The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Georgie’s face was as pale as her nightrail. “You told me after your nightmare at Rivergate that Solange died.”

  Too agitated to sit any longer, Rafe stood and paced over to the fireplace. Bitter self-loathing swirled around inside him. He didn’t want to tell Georgie the next part of Solange’s story, but he must. He drew in a deep breath and forced himself to go on. “One night, during dinner—I was always one of the attendant footmen—General Duchamp snapped at Solange because he didn’t like the wine that had been served, or the quality of the food. It was Solange’s usual habit to try and placate her husband, but this particular evening, she’d taken a little too much wine. It was, in fact, only a few days after she had discovered I was spying on him, and in hindsight, I believe the knowledge weighed heavily upon her mind. Perhaps that’s why she drank more than usual. At any rate, instead of accepting her husband’s criticism, she spoke back to him. She told him she was tired of his behavior. Of course, her words were akin to waving a red flag at a bull. Duchamp became enraged. He slammed his fist on the table and dismissed her, ordered her to their private apartments. And then he followed.”

  “What did you do?” Georgie whispered, her eyes wide with horror.

  Rafe turned his back on Georgie and gripped the mantel. He couldn’t face her. “Not enough. The wrong thing entirely. I was such a bloody fool. Telling myself yet again that my duty, first and foremost, was to my king and country, I took the opportunity to search Duchamp’s study; he’d just returned from the barracks and I knew he probably had papers of importance related to troop numbers, movements and supplies—which was indeed the case. In fact, I found invaluable information about the twenty-five thousand strong force that had been amassed under another French general, Junot. I stole away and made my way to the residence of my contact so he could pass the information onto Castlereagh who was, at that time, the Secretary of War. Even though I found out later the intelligence was key in helping our forces defeat the French at Roleia, our first battle on the Peninsula, it has never alleviated my remorse or my guilt, that I was to blame for everything else that happened that night.”

  He felt Georgie at his side. “You don’t have to go on,” she murmured. “I can see how the memories pain you so.”

  He shook his head. He still couldn’t bear to look at her. “No, it’s better this way. You have a right to know.” He had to make Georgie see that he wasn’t the noble man she supposed him to be. “When I returned to the Duchamps’ townhouse but a half hour later, I found there was a commotion outside in the street. The maids were sobbing outside the front door. Leclerc, one of the other footmen, sat on the doorstep. He was shaking and couldn’t tell me what was wrong. But I knew...” His heart thudding erratically with cold dread, Rafe had entered the townhouse and had gone straight to General Duchamp’s bedchamber.

  He closed his eyes and tried to swallow down the acrid nausea as the recollection hit him with the force of a bullet. He sensed that Georgie held her breath.

  “Her husband killed her... didn’t he?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Rafe at last met her gaze, opened his mouth to tell her what the general had done, but he couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t formulate the words to describe that scene of blood and horror. When he’d burst into the room, it was to find Duchamp sitting on the edge of the bed beside Solange’s lifeless body. Dazed, the Frenchman sat as motionless as a statue with a knife in his bloodied, raw-knuckled grip. Until he saw Rafe.

  Then he exploded into action, leaping to his feet as he roared, “Bâtard! Espion dégoutant!” Bastard. You filthy spy.

  And all Rafe had been able to do was flee.

  “It’s my fault, Georgie.” His throat was tight, his voice ragged with pain. “I should have known Solange was in danger. I shouldn’t have pushed my concerns aside. Duchamp beat her—most likely tortured her, and then cut her throat. I am just as culpable as he is.”

  “Rafe.” Georgie reached out to touch his shoulder but he flinched away. He didn’t deserve her kindness let alone her love.

  “You didn’t know it would go so far,” she persisted. In the firelight, her eyes shone with tears. “How could you know? You’re not accountable for Duchamp’s actions any more than you are accountable for Dashkov’s. Evil men do evil things. They are everywhere and you can’t always stop them.”

