The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (13 page)

Georgie arched an eyebrow. “Yes, you did.”

“So will you still take tea with me?”

It was a straightforward question, but the now familiar glint of devilry in Markham’s eyes made it seem as though he was asking her to do something quite illicit, rather than simply joining him in a quite ordinary—albeit pleasant—type of activity. It was almost as if he was challenging her to another dare.

Her mouth twitched. Despite her wariness, she was finding it very hard not to smile. Markham’s mischievousness was becoming frighteningly infectious. “I take it you’ll let me pour?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His gaze broke from hers and lifted to the first floor landing above. “Ah, Mrs. Chalmers. Her Grace, the Duchess of Darby has arrived.”

The gray-haired housekeeper dipped into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace. Welcome to Rivergate. If you would like to follow me, I shall show you the way to the Rose Suite. Your maid and luggage are there already.”

Suite?
Markham was indeed playing the magnanimous host to the hilt. “Thank you.”

Georgie lifted her skirts in preparation to climb the stairs but Markham laid a hand on her arm, staying her. “Promise me you won’t bury yourself in your room. After tea, I would be happy to give you a tour of Rivergate—the interior at least. I have quite an extensive library, and, well... I would very much like to spend more time in your company, Your Grace.”

There
. He’d revealed his intentions. He did indeed wish to be alone with her and she didn’t for a minute think that taking tea and taking tours were the only pursuits on the agenda. Heart pounding, Georgie glanced up the stairs, but Mrs. Chalmers had retreated a discrete pace or two and seemed to be engrossed in studying the Persian runner at her feet. She looked back at Markham and was struck by the intensity of his expression. He was holding his breath—hanging by a thread as it were—waiting for her answer.

He’s nervous
. Somehow, seeing a chink in Markham’s armor, tugged at Georgie’s heart in a wholly unexpected and peculiar way. “I... All right.” She couldn’t mask the slightly breathless quality of her voice, effectively betraying her own nervous state. “I should like a tour.”

Markham smiled so softly and disarmingly, her heart stumbled. “Excellent. I’ll be waiting in the drawing room. It’s through the set of mahogany doors, just to the right of the stairs here.”

Releasing her, he then stepped away and bowed briefly before turning and disappearing through the doors he’d indicated.

Georgie let out a shaky breath then gathering her skirts again, she climbed the stairs to follow Rivergate’s housekeeper. One thing was certain, whatever lay in store for her, it was not going to be a dull afternoon.

* * *

H
alf an hour later
, Georgie, with the assistance of her lady’s maid, Constance, had refreshed her appearance to her satisfaction. Her hair had been styled into a becoming Grecian arrangement with curled tendrils escaping about her neck, and she’d also changed her dress. Her creased and damp traveling garb was abandoned in favor of a dusky pink day gown of shot silk, trimmed with ivory ribbon and lace. Whilst she was now suitably attired for taking tea, she rather doubted she was suitably prepared to face Lord Markham and his all too potent charm.

When she glanced in the looking glass above the dressing table, she could see her cheeks were almost as pink as the dress she wore. Blowing out a deep sigh, she pressed her hands to her hot face. The problem was—as it always seemed to be when it came to Markham—she was constantly in two minds about him. To run or to stay? That was the question.

“Can I help you with anything else, ma’am?” her maid asked quietly. “I’ll have your dove-gray silk gown aired and pressed in plenty of time for dinner at seven.”

Georgie met the young woman’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “No. I don’t require anything else for now.” Constance was an intelligent, efficient girl and Georgie quite liked her. More importantly she knew she could trust her implicitly. She had been in her service for four years and during Georgie’s marriage, the maid had never once remarked upon the fact that Teddy had never spent a single night in his wife’s bedchamber or vice versa. “After you’ve attended to my gown, why don’t you have a late luncheon in the kitchen? Tell Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper, you have my express permission.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After dismissing Constance, Georgie pulled a soft, cream cashmere shawl about her shoulders then crossed to the wide window in her bedchamber. A third floor room with an adjoining sitting room, it overlooked the grounds, the drive and the Thames beyond. The rain continued unabated and the sky—if anything—had grown darker; the clouds looked bruised and brooding. She frowned when she saw the Thames was even higher—a churning, fast-flowing muddy brown. The banks of the river were quite low here and she suspected some areas would be prone to flooding. Anxiety for Jonathon gnawed at her insides again. She prayed he would keep safe.

