The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (3 page)

He frowned. “Of course.” He glanced over to the salon door before he gently reached for her arm and drew her into a dark corner behind a screen of potted firs. Even that simple touch—his hand on the bare skin between her sleeve and glove—sent a strange shiver of heat through her.

Heaven help her. She mustn’t be in her right mind to be letting him do this, drawing her closer, his large hands on her all but bare shoulders. And how strange that she suddenly wanted him to kiss her so very much. She closed her eyes—raised her hands to his wide chest, and then felt his firm, warm lips angle across her own.

His kiss was surprisingly light at first, undemanding—it was almost as if he was anticipating she would change her mind. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he had promised. He was holding back, teasing her, provoking her.

Arousing her.

Without conscious thought, she leaned closer into him, inviting him to take more. At last one of his hands rose to cradle the back of her head and he drew her closer still—she willingly yielded to the increase in pressure against her mouth.

Yes
. Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue entered to softly taste her. Warm, drugging desire began to heat her blood, pulse insistently between her legs. Now even this gentle exploration wasn’t enough.

She could scarcely recall ever feeling this way before.

Needy, hungry.
Insatiable.

She realized she wanted more. So much more.

Her hands curled into the lapels of his superfine jacket and she felt the kiss change again. Markham groaned against her mouth and pulled her hard against the long, hard length of his body. Then pushed her up against the wall. His tongue plunged farther, deeper and this time she answered with a bold sweep of her own tongue. Then another. Her hands tangled in his hair.

He tasted like cognac and heaven. He tasted like everything she used to desire.

Foolish, Georgie.

She abruptly pulled her mouth away, panting. Markham was breathing heavily too, the look in his eyes soft yet smoldering like hot, dark smoke.

He had been right about one thing. She hadn’t been disappointed.

“So, Your Grace,” Markham removed his hand from her nape and ran a finger along her undoubtedly kiss-swollen lower lip. His gaze was intent, his voice a soft caress in itself. “Did I succeed? Are you appeased?”

Appeased?
Georgie felt anything but appeased. She felt restless and ruffled. Reluctantly aroused. She pressed her lips together, not willing to concede her enjoyment. The man was already far too conceited for words. “It was just a kiss, Lord Markham.” She started to disengage herself from his hold, but as she stepped back, he caught her gloved hand.

“So it’s not enough then?” Markham raised an eyebrow in query as he lifted her hand to his lips. Even the light contact of his mouth through the silk of her glove seared her, deepened the hot ache inside her. “Perhaps more kisses are in order.”

He turned her arm slightly, then placed another teasing kiss just above the crook of her elbow, on the sensitive skin between her glove and silk sleeve. “I am at your disposal,” he murmured softly, drawing her closer. Another kiss fell at the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “For whatever you require...” He rained a trail of light kisses from her ear, along her jaw, toward her mouth. “Or want...”

Dear Lord. Her bones might be as soft as melted candle wax and her skin aflame beneath Markham’s assured caresses, but what her body wanted didn’t matter.

What she
needed
, was to get away.

She drew a shaky breath, trying but not succeeding to summon a voice that didn’t quiver. “Really, Markham. You presume far too much.” She pulled herself from his hold and thankfully, he let her go. She hardened her voice. “As if I’d even consider—“

“Georgie?”

Jonathon!

Markham sighed then muttered what she thought might be a curse. “Your brother has impeccable timing, Your Grace.”

Georgie threw him a wry smile. “Yes, he does. I trust you’ll be a gentleman and remain here until I’ve gone inside.”

Markham smiled and inclined his head. “Of course.” He caught her hand and kissed it as she attempted to brush pass him. “Until we meet again.”

“I wouldn’t count on such a circumstance eventuating, Lord Markham.” Raising her chin, and gathering as much icy hauteur about her as she could, given that her cheeks were flushed and her lips were kiss-bruised, Georgie pulled her hand away then stepped out from behind the screen of firs. “Here I am, Jonathon. I was just taking a turn about the terrace.”

Jonathon raised an eyebrow as she approached him by the salon door. “Of course you were.” A mischievous smile played about his lips. “I trust Markham has been keeping you entertained.”

