The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (33 page)

You are home, you are safe,
she repeated to herself until her breathing and pulse returned to a pace approaching normal.
The nightmare is over.

Sitting up gingerly, Georgie winced when the bandage at her neck pulled and the cut beneath stung. She sensed it was late in the day given how dark it was, and a quick glance at the mantel clock confirmed she was correct—it was close to five o’clock. The curtains at the windows had been drawn and a fire crackled brightly in the grate, but she didn’t feel cheered by the sight.

She was unsettled. She wanted Rafe.

Scanning the cluster of chairs before the fire, and then all the dark corners of her room, her heart sank when she realized she was indeed alone. But perhaps Rafe was in the sitting room. She slid from the bed and after putting on slippers and wrapping a silk dressing gown about herself, she padded to the door.

“Jonathon,” she cried, her voice cracking with emotion when she saw her brother sitting by the fire.

He jumped to his feet and within a moment had enveloped her in a gentle hug. “Oh dear, Lord, Georgie-bean. What are you doing out of bed?”

“I could ask you the same question. You could have been killed.” She drew back to study his face. “Tell me how you are. Does your head still hurt? What did the physician say?”

An affectionate smile lit her brother’s eyes as he chucked her under the chin. “I’ve been officially diagnosed with a ‘sore head’. Apart from a tender spot at the back, I am well.” He led her over to the shepherdess chair on the hearthrug and urged her to sit. “I will ring for tea and supper, and then, if you feel up to it, you can tell me your version of this morning’s events.”

“So you have spoken with Rafe?” Georgie couldn’t hide the note of melancholy in her voice when she added, “I’m surprised he isn’t here...”

Jonathon rang the bell-pull then returned to the fireside, taking the chair beside hers. “Yes, I have spoken with him...” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “He... I understand he’s had to tidy up some loose ends. With the Bow Street Runners and the Foreign Secretary’s office. As you would expect.”

“Of course.” Georgie plucked at the lace edging of her robe. Her brother had been assaulted. She, a duchess, had been kidnapped. And a man had been shot—a former spy, a traitor to his own king and country. A mad man.

She closed her eyes and shivered as a memory of feeling utterly helpless with a knife at her throat intruded into her thoughts.

“Here, drink this, sis.” Jonathon offered her a sherry, which she accepted with thanks. “As I said, if you’d like to talk about it...” He resumed his seat and then stared into the fire, leaving it entirely up to her to continue. Or not.

“I would.” She had questions too and she was certain her brother would be able to fill in the gaps. She took a large sip of sherry to bolster her courage and then began her story at the point where Jonathon had been knocked out and Dashkov had kidnapped her. By the time she’d finished, she was trembling again and Jonathon’s scowl was as black as a thunder cloud.

“I could kill him for what he’s put you through, Georgie.”

Georgie frowned in confusion. “What? Dashkov? But he’s already d—”

“No. Bloody Markham.” Jonathon’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “If it weren’t for him—”

Georgie leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “If it weren’t for him, I’d still be a sad, lonely widow, hiding myself away with nothing to look forward to. Simply existing and never really living. I don’t regret anything. Not a single thing.”

Jonathon’s gaze sharpened on her face. “You really love him so much that you can forgive him for putting you in danger?”

“Yes. I do love him that much, Jonathon. There’s nothing to forgive.”

Jonathon puffed out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “So be it. I was intending to give Markham his marching orders when he returned, but if he really makes you that happy, I suppose I can hold my tongue.”

“Thank you. Although, there’s something that’s been perplexing me. How on earth did Rafe find me?”

Jonathon hesitated for a moment before responding, “I gather your maid Constance provided him with the information.”

Georgie’s brows shot up. “Whatever do you mean? What on earth has my maid got to do with any of this?”

“It seems Dashkov was coercing her, threatening her family with physical harm if she didn’t divulge a detailed account of your daily schedule,” explained Jonathon. “That’s how Dashkov always seemed to be lurking in the wings, ready to pounce out at odd moments. Like this morning.”

When Jonathon explained the exact nature of Dashkov’s threats, Georgie felt sick with horror. Poor Constance. No wonder the girl had been looking so unwell these past few weeks. “Where is Constance now? Is she all right? She must be riddled with guilt.”

“She’s distraught, as you’d expect,” replied Jonathon. “I’ve given her a few days to recuperate. She’s staying with her sister and younger brother in Grafton Street.”

Georgie nodded. “That’s probably for the best. However, I would like to send word to her tomorrow to reassure her that her position is safe. None of this is her fault.”

“Of course.”

Georgie sighed. “I still don’t understand how Rafe found me. How was Constance able to help?”

“Apparently Constance and her younger brother would deliver your schedule to an address in Marylebone. When Markham went to investigate, you weren’t there, but then he was lucky enough to sight Dashkov through the window across the street. And you know the rest.”

Indeed she did. If Rafe hadn’t seen Dashkov... Georgie shuddered. No, she didn’t want to think about it. Instead she turned the conversation in another direction. “Did you hear...?” Her voice quivered so she took a fortifying breath before continuing, “What was the outcome of the duel?”

“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 leg 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.”