rivergate? Perhaps she might even be invited to meet Rafe’s father, the marquess, at his estate, Avonmore Park.

  An entirely appropriate course of action if Rafe proposed...

  She smiled again, only this time it wasn’t an effort at all.

  Once Madame Choffard departed, Georgie settled herself in her favorite sitting room chair. A glance at the mantel clock made her frown. Eight o’clock and still no sign of Rafe. Just like last night, she was clock-watching, an activity she despised. With a gloomy sigh, she took up Emma. She could send for more tea. A poor substitute for Rafe’s company, but comforting none the less.

  Half an hour later, as she attempted to stifle a yawn, she heard the sound she’d been longing to hear—the click of her door opening.

  Her heart racing with anticipation, she cast her book aside and rose as Rafe walked in. Even though his hair and attire were uncharacteristically disheveled—he hadn’t replaced the neck cloth at his throat, the one he’d used to staunch the bleeding at her neck—he was as breathtakingly handsome as always.

  “Georgie,” he said, crossing the room, his mouth tilting into a half-smile. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “I am so very sorry I took so long. I had a few matters to attend to.”

  Ignoring her injuries, Georgie threw her arms about him, hugging him tight, relishing his warmth and strength. “I understand,” she murmured against his throat before kissing his ear, then his stubble-clad jaw. She slid her lips toward his mouth...

  “Thank you.” Rafe placed a kiss on her cheek then gently unwound her arms from his neck, setting her away. “Would you mind terribly if I got myself a drink? As you well know, it’s been a trying day.”

  Without waiting for her to respond, Rafe went to the carved mahogany sideboard and poured himself a sizeable brandy before turning back to her. “Your hair looks lovely.” His gaze wandered over her from head to toe, but his smile seemed forced and his examination felt cursory, not appreciative at all despite his compliment. “You wear that style much better than Caroline Lamb ever did.”

  Georgie’s face heated and she touched the curls at her neck, suddenly self-conscious. And annoyed. Part of her wanted to take Rafe to task for rebuffing her kiss, but she simply said, “Thank you.”

  Rafe was definitely different. Distant. Even now he was staring into the fire, avoiding her eyes. The firelight highlighted the fine lines about his eyes and the grim set of his wide mouth. A muscle worked in his jaw.

  A frisson of unease slid over Georgie. After what they’d both been through today, why was Rafe acting this way? Had she been right to think he still warred with personal demons she couldn’t even begin to fathom? He loved her, but right at this moment, she felt she was standing in the room with a complete stranger.

  “Won’t you... won’t you take a seat?” she suggested, hating the fact she felt both awkward and resentful. This was not how she’d imagined this meeting would be. “I could ring for a supper tray. Or tea...”

  “No, I’m not hungry,” Rafe said, still not meeting her gaze. He swirled the brandy around in his glass. “This will be sufficient.”

  “Rafe...” Pushing aside her bruised feelings, Georgie approached him. “Tell me what’s wrong. You are not yourself.”

  He ran a hand down his face; he was clearly exhausted. “I know. I’m sorry.” His mouth twitched into an approximation of a smile. “I’m making a hash of this evening, aren’t I?”

  “Well, I rather think the whole day’s been a bit of hash. But you’re here, I’m here, and it’s over now.”

  Rafe’s smile grew a little wider but shadows lingered behind his dark gray gaze. “Yes.”

  Encouraged, Georgie continued, “Jonathon spoke to me earlier. He told me about Constance, and how you were able to find me. And about the duel.”

  Rafe’s wide shoulders heaved with a great sigh. “Yes, about that...” He looked directly at her, searching her eyes. “This morning you tried to stop me.”

  Georgie reached for Rafe’s hand. She was relieved he didn’t sound angry with her. “I was terrified you would be hurt, or if you killed Craven, you would be held to account. I couldn’t bear it. Living without you. So I did what I felt I had to do.”

  Rafe raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You are nothing but brave.” He released her hand and swallowed another mouthful of brandy before asking, “Did Jonathon tell you what happened?”

  “Yes. You shot Craven in the leg. But not only that, you’ve ruined him. To punish him, for what he did to me.”

  “Yes, I did...” Something flickered in Rafe’s gaze. A flash of emotion Georgie didn’t immediately recognize. “Craven’s dead.”

  “What?” Georgie gasped and clutched Rafe’s arm. “But how? If he only suffered a le
g wound...”