Georgie scowled and lightly swatted his arm. “Is that what you call it?” she snapped. “Well I don’t need
entertaining
by men like him, Jonathon. And I don’t appreciate being lied to by you and the Latimers. I’ve had enough of being a source of amusement to you all. Will lonely Georgie get a good swiving tonight because, Lord knows, she must need it?”

“Now, now, Georgie-bean.” Jonathon took her arm to escort her back inside. “There is nothing wrong with a good swiving. And no one is laughing at you, just as no one set you up with Markham.”

“Liar.” Georgie held her ground. She hadn’t finished with her brother by any means. “You and Helena made me sit down to cards on the pretext of playing with Phillip and then he didn’t show. Not only that, Markham all but admitted that you sent him out to placate me for losing, or some other such nonsense. You are all treating me like a child.” She was so cross she wanted to stamp her foot, but she didn’t, knowing it would appear just that—childish. “If Teddy were here...” She couldn’t finish. She swallowed, tears suddenly stinging her eyes.
If Teddy were here right now, he’d be doubled over with laughter at my fit of temper, and in the process he’d have made me laugh at myself also
.

But then if Teddy were still here, none of this would have happened. He’d always known how much she despised rakehells. And Jonathon knew very well that she did too.

Jonathon’s expression sobered. “I’m sorry to have upset you, sis. It was only meant to be a bit of fun because there’s been little enough of that of late. Surely you must agree. As for setting you up... I will admit that I did point Markham in your direction when I saw you step out here. But please don’t blame our friends. Phillip was actually called away by Helena at the last minute. Little Phillipa is being particularly fractious tonight and they’ve sent for the physician, I believe.”

“Oh dear.” Georgie immediately felt a sharp twinge of contrition for assuming the worst about Phillip’s withdrawal from cards. “I hope it’s not too serious.”

Jonathon frowned. “I’m not sure. But come inside, Georgie. Aside from being cold and wet, it’s now windy out here and you haven’t a shawl. We can’t have you falling ill now.”

Unspoken were the words,
like Teddy
. Teddy’s sudden illness—a virulent ague—had descended without warning and had taken him within the space of a week, last autumn. “I’m fine, Jonathon,” she reassured her brother, all of her rancor suddenly dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

“Not quite.” Jonathon reached up and pulled a fir needle from her hair. He smiled gently. “That’s better.”

Georgie blushed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now why don’t we get some supper? I’m famished.”

She sighed heavily in resignation. “As you wish.” As much as she wanted to leave, she couldn’t without saying good night to Phillip and Helena. She prayed their daughter, who was only two, would be all right.

As Jonathon escorted her back into the noisy, glittering ballroom, she chanced a backward glance at the screen of firs. There was no sign of Markham. At least he had been a gentleman in that regard.

But would he be a gentleman next time they met?

Somehow, she rather doubted it.

* * *

R
afe leaned back
against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the delectable Georgie to quit the terrace with her brother before he emerged—like he’d promised. He could definitely do with another cognac right now. Aside from warming him—a chill wind had suddenly picked up—it would help to put out the fire surging through his veins straight to his cock. God, how fine had that woman tasted? And such a contradiction—positively glacial on the outside yet all fiery passion beneath. What he wouldn’t do to have her underneath him. Or on top. Or whatever way she damn well wanted.

When he’d said
until next time
, he’d meant it.

Snatches of conversation between the duchess and her brother drifted to him on the wind. Her acerbic comment about the need for a good swiving would have been amusing except for the fact that she’d also hinted she was lonely. Many a true word was spoken not only in jest, but in anger. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t file that tidbit away for future reference.

It certainly seemed that the Duchess of Darby was as multi-faceted as a diamond of the first water. But he was an expert at delving beneath layers, at unraveling mysteries. He knew she would be a challenge to seduce—or swive as she’d so delightfully put it—but he was definitely up to the task. Reprobate that he was, he was going to enjoy working out his plan of attack.

A sudden gust whipped through the dark garden. Shadows stirred and rain drops pattered from leaves onto the wet ground. Senses suddenly on high alert, he squinted at a patch of darkness, perhaps inkier than the rest beneath the horse chestnut in the far corner. Had there been a flash of something paler against the black trunk? A movement separate from the swaying lower branches?

