The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (24 page)

“No, stay.” Georgie’s voice was husky with need. “If you go, I’ll be left to dwell on things I’d rather not. And I want to think of you. Only you.” She speared her fingers into his hair and drew him closer, nipping at his jaw. His earlobe. “Nothing and no one else.” Her lips moved to his throat as she fumbled with the buttons of his satin waistcoat. “Take me. Make me yours.”

God help me. How can I refuse?

Lust surged hot and heavy through Rafe’s veins, straight to his groin. He backed Georgie toward the settee licking and sucking at her neck as she continued to frantically tug at his waistcoat and pull his shirt from his breeches. Breathing heavily, he all but tore off his coat as Georgie flicked open the buttons securing the fall front of his breeches, freeing his rock-hard erection. Pushing him down onto the chair, she then lifted her skirts with one hand and swiftly straddled his lap; with unerring accuracy, her other hand guided his pulsating shaft to her slick entrance. Moist heat immediately engulfed the crown of his cock and then without the slightest hesitation Georgie slid downward until he was buried to the hilt.

Fuck.
A low growl rumbled in his throat as he gathered her close and pressed his face into her sweetly scented neck. Her passage was as sleek as a satin and gloriously wet and tight. If he could stay in control for a longer than a minute, it would be a miracle.

“Ride me,” he groaned, holding her waist and thrusting his hips upwards, encouraging Georgie to set the pace of their lovemaking.

Gripping his shoulders for purchase, Georgie immediately responded to his crude demand and began to plunge up and down with almost desperate abandon. Panting, her eyes dark with raw desire, Rafe had never seen her look so beautiful. He wanted to bare her breasts, but her woolen spencer and all her other layers were too difficult to deal with as the tempo of their rough coupling increased. Instead, he pushed his fingers into her hair and pulled her head down so he could ruthlessly plunder her hot, sweet mouth. When he pressed his teeth into the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, she ground herself against him and released a hoarse cry of pleasure, “Rafe. Oh, God.”

Her sheath convulsed around his length with such force, he had no choice but to follow her over the edge as well. With a deep, shuddering groan, he let go and pumped into her, too far gone to pull out.

Gasping, Georgie touched her forehead to his and a warm wave of tenderness washed through him, mingling with the pulsating aftershocks of pleasure.

Georgie was undeniably his, and even though he hadn’t taken care this time and had spent his seed inside her, he had no regrets. Indeed, as Georgie feathered kisses across his forehead and cheeks and jaw, he silently rejoiced at the idea that one day she might bear him a child.

He prayed that she would feel that way too.

He raised his head and caught her flushed face between his hands. “Don’t ever doubt me, or us, Georgie. This—what you and I share—it is honest and real.” He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but after such a fast and furious coupling, now didn’t seem like quite the right moment.

“I know,” she whispered, a soft smile curving mouth. She pressed her palms against his chest. “Rafe, I want to tell you—”

A sharp knock at the door had Rafe cursing beneath his breath.

“Georgie? Are you in there?”

It was bloody Winterbourne.

“Yes, but I’m rather busy right at this moment, Jonathon,” she called back. “Lord Markham and I are having... an in-depth discussion.”

“Oh... Right... I’ll be in the library if you would care to join me when you’re done.”

Georgie bit her lip and her shoulders shook as she tried to stifle a fit of laughter.

Rafe grinned too. “Do you know how beautiful you are when you smile?”

Georgie’s smile grew impudent and she wriggled a little. “Well, I would be more inclined to believe you if I wasn’t still sitting in such a wicked position.”

“Wench,” he groaned, grasping her about the hips to still her movements. “You’d best stop or you won’t be leaving this room for quite some time.”

“Hmm, I will need to go up to my room to rectify my appearance before I speak with Jonathon.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “How do I look?”

Rafe took in her crumpled gown, her tumble-down curls that barely concealed the bruises from his brutish assault on her neck, and her red, slightly swollen lips. “Thoroughly swived.”