  Rafe turned to face her. “And that’s my point, Georgie. I can’t stop them. I tried so very hard to stop bloody Dashkov from hurting you, and look what happened. It could happen again.” He dragged in an unsteady breath. “But I won’t let it.”

  “What are you saying?” Georgie breathed, eyes wide with dawning horror.

  Rafe swallowed his own tears and made himself look her in the eye. “For your safety, we have to end this. Us. I have to go. It’s the only way I can truly protect you.”

  “No. You cannot be serious.” Georgie’s face was ashen but for two flags of high color on her cheekbones. “You can’t just leave me. Not after today. Not like this.”

  “I’m deadly serious. Who knows how many more monsters are lurking out there, just waiting to strike out at me and my loved ones when I least expect it? I love you too much, Georgie. I won’t let you suffer any more than you already have.”

  “Rafe, this is madness.” Georgie reached for him but he stepped away. The anguish in her eyes at his rejection was almost his undoing. Until he recalled how she looked with a knife at her throat.

  Somehow, Rafe hardened his heart and found the strength to continue. “Castlereagh wants me to come back. He’s offered me another position. And I’ve accepted it.”

  Georgie’s eyebrows shot up. “What? When?”

  “I can’t say.”

  A harsh sound escaped Georgie, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a choked sob. “Of course. How silly of me to ask.”

  Rafe took a step closer wanting so very desperately to take everything back. To touch Georgie. But if he did, he’d capitulate so he clenched his fists instead. “I have to do this. It’s the only option that will guarantee your safety.”

  Georgie searched his face. Her expression had changed. The longing and agony had been extinguished. She was in the process of hardening her heart too and he was nothing but proud of her.

  “You’ve really made up your mind, haven’t you?” she said. Her voice was edged with frost and accusation. It wasn’t really a question, but he’d answer it anyway.

  He held her gaze. “Yes.”

  Coldness turned to incandescent fury. “Rafe Landsbury. I cannot believe that you are doing this. Treating me so... so cruelly for the sake of some warped sense of honor. You make me love you and then—” Georgie broke off and paced away from him, fuming and oh, so beautiful. When she spun back, her eyes were aflame with cold, blue fire. “You dared me to take a chance. To give myself to you. And I did. Heart and body and soul. You told me you wanted a love that would last forever. And now you want to throw it all away. Throw me away because you aren’t brave enough to take a chance. Because you are scared of shadows.” She lifted her chin. “How dare you?”

  “Georgie—”

  She held up a hand. “Get out. Go. While I still have a little pride left.”

  He inclined his head and dredged up a voice that was passably even—which was no mean feat considering his own heart had split in two. “Goodbye, Georgiana. I wish you well.”

  As Rafe shut the door, he was certain he heard something smash against the wood paneling, and he almost smiled. In the end, Georgie would be all right. She would ache and bleed for a while, but eventually she would heal and find love again with some other lucky bastard who could give her everything she deserved.

  Whoever he was, Rafe wanted to kill him.

  Chapter 22

  South Audley Street, Mayfair, 21st December 1816

  Rafe groaned and pulled a pillow over his face but it didn’t help to muffle the violent pounding on the door that seemed to match the rhythmic pounding in his head. Christ and all his saints. Who t
he hell was trying to beat his way into his bedroom?

  He lurched into a sitting position and when the room stopped spinning, he snatched up his pocket-watch from the bedside table and squinted at the time. One o’clock in the afternoon. He supposed he should get up if only to dispose of the bastard on the other side of the door.

  “Markham, answer me for God’s sake. Or do you want me to break down this door?”

  Shit. It was Phillip. Rafe sighed as he slid out of bed and pulled on a robe. He’d half expected his friend would try to dig him out of his rooms eventually. It had been well over a month since he and Georgie had parted ways, and he’d only ventured out of his townhouse on a handful of occasions.

  It was time to face the firing squad.

  Rafe unlocked the door, admitting his friend. “I suppose Castlereagh wants something,” he growled.