However, staying buried in her room—as Markham had put it—wasn’t going to stop the rain or the river from rising. With a resigned sigh, she tugged her shawl about herself more tightly. It was time to stop worrying and take tea.

She set forth from her apartments and easily found the stairs that led back to the main hall and the drawing room. As she descended, she noticed the door had been left ajar, as if beckoning her inside. Markham was in there, waiting for her; it was almost as if she could sense his magnetic presence.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Georgie stepped into the room beyond but then stopped immediately at the edge of the Aubusson rug, a small gasp of delight escaping her lips. Like the exterior of the house, her rooms and the vestibule, Rivergate’s drawing room was breath-takingly elegant. Delicate plaster work—predominantly scrollwork, and intricate vine and flower motifs—adorned the high ceiling, and a pair of wide windows afforded a sweeping view of the grounds and the Thames beyond. Exquisitely detailed Chinoiserie wallpaper featuring peonies, cherry blossoms and exotic birds in muted hues of blue, pale pink and soft green covered the wall at one end of the room. At the other end, before a white marble fireplace, stood an inviting arrangement of Chippendale armchairs and settees also in the Chinoiserie style. A sumptuous afternoon tea had been set out on a low mahogany table in the center.

Also looking more than sumptuous was Lord Markham. He stood facing away from her, staring into the brightly burning fire. With a booted foot resting on the hearthstone and one arm resting on the white marble mantel, he was a study in aristocratic nonchalance. And almost too beautiful for words. The way the leather of his Hessian’s hugged his calves, how his breeches seem molded to his muscular thighs, how his coat fitted his broad shoulders then tapered off highlighting his narrow hips, he was as captivating as any fine work of art. She suddenly wondered if the musculature beneath his clothing was as well-defined as that of any male marble statue. Blushing with shock at the waywardness of her thoughts and ill-mannered behavior—she had never, ever ogled a man in such a way before—she gave herself a mental admonishment.
For shame, Georgiana Dudley. Why, you’re no better than a rake yourself.

Immediately ceasing her blatant perusal of Markham’s body, she swallowed then cleared her throat. “Rivergate’s drawing room is delightful.”

Straightaway, Markham lifted his head and met her gaze. His mouth lifted into a welcoming smile. “Ah there you are,” he said as he stepped away from the hearth. “And yes, the room is lovely, isn’t it? I’d like to take the credit for having such good taste, but I’m afraid much of what you see before you, bar the furniture, is courtesy of the former owner, the Marquess of Melton.”

Georgie frowned in confusion. “But doesn’t Lord Melton and his family reside in—”
Oh
. She felt another blush creep up her neck to stain her face. She had been about to say Grosvenor Square or the marquess’s country estate in Cheshire, but then she recalled Lord Melton was rumored to have had a very spoiled mistress—Lady Bascombe, the widow of a baronet—whom he kept just outside of London. Rivergate had obviously been her residence.

Markham grinned and moved toward the arrangement of armchairs. “Fortunately for me, but perhaps not so fortunately for Lady Bascombe, Melton was in the process of selling the property just as I was looking to acquire one. And it suits my needs exactly.”

Georgie wasn’t game enough—or silly enough—to enquire what Markham’s exact needs might be. Instead, she simply smiled and nodded toward the tea tray; a silver urn, teapot and blue and white Wedgwood china stood in readiness beside several plates of small cakes, biscuits and delicate sandwiches. “Perhaps we should have a cup before it grows cold.”