“Well, I suppose it will be more of a dash upstairs then—”

He brushed a kiss across her lips. “I will distract your brother.”

“Thank you.”

Once Rafe had assisted Georgie to her feet, and after she’d shaken out her skirts, he caught her hand between his, preventing her retreat. The guilt for not withdrawing from her in time—and the fact that they hadn’t yet discussed it—still pricked at his conscience. “Georgiana, I’m sorry I did not take more care with you. If there should be a child—”

Georgie put a finger to his lips. “Hush. Do not worry. Everything will be fine. I trust you, Rafe.” Reaching up, she gave him a quick kiss and slipped from the room before he could say another word.

Everything will be fine
. As Rafe restored his own appearance, he fervently prayed that Georgie’s assertion was right. A baby would be a joy. And Craven could be easily dealt with.

But Riddle... now he was another problem entirely.

Rafe downed the last of his brandy, hardening his resolve. He’d had enough of this waiting game. He’d double the men he had scouring the streets. The sooner he disposed of the cur, the better.

1
4th November 1816

“
B
loody hell
, Markham. Steady on. There’s no need to knock a man’s daylights out.”

Rafe lowered his fists and grinned. “It seems you’ve grown soft in your old age, Phillip.” His friend had agreed to be his sparring partner for a round or two of boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s Salon, but it seemed he was sadly out of practice. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“You bloody well did,” accused Phillip, rubbing his jaw. “Helena will have your guts for garters if you rough me up too much. I can’t very well attend Lord Derwent’s ball tonight if I’m sporting a black eye or a split lip.”

Rafe used his forearm to wipe away the sweat trickling off his brow. “It’s a masquerade ball. No one will notice.” He and Georgie were attending also—he’d have preferred not to. In the last week, he’d been caught up with matters related to organizing protection for the Prince Regent and his family, and he hadn’t spent nearly as much time at Dudley House as he would have liked. If he could have his way, he’d spend the entire evening alone with Georgie—in bed.

Phillip’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You’re a braver man than I then, Markham. Do you really want to put my wife in a state of high dudgeon?”

Rafe couldn’t contain his huff of laughter. “All right then, my featherweight friend. Would you like to throw in the sponge?”

“God, yes.” Phillip waved over one of the attendants to help him remove the mufflers from his hands. “And perhaps you could save me from further bruising and humiliation by asking your old mentor himself to be your sparring partner from now on.” He nodded toward one of the wooden benches by the windows facing Bond Street. “Your man Cowan is chatting to him now.”

Sure enough, Cowan was deep in conversation with Gentleman Jackson. Rafe had asked him to find out if anyone fitting Riddle’s description had been seen at the salon of late. Even though Rafe had his men watching Georgie’s and his own movements at all times of the day and night, it would be foolish not to continue making discrete enquiries. Cowan had once been a former employee of Jackson’s—in fact at one stage, Cowan had apparently contemplated becoming a prize fighter, but had then opted for a career as a Bow Street Runner. In any case, Rafe knew Jackson would readily disclose what he knew to Cowan. At that moment, his mentor looked up and on spotting Rafe, beckoned him over.

As Rafe approached, Jackson rose and then greeted him with a warm smile and clap on the back. Although the former prize-fighting boxer’s dark hair was now streaked with silver, anyone could see he was still fighting-fit beneath his white silk shirt and magenta and violet striped satin waistcoat.

“Markham, our mutual friend was just asking me when the next prize fight is scheduled,” he said with a conspiratorial gleam in his dark eyes. “I have not been able to convince Tom Cribb to come back to the ring, but up-and-coming Jem Ward has taken the bait. At any rate, there’s sure to be a big purse on the night.” Jackson lowered his voice. “I hear even Prinny is keen to attend. It will be out of town in a week. In Surrey if you are at all interested.”

Rafe grinned as he pulled at the ties on one of his mufflers with his teeth. “It sounds like it will be quite an event.” He already knew all of the details because he’d been planning which of his men would accompany the Prince Regent on his foray.