  Phillip looked him up and down with undisguised disgust. “Enough of this wallowing in self-pity. Even if Castlereagh did want something from you, you are worse than useless in your current state.” He wrinkled his nose. “Christ, Markham. When did you last bathe?”

  Rafe pushed a hand through his hair and frowned, trying to remember. “Don’t recall.”

  Phillip arched a brow. “I’d wager it was probably last week when I saw you at White’s.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Why don’t you make it the subject of this week’s club wager then?”

  “Not funny, Markham.” Phillip crossed the room and thrust back the blue damask curtains before throwing the casement window open. “Where’s your valet?”

  Rafe groaned again and massaged his throbbing forehead. “God knows. Probably in the kitchen drinking the cooking sherry with the butler. Why the bloody hell are you here anyway if it’s not at the behest of Castlereagh?”

  Phillip leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms over his chest. “Helena and I want to speak with you. She’s downstairs in your drawing room so you’d best not dawdle over your toilette. You know what she’s like when she’s kept waiting.”

  Rafe scrubbed a hand down his face. “Your wife is downstairs?” His gut began to roil with unease as well as nausea. “What’s wrong? Is it Georgie?”

  “Of course it’s about Georgie, you dunderhead. But you don’t get to find out the details until you clean yourself up. You’ve got half an hour.” Phillip strode to the door, adding as he left, “I’ll order coffee.”

  Twenty minutes later, a washed, freshly shaven and suitably attired Rafe stepped into his own drawing room.

  Helena immediately rose from the settee and greeted him with her infectious smile. “Rafe, it’s been far too long. Come and sit by me and I will pour your coffee.” She turned to her husband who stood by the fire. “You shall only have tea this time, Phillip. You’ve already had enough coffee for one day.”

  Rafe cocked an eyebrow at his friend who gave a resigned shrug. Phillip had told him on many an occasion that it was a silly man indeed who opposed his wife. Rafe had the distinct impression he was about to find that out first-hand.

  He took his place beside Helena on the claret velvet settee, and accepted his coffee with thanks, but declined a sandwich. Once Phillip was armed with his permitted cup of tea, Rafe gathered his patience together and addressed his friends. “While I anticipate taking nuncheon with you both will be quite pleasurable,” he said glancing between Helena and Phillip, “I believe you have something you wish to tell me. About Georgie.”

  Helena put down her cup and saucer on the oak table with a precise click. “Yes.” She fixed her gaze on him, studying him for a brief moment. “I know these past few weeks have been very difficult for you, Rafe. And I understand your decision to end things with Georgie was for the very noblest of reasons. But,” her gaze flitted to Phillip as though she was seeking his reassurance before returning to him again, “Phillip and I thought it was best you hear the news from us, rather than from another, less reputable source.”

  Rafe felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart thudded oddly in his chest as he put down his coffee. “What news?” God, if anything had happened to Georgie...

  Phillip cleared his throat. “Georgie is to be married.”

  “What?” Rafe lurched to his feet, nearly upsetting the tea table. “You have got to be joking.” His gaze darted between Helena and Phillip. “Please tell me this is some sort of sick joke.”

  Helena put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “It’s not a joke, Rafe. We would never jest about something as important as this.”

  Rafe pushed his hands into his hair and began pacing up and down the Turkish hearthrug. Was he really awake or was this another one of his twisted nightmares? He’d had so many of late... “Who? Who is she marrying?” he demanded as he came to a stop in the middle of the room. “And when? Where?”

  Phillip and Helena exchanged a speaking look. Phillip cleared his throat again. “To answer your first question, Lord Farley.”

  Rafe’s mind spun with the sheer incredulity of the idea. “Farley? Winterbourne’s Farley?”

  Helena nodded. “I’m afraid so. We,” she gestured toward her husband, “have been asked to attend the wedding at Harrow Hall. Three days hence, on Christmas Eve.”