  Rafe put down his brandy and laid a warm hand over hers. “The Bow Street Runners investigating his death believe he took his own life with a pistol. This afternoon. He was found in his rooms in Gerrard Street in Soho. Of course, suspicion fell on me, but as I was with Phillip, John Townsend and the Foreign Secretary himself at the time of Craven’s death, the matter was resolved fairly quickly.”

  Georgie reached out and touched Rafe’s cheek, a brief, tentative caress. “I’m relieved beyond measure you haven’t been blamed. And I should thank you. I’ve feared and despised Lord Craven for what seems like a lifetime.” She took a deep breath, mustering her courage to make an admission that weighed heavily upon her heart. “Ever since I found out that you’ve been plotting to destroy that sorry excuse for a man, I’ve been struggling with how I felt about it all. What he did to me was wrong. So wrong that words often fail me when I try to describe the gaping hole he left inside me. I do understand why you wanted to punish him so badly. I really do. And this may sound shocking to you, but I’ve only just realized I’m relieved that he is dead.” She dragged in another steadying breath and lifted her chin. “No. It’s more than that. I’m glad he is dead. I hope he rots in hell.”

  Rafe’s turbulent gaze softened. “I know how difficult it can be to acknowledge such emotions, Georgie. And honestly, I’m not shocked at all to hear you feel that way about Craven. But,” his mouth twisted into a wry grimace, “I can also see that I’ve shocked you by my actions. In many ways, I’m not a good man either.”

  “No, don’t you dare say that,” Georgie said fiercely, gripping his arms. “You are noble and kind-hearted. The very best of men.” Before he could stop her, she kissed him. Reaching up, she grasped the back of his head and pushed her mouth against his. Her movements were frantic and clumsy but that didn’t matter. She was determined to show Rafe how much she loved and admired him. How much she wanted him despite his imperfections and his dark past. And how grateful she was to have him in her life.

  Rafe groaned, a primal, guttural sound and kissed her back. Spearing his fingers into her short curls, he effortlessly took control of the kiss, plundering her mouth with such fervor, she was soon dizzy with lust. She pushed her hips against his and slid her hands beneath his coat, began to fumble with the buttons of his silk waistcoat. And that’s when Rafe ripped his mouth away.

  “Georgie,” he rasped. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  For the second time tonight, he set her way from him, and the pain lancing through her heart hurt more than the press of Dashkov’s knife. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Rafe pushed his hands into his hair. “I know you see me as some sort of hero after today. A man worthy of your love. But I’m not, Georgie. Not at all.”

  Anger flared inside her. “Of course you are.”

  Rafe shook his head, backing away from her, his expression bleak. “I’ve killed men... and worse.” He could barely meet her gaze. “I’ve tortured them to extract information, manipulated them, and betrayed others. I’ve lied, stolen, cheated, lured women to my bed with impunity, broken hearts. Name a sin, I’ve probably committed it. And I haven’t felt the remorse I know that I should a good deal of the time... Like today. I didn’t feel one iota of guilt when I shot Craven, or Dashkov.”

  “Yes, you shot two men today, one to avenge a heinous wrong and the other to save me.” Georgie closed the distance between them again and caught Rafe’s hand. “Not many men would do, or could do what you have done.”

  “Perhaps not, but it is my fault that Dashkov entered your life. I thought I could put my messy, sordid, ugly past behind me, but it seems that I cannot. I put you in harm’s way, Georgie. Me. And that is something I regret with my entire being.” Rafe’s throat convulsed and his eyes glimmered with tears. The tender despair in his voice, made Georgie want to weep also. With trembling fingers he touched the bandage on her neck. “Look what he did to you, my love. You almost died today. And for that, I can never forgive myself.”

  And that’s when Georgie knew. This treacherous guilt clawing Rafe to pieces, it wasn’t just about her.

  She drew a deep breath. “Tell me about Solange.”

  Chapter 21

  Rafe bowed his head and closed his eyes. Solange. Of course, Georgie would see that she had something—perhaps everything—to do with the unrelenting guilt he carried about inside him. And after everything Georgie had been through, she had a right to know about the memory that haunted him the most. She’d witnessed his nightmares. He suspected he would suffer nightmares about how Dashkov had treated Georgie too.

  “I’m sorry if I’m asking too much of you,” she murmured.

  “No, you’re not.” Rafe offered her a weak smile. “Of course you’re not.” He gestured toward the arrangement of chairs before the fire. “Come, let us sit down.”