“I certainly hope so.” Jackson clasped his shoulder. “You know, I might have actually considered asking you to step into the ring, only we both know the night would most likely turn into a riot after you knocked out your opponent within half a minute.”

Rafe chuckled. “You taught me everything I know so you only have yourself to blame.” John Jackson had been his first boxing tutor when he took up the sport at the age of fourteen. Even though the boxing legend was renowned for promoting fair play within the sport, as soon as Rafe knew that he was bound for a career in espionage, he had asked his mentor to teach him how to fight outside the rules—how to incapacitate or even kill a man with only a few blows. Jackson had been an excellent teacher; Rafe’s singular knowledge had saved his life on more occasions than he cared to count over the years.

Jackson’s smile slipped away to be replaced with a frown. “Now, Cowan here tells me you are still on the lookout for a particular man—a foreigner with a German or Russian accent. But I’m sorry to say, I haven’t seen anyone fitting his description. And as far as I know, none of my staff have either.”

Rafe blew out an exasperated sigh; catching Riddle was proving to be about as easy as catching an eel with one’s hands tied behind one’s back, whilst blindfolded. Another thought suddenly occurred to him. “You haven’t by any chance seen the Earl of Craven in here, have you?” Rafe visited Gentleman Jackson’s several times a week to maintain his self-defense skills and strength. He’d never seen Craven in the salon, but because he knew the man was an inveterate gambler and was currently up to his eyeballs in debt at most of the respectable gambling clubs, he wondered if the scum-dweller might be hunting for other opportunities to recover his losses, such as laying bets on boxing matches or even worse, cockfights. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Jackson’s brow lowered into a thoughtful frown. “You know, I have seen him once or twice in the past fortnight. He’s been in the company of Lord Bolton—he’s a keen boxer. Comes in once a week. But all Lord Craven does is take snuff while he watches his friend.”

Rafe’s interest sharpened. He’d dearly love to know how much farther the bastard had fallen into debt over the past few weeks. He couldn’t imagine that it would take much to push him over the edge into complete ruin. He lowered his voice. “Do you know if he’s been making discreet enquiries about any backstreet fights by any chance?” Bare-knuckle prize fighting was illegal, despite the fact that it was popular amongst members of the
ton
, and Prinny himself was an enthusiastic patron. However, it wasn’t too difficult to find an ‘at home’ match to lay a wager on if one knew who to ask at Gentleman Jackson’s or at Limmer’s, a hotel not far from Dudley House where many Corinthians and boxing enthusiasts congregated.

“I’m not certain, but I’ll question my staff at the end of—”

Cowan gave a low whistle. “Well, well, speak o’ the devil himself,” he muttered under his breath.

Rafe followed his man’s gaze. Sure enough, Lord Craven had just sauntered into the room in the company of another young aristocrat—Jackson confirmed it was Bolton. Head held high, Craven’s cool, arrogant gaze slid over the other patrons as he crossed the room as if he were taking stock of who was about—and who might be worthy of his attention. Attired in a burgundy tailcoat, a chocolate brown satin waistcoat and fawn breeches, at first glance, he appeared to be a moneyed buck. But as he drew closer, Rafe noted obvious signs of dissipation and his slide toward penury—Craven’s brown eyes were blood-shot, his overly long, brown hair curled around a graying shirt collar, his Hessians were scuffed and the shiny patches at his elbows suggested his coat had seen better days.

What a pathetic peacock
. Rafe’s jaw tightened and he clenched his muffler clad fists tight as he imagined splitting Craven’s patrician nose with a well aimed left cross. And worse. Much, much worse. Seemingly oblivious to his dark thoughts and hard stare, Craven continued to follow Bolton, heading toward the hall that led to the change rooms.