Stop starting at shadows, Markham. You’re retired remember? It’s probably just a trick of the light. You’re not in Madrid or Paris or St. Petersburg anymore
.

But his instinct to investigate anything the least bit out of place was still strong. At the sound of the salon door snicking shut, Rafe eased away from the wall and keeping to the shadows, edged toward the balustrade, studying the darkness, but nothing else caught his eye. Perhaps it had just been a stray cat. The mews ran alongside that side of the garden wall. Nevertheless, the spy in him insisted that he should investigate further.

A squall of rain hitting the garden made his mind up for him. Lifting up his collar against the freezing droplets, Rafe made a quick dash toward the salon doors. Whatever, or whoever had been out there was going to get a soaking, that was for damn sure.

Searching the mews could at least wait until the rain stopped.

J
onathon escorted
Georgie through the throng toward the supper room. “So, aside from feeling chagrined about being cornered by Markham, how are you coping with your loss at the card table?”

Georgie grimaced. “Everyone’s talking about it, aren’t they?” She hadn’t failed to notice the susurration of voices behind fans, the turning of heads toward her and Jonathon as they passed by. The occasional smile of sympathy from someone she knew. Or smirk.

Jonathon smiled. “A little. But it’s not every day that you see the Ice Duchess defeated so spectacularly. And by someone as mysterious as Markham. But don’t worry,” he paused by one of the decadent buffet tables and began piling a plate with all manner of delicacies, “it’s only because the
haut ton
have no one else to gossip about at the moment. Lobster pattie?”

Georgie declined the proffered treat with a small shake of her head. She was still too out of sorts to even think about eating. “No thank you, dear brother. I think champagne will be sufficient.” And it might make her feel less disgruntled.

She took a flute from a passing footman, then led Jonathon over to a small table and pair of chairs situated in a quiet nook beside a potted palm. She imagined that it wouldn’t be long before some of their myriad acquaintances wandered over to pay their respects. Already, Georgie could see Lady Billington glancing their way as she simultaneously fussed over the attire of her two daughters; she was obviously making sure they were presentable.

Georgie sighed with a weariness that was bone deep. It was time to slide on her mask of composure again. To appear cool and collected when she felt anything but that.

Jonathon seemed oblivious to everything around them as he munched his way through his plate of hors d’oeuvres. “You know, these lobster patties are exceptional, sis. You really should try one.”

A decided hush suddenly descended upon the whole gathering. Even the orchestra ground to a jarring halt.

Georgie craned her neck in attempt see what had caused such an astounding thing to happen. Jonathon, having no hesitation in being a busybody, stood up to peer into the next room. “It’s Helena’s brother, Lord Rothsburgh, and his new wife. They’ve just arrived.” Jonathon smiled down at Georgie. “See, I told you it wouldn’t be long before there was someone else to talk about.”

The orchestra started up again as did the hubbub of excited conversation. The Marquess of Rothsburgh, renowned for being a great snubber of society, had set tongues wagging like mad when he’d wed the newly widowed Countess of Beauchamp, Elizabeth Harcourt. The
ton
was agog with the scandal.

Jonathon continued to unashamedly spy for Georgie. “Oh. It’s all right. Phillip and Helena have reappeared and are chatting to them. Along with Markham and the equally scandalous Lady Rosemont.” He slid her a glance and waggled his brows. “You might have some competition, dear sister. Shall we go and join them?”

As much as Georgie wanted to avoid Markham and his smug, knowing stare, now was as good a chance as any to bid adieu to Helena and Phillip. She really did wish to go home. Especially since Markham was still hovering around.

Catherine, Lady Rosemont, she knew next to nothing about—aside from a pack of malicious gossip. It had been long rumored that the very beautiful, enigmatic Catherine had once been an ‘actress’ who had snared the attention of the elderly roué, the Earl of Rosemont. After only two years of marriage, the earl had passed away, leaving Catherine with a sizeable inheritance. Some elements of the
beau monde
even dared to whisper that Catherine was nothing more than a grasping jade, and that perhaps she’d had a hand in her husband’s demise. Georgie had never been formally introduced to the woman, but she seriously doubted that would have been the case. The last time she’d crossed paths with Lord Rosemont—and it would have been several years ago—he had the look of a man with one foot already in the grave.