Markham inclined his head. “Yes. And your timing is impeccable. The tea trolley arrived not five minutes ago so I would say the water in the urn is still piping hot.” He then gestured toward the arrangement of chairs. “Please take a seat, Your Grace.”

Georgie chose an armchair upholstered in a pastel-hued floral brocade whilst Markham took the ivory and pale blue striped settee opposite her. As was customary, she then busied herself with dispensing the tea as per Markham’s stated preference—black with a lump of sugar, before she poured herself a cup with only a little milk added. Aside from the crackle of the fire, the occasional clink of silver against fine bone china and the constant drum of rain upon the window panes, all was silent.

As Georgie took a small sip of her tea, she felt Markham’s gaze upon her. She dare not contemplate what he was thinking. She suddenly realized this was the first real opportunity that she’d had to properly converse with him. However, now the occasion was upon her, she found that her tongue was tied in knots and her mind was as blank as a newly cleaned slate. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe the way she felt.

Why doesn’t he say something?
she thought.
“I’ve heard—”

“I wondered—”

Their voices collided and Markham laughed. “Ladies first.”

Georgie returned his smile and put down her cup. “Helena mentioned you have been in diplomatic service for some time, but have perhaps returned to England for a longer sojourn. Whilst travelling abroad can be stimulating, I imagine there must have been times when you missed home.”

Markham regarded her steadily. “Yes. The life of a diplomat is a solitary one for the most part and there certainly were occasions when I”—his mouth lifted slightly at one corner into a wry smile—“longed to be back in our fair land. I am pleased indeed that my wandering days are now over. In fact, I’ve recently retired and am keen to set down roots. My father’s estate is in Hertfordshire, but I have lately realized that I’ve a very strong desire to establish a home of my own.”

Markham’s gaze trapped hers. She couldn’t mistake his meaning just as she couldn’t stop heat flooding into her cheeks. Helena had been right. Perhaps Markham was indeed in the market for a wife. But a man like him would want an equal partner both in and out of the bedroom, she was certain of it.

Surely he doesn’t want someone like me… a widow… And a broken one at that
. Scrabbling through the tumble of panicked thoughts in her head for something to say, she voiced the first thing that came to mind. “I... was sorry to hear about your older brother.”
Where is your tact, Georgie?
Why bring up something that must pain him?
Her blush deepened and she hastily reached for her barely touched cup of tea.

Judging by his response, Markham didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you. It seems we have both suffered recent losses,” he said in a low voice, soft with compassion. “Although I had not seen your husband for many years—since Cambridge actually—I remember him as a very generous, noble man.”

Georgie lifted her eyes back to Markham’s face and was surprised to see genuine understanding in his expression. “Yes. He was.” She blinked away a sudden rush of tears and took a sip of her tea to mask her discomposure.
If you only knew...

“You met him through your brother? I understand they were firm friends at Cambridge.”

Such a simple enquiry on the surface, but one that had the potential to be dangerous. Heart racing, Georgie’s studied Markham’s face again. He might be displaying all the outward signs of sympathy, but she had the distinct impression he was watching her reactions carefully.
Why?
Did he know something about her and Jonathon’s situation? And her arrangement with Teddy? He was close friends with the Latimers, but would they have divulged such a volatile secret? Jonathon would not have done so.

Georgie suddenly felt like one of the exotic butterflies pinned beneath the glass in the picture on the wall directly opposite her. “I take it you have been discussing my marriage with Phillip and Helena.” She’d tried to reply in a mild tone but there was no mistaking the acerbic edge to her voice. Unease was transforming her into a short-tempered shrew again.

Markham didn’t even blink; his disarming gaze remained steady. “Yes. At the risk of appearing indecorous, I must confess I am more than a little intrigued by you, Your Grace. To be perfectly frank—and as I intimated earlier—I should like to know more.” His gaze flitted to her mouth before returning to meet her eyes. “Much more.”