  Georgie chose the settee and against his better judgment, Rafe sat beside her. Her leg brushed his and it was pure torture. He wanted her so badly, yet she would never be safe if he remained in her life. There were too many other men like Dashkov out there in the world. He’d been naïve to think someone like him—a spy—could ever live a normal life. His past was like a canker that he would never be able to cut away.

  And he had to make Georgie see that.

  “At the start of the Peninsular War, eight years ago, I was sent to Spain by the Foreign Secretary, Baron Hawkesbury, to gather intelligence on the activities of the French,” he began. “Old Boney had invaded and had made his older brother the new King of Spain.”

  Georgie squeezed his hand. “Yes, I recall that. King Joseph. There was much fear at home that Bonaparte was going to conquer all of Europe.”

  Rafe nodded. “Quite so. Posing as a French servant, I found employment as a footman within the household of a French officer of interest, General Duchamp who had just been posted to Madrid. It was believed he was within Bonaparte’s inner military circle. And he had a wife. A much younger, quite beautiful wife. Madame Solange Duchamp took care of her husband’s household affairs including the hiring of staff.”

  “She offered you the position?”

  “I spoke excellent French and was armed with an impeccable, albeit false, set of references.” Rafe didn’t care to add that the footman he replaced had met an ‘accidental’ death only several days before he’d arrived on Duchamp’s doorstep on the Calle de Alcalá. Georgie needn’t know about every violent act he’d committed in the line of duty. What she was about to hear would condemn him easily enough.

  “As you can imagine,” he continued, “Duchamp spent a considerable amount of time away. But when he was home, I would eavesdrop whenever I could, and scour any documents I came upon so I could pass the information on to another contact. That man would then send the intelligence onto our British officers who were leading the campaign.”

  “You mentioned Solange was younger than her husband,” prompted Georgie. “You fell in love with her.”

  Rafe had denied it once before, but he couldn’t deny the truth now. “Yes. Although I told myself at the time it was only lust that I felt for her. I was twenty-four and I knew from the very beginning Solange was attracted to me.” The memory of how her large, dark brown eyes would shine whenever he’d walked into the room would stay with Rafe forever.

  When he looked at Georgie, she was smiling. Thankfully, there was no censure in her expression. “I can imagine,” she said softly. “I am sure you were quite a sight in your livery.”

  Rafe almost laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. Powdered periwigs do tend to make any man look ancient. But, I digress.” He blew out a sigh, preparing himself to relate the next part of this sorry tale. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone before, Georgie. So please forgive me if I’m not particularly eloquent.”

  “I understand.”

  The light of compassion in her eyes made it possible for him to continue. “I had been employed but a month when Solange and I embarked on our affair. She was quite
lonely and desperately unhappy in her marriage. You see, Duchamp was a despicable man—he had exacting standards and a blazing temper, which only became worse when he drank, which was often. Although she denied it, I had strong suspicions Duchamp actually struck Solange if she did something to anger him. In private I saw marks on her—bruises on her arms and other places on her body and once she had a swollen lip—but she was reluctant to talk about it. She always had a ready excuse to hand to explain her injuries away.”

  Georgie blanched. “Oh, my Lord, Rafe. That’s terrible. Did they have children?”

  “No. That was another source of tension in the marriage. Solange told me they’d been married six years but were childless. She suspected she was barren. And Duchamp was not happy about it.”

  “It must have been very difficult, working within that household, knowing what was happening to the woman you cared about.”

  As always, Rafe was amazed by Georgie’s understanding. “Yes. It was a tense, troubled time to say the least. There I was, a young man, flagrantly stealing confidential military information from a French general, and all the while, I was having carnal relations with his beautiful wife. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t falling in love with Solange but of course I was. I was such an idiot to think I could handle the situation. I wasn’t careful enough and poor Solange paid the price.”

  Georgie raised a hand to her throat. “What happened?”

  “Solange discovered what I was doing. She caught me going through her husband’s papers in his study one day. Fortunately, she didn’t care. She just wanted to be with me. In fact, she wanted us to run away together as soon as we could manage it. I understood of course but I just couldn’t give her what she asked for. It wasn’t as simple as that. There was no foreseeable end date to my mission... You may condemn me for this, Georgie, but I believed I had a job to do. There was so much at stake—the lives of hundreds if not thousands of British soldiers. And as much as I cared for Solange—and as much as I hated the mistreatment she endured at the hands of her husband—I felt my duty to England was far stronger. I promised Solange that when I was able to, I would help her leave Duchamp. But it turned out I grossly underestimated the general and what he was capable of. And in doing so, I completely misjudged Solange’s situation.”