“All right,” she agreed, standing and smoothing her skirts. She took one last sip of champagne before putting the glass aside. “Elizabeth is such a lovely thing. I should like to see how she is before we go. And as for Lady Rosemont, she is welcome to Markham.”

Jonathon quirked a dark eyebrow as he offered his arm. “Giving up so soon?”

Georgie cast him a disdainful look before she placed her hand on his sleeve. “There’s nothing to give up. I was never going to play along, no matter how much you and Helena wanted me to.”

As they wended their way through the tight knots of chattering guests, Jonathon wisely steered the conversation to safer ground. “You know, I expect Elizabeth is much happier with Rothsburgh, despite all the gossip surrounding her. Her first husband was nothing but a scoundrel.”

“Now that is something we can definitely agree upon,” replied Georgie with a wry smile.

As they approached the small group—and Georgie steadfastly refused to make eye contact with Markham—she couldn’t help but admire what a fine pair the marquess and his wife made. Swathed in diaphanous, silver-gray muslin and silk, and a mine’s worth of diamonds, the fair-haired Elizabeth looked as ethereal as an angel. Lord Rothsburgh, impossibly tall and strikingly handsome—one might even say diabolically good-looking—stood close by her side, his dark gaze daring anyone outside their present circle to give him or his wife the cut direct.

Of course, he was nothing but charm personified when Georgie and Jonathon exchanged greetings with him and his new marchioness. As was Catherine, Lady Rosemont.

The elegant countess certainly commanded attention. Georgie was immediately struck by the confident glitter in Lady Rosemont’s lavender-blue eyes as she scanned the room, and the slightly feline smile curving her lips whenever she regarded members of the opposite sex—including Lord Markham. Georgie couldn’t help but revise her opinion of the woman. Perhaps some of the rumors about her—those related to her past profession—might be true after all. But then, surely Helena wouldn’t have formed an attachment to the countess if she were actually guilty of the things whispered about her.

Phillip soon claimed her attention, diverting her thoughts. “I’m so sorry to have reneged on our game, Georgie,” he said with a rueful grimace. “I hope you don’t mind that Markham stepped in.”

“Not at all,” lied Georgie with a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Markham—to the other side of Jonathon—watching her. “We shall simply have to arrange a round between us another time.”

Phillip returned her smile. “Most definitely.”

Markham leaned her way, as if about to speak, but Georgie turned to Helena. If he wanted to flirt with a woman so badly, he should transfer his attention to Lady Rosemont. She was certainly casting a great deal of appreciative glances his way. “So Jonathon tells me that poor little Phillipa is unwell,” she said to her friend. “I hope it is not too serious.”

A slight crease appeared between Helena’s elegantly arched brows. “Just a bad cold the physician thinks, compounded by the fact she’s cutting another tooth. But with this infernally cold, wet weather we’ve had all year—and because it so easy to catch something dreadful in autumn—I just thought it would be best if...” Helena clutched Georgie’s hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How inconsiderate of me to be blathering on so.”

“It’s all right, Helena.” Georgie glanced briefly at Jonathon, but he was talking to Lord and Lady Rothsburgh and appeared not have noticed their line of conversation. Swallowing to ease the tight ache in her throat, she returned her gaze to her friend. “It is the season for it. And it never hurts to be careful. I pray that Phillipa is feeling better soon. Now, tell me all about how your charity work is going with The Widows of Waterloo Trust. I understand Elizabeth has now resumed her role as one of the patronesses.”

As Georgie spent the next quarter of an hour chatting pleasantly to Helena and then Rothsburgh and Elizabeth—or Beth as Rothsburgh now called her—it was clear how in love the marquess and his new wife were. The way they looked at each other, shared smiles and touched, anyone could see they were absolutely smitten.

Although she’d long ago sworn off the idea of ever finding love, Georgie couldn’t help but be a little envious of their happiness. But then, she’d had nine contented years being wed to the best friend one could ever hope to have, which was much more than others ever experienced in their married lives. She’d been fortunate—nay blessed—to have someone like Teddy in her life. She would always be grateful for what he’d done for her.