  Rafe dragged a hand down his face. Georgie was going to marry Lord Farley. Another man who preferred the company of men. There had to be a very good reason for such a monumental decision. Surely she isn’t... “Please forgive my indelicate question, Helena, but do you think Georgie is with child?”

  Helena held his gaze steadily. “She hasn’t shared such a confidence with me, Rafe. But, I rather think you might know if that were a possibility.”

  Phillip coughed. “Our carriage is waiting outside, Markham, if you would like to make the journey to Lincolnshire with us.”

  Rafe strode toward the bell-pull to ring for his valet. “Give me ten minutes.”

  Harrow Hall, Harrow-on-the-Wold, Lincolnshire, 24th December 1816

  Georgie sat in the window seat in her bedroom at Harrow Hall and tried to pay attention to Constance’s endless prattle about her wedding attire. If truth be told, she didn’t give a fig about the arrangement of her curls, or which ribbon or comb Constance would use to secure her hair, or anything at all to do with her impending marriage to Ambrose, Lord Farley.

  Oh, dear God, am I really going to go through with this?

  Georgie clutched her hands together as a fresh wave of despair washed over her. She took a shuddering breath and blinked away tears. Being this upset all the time couldn’t be good for the baby. Rafe’s baby. A baby he would never know.

  She cast her gaze over the snow-blanketed view outside her window and fervently wished she were numb inside, frozen to hardness like the lake by the denuded willow copse. But she wasn’t numb. Far from it.

  Her heart ached and her belly churned with doubt even though her ever-practical mind insisted there was only one sensible course of action for her to take, and that was to marry Lord Farley.

  When she’d realized she was pregnant—a fortnight ago—she had confided in Jonathon. He’d immediately suggested the most expedient and logical way to solve her predicament—enter another marriage of convenience. Jonathon confessed that whilst Ambrose could never replace Teddy in his heart, he had fallen very much in love with the young earl. And like Teddy, Ambrose required a wife and heir.

  Still reeling from Rafe’s rejection, Georgie had straightaway agreed to the proposal. There was no way on earth she would let her son or daughter be born into this world with the ignominious label of ‘bastard’. Nor was she willing to be labeled a fallen woman. Of course, she could always steal away to the Continent to have the babe, but then she couldn’t tolerate the notion of giving the child to someone else to raise when she returned to England.

  She wanted this baby with her entire being.

  It was all she had left of Rafe.

  She’d briefly contemplated the idea of seeking Rafe out to tell him that he was going to be a father. However, he’d made it abun
dantly clear—despite the fact he loved her—that there was no place for her, or any loved ones, in his life. And so in the end, she’d discarded such a foolish plan. She certainly wouldn’t beg him to take her back. For better or for worse, she had too much pride within her to do such a thing.

  Marriage to Lord Farley was the only way forward for her and this baby.

  “Shall I make arrangements for your bath, Your Grace?”

  Georgie started at Constance’s question. “I...” She glanced at the ormolu clock; it was eleven o’clock, and she was still dressed in only a pale blue satin robe. Her gaze darted to the bed where her wedding gown lay, a confection of silver muslin and white satin, beaded with seed pearls.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I have plenty of time.” Ambrose had obtained a special license and they were to be wed in Harrow Hall’s private chapel at three o’clock. “Besides,” she added, “I would like to wait for Lady Maxwell before I begin to get ready. I trust she will arrive soon.”

  Constance curtsied. “Yes, ma’am...” Her brow furrowed with concern. “I apologize if I seem forward, but if there is anything else that I can do for you, anything at all, just let me know and I will do it straightaway.”

  Georgie inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  Since returning to service, Constance had carried out her duties with unquestionable dedication and with the utmost discretion. Considering Georgie had missed her courses and had been sick every morning for the past fortnight, Constance must know her mistress was pregnant. Yet her maid had remained tight-lipped on both matters.

  And Georgie was nothing but grateful. Despite Constance’s involvement in Dashkov’s scheme, Georgie still trusted her. Constance and her family had been the baron’s victims too.