“Keep an eye on him, Cowan,” Rafe gritted out. Although he’d dearly love to stay and engage with Craven himself—assess his weaknesses first-hand—he had other places to be and other things to do. There was a masquerade ball to attend. And a beautiful duchess to pay homage to. “See if you can find out his preferred gambling haunts. And what he currently owes his money-lenders.”

His movements rough, almost clumsy, Rafe pulled off his other muffler and flexed his stiff fingers. His knuckles cracked. Yes, one way or another, Lord Craven would be paying his dues before the week was out.

* * *

“
M
ind your step
, sis,” Jonathon cautioned as he escorted Georgie along the wet, leaf strewn cobblestones of Berkeley Square toward the end of the long receiving line of masked noblemen and women all waiting to be admitted to Lord and Lady Derwent’s masquerade ball. “I’m afraid Markham was right. With close to two hundred guests, it’s going to be a dreadful press inside. We really should have arrived fashionably late.”

Georgie ignored Jonathon’s grumbling. Nothing could spoil her mood—not even a long wait outside on such a damp, blustery and icy evening. Her free hand slid to her throat where her new sapphire and diamond necklace was hidden beneath her midnight blue velvet domino. Rafe had bestowed the extravagant gift upon her at Dudley House late this afternoon, as she was beginning her preparations for the ball. She could still scarcely believe he’d made such an outrageous purchase at Stedman and Vardon’s; not just the necklace, but the entire parure—the bracelet, earrings, matching ring and even a brooch. And the light in Rafe’s eyes when he’d watched her admiring how the necklace looked against her throat in her dressing table mirror, she’d never seen such an expression. Heated and adoring. Possessive yet tender.

Every time Georgie recalled that moment, her whole body tingled with warmth and a thrill that went beyond mere happiness. It was joy. She now wasn’t afraid to admit to herself that she loved Rafe and she instinctively knew he felt the same way. Even if he hadn’t made a declaration yet. Or revealed all of his secrets.

Georgie smiled to herself as she slipped her fingers beneath the velvet of her cloak and touched the delicate, teardrop shaped gemstones resting just below her collarbone. Secrets—his and her own—didn’t matter to her anymore. Not when she felt like this. Before this night was through, she would confess her feelings to Rafe. And she had no doubt he would reciprocate.

She closed her eyes as another rush of excitement warmed her from the top of her head to the very tips of her toes. The thought of Rafe telling her that he loved her made her pulse race and her heart soar. She suddenly couldn’t wait to meet him inside. To feel the caress of his hot gaze and the press of his hard body against hers as they waltzed. To hear him whispering wicked, yet wholly welcome suggestions in her ear. He’d planned to arrive with Phillip and Helena, for appearance’s sake.

After tonight, she knew she would not care about maintaining appearances any longer.

“Georgie? I swear being in love has turned you into an addlepate.”

Georgie turned her head to look up at her brother. Even though Jonathon’s expression was somewhat obscured by a black, crimson and gold Harlequin style mask, a nearby gas lamp cast sufficient light for her to catch the twinkle of fond amusement in his eyes. “My apologies,” she said, offering him a smile. His teasing didn’t bother her in the slightest. And it wasn’t as if she could deny what he’d just said. “Ask me again.”

“Do you, by any chance, have our invitation?” He patted the pockets within his evening jacket and black wool cloak. “I could have sworn I had it with me.”

Georgie checked inside her ivory silk and crystal beaded reticule. “No, I’m afraid I do not. Did you leave it in the carriage?”

Jonathon swore under his breath. “Yes. I left it on the seat. It seems I’m an addlepate as well.” He clasped her gloved hand between his. “Georgie, I’m so sorry, but we’re going to have to relinquish our place in the queue so I can retrieve our invitation. I don’t know Derwent or his wife that well, and with so many guests, I doubt the attending footmen will admit us without it.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “I will stay here and mind our place. I am sure you will only be gone a minute or two at most.” She peered around the broad-shouldered bulk of the tall gentleman in front of her to better view the receiving line. “It will take at least another five minutes for us to reach the bottom of the stairs in front of Derwent House.”