“It seems that luck is still smiling on me tonight. We meet again, Your Grace.”

Georgie started at the sound of Markham’s deep voice so close to her ear. Glancing about, she noticed—belatedly—that Jonathon had moved slightly away from the group and was now chatting with the Beau Brummel look-alike. Lady Rosemont had also drifted away and was conversing animatedly with another nearby group of gentlemen.

Hell and damnation.

“But not for long I’m afraid, Lord Markham,” Georgie managed to return with a falsely polite smile. “Jonathon and I were just about to leave.”

“Oh no, we weren’t.” Jonathon leaned back toward their group. “I’ve just challenged Lord Farley here to a few rounds of
vingt-et-un
. We might be a while. You should join the others, dear sister, and have a dance or two.”

The expletive that flashed through Georgie’s mind as she watched Jonathon and his new found friend depart, was much stronger than the last curse. Especially when she turned around to find Phillip and Rothsburgh escorting their respective wives out into the middle of the ballroom floor to ready for the next dance.

It seemed there was another attempt afoot
to throw her and Markham together. She compressed her lips and clenched her fists, trying to stifle the uncharacteristic and unseemly urge to swear long and profusely at the whole lot of them.

She felt Markham’s superfine clad shoulder imperceptibly brush against hers, but she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the dance floor. By the positions being assumed by all of the couples, it appeared the next dance was a turning waltz. The music swelled—definitely a waltz. And there was no way on earth she was going to waltz with Markham.

“Would you care to dance, Your Grace?"

Georgie kept her gaze dead ahead. “I don’t particularly like dancing.” Why wouldn’t the abominable man take the hint that she was not interested in furthering an acquaintance with him?

“Well, I suspect another round of cards is out of the question.” Before she could even take another breath to respond, Markham gathered her into his arms and swept her onto the edge of the floor. “Or a good swiving.”

A furious blush scorched Georgie’s whole face. How dare Markham haul her about like this and how dare he mention such a thing? “You were eavesdropping,” she accused, barely aware that Markham was expertly steering her about the floor. The man literally made her blood boil. “You really have no manners or morals whatsoever.”

Lord Markham grinned down at her. “Oh, how I love your tongue lashings, Your Grace.”

A vivid memory of how his tongue had stroked and wound around hers not a half hour ago burst into her mind, and her blush spread downward, staining her décolletage as well. She must look like a beet.

Markham spun her in a particularly complex turn and she had to focus on her feet for a moment. She wouldn’t focus on the fact that he’d also gathered her closer and one of his muscular legs had pushed indecently between hers.

“For someone who professes not to like dancing, you are exceptionally graceful,” he said in a low voice. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Because I’m afraid of men like you...
Georgie quickly buried the brutally honest thought and at last met his gaze, determined not to show how perturbed she really was. “Because you’re insufferably arrogant and you irk me no end,” she said instead with false sweetness as if bestowing a compliment rather than a blatant insult.

Markham’s grin broadened, and he tightened his hold at the small of her back. “You didn’t seem irked when I kissed you earlier. Perhaps we should go out to the terrace again.”

* * *

G
eorgie’s eyes
flashed with blue fire. “You’re baiting me on purpose, aren’t you?”

Rafe smiled. Yes, he was. And he really should stop torturing her. “I can’t help it, Your Grace,” he teased. “You look so delightful when you’re ruffled.”

To his surprise, Georgie’s tight-lipped smile curved into a dazzling grin of triumph. “Aha, so I was right. That
was
your stratagem during cards—employing deliberate flirtation to put me off.”

Rafe couldn’t resist pulling her closer into him so their hips gently collided as he took a deeper than necessary step in another turn. “You mistake my motives for flirting,” he murmured against her shell-like ear. “And besides, we’re not playing cards anymore, are we?” The blackguard within him was gratified to feel her shiver in his arms.

“Well you can put the thought of playing at anything else, right out of your head, Lord Markham,” she grated out, her smile now more of a forced grimace. “I’m tired of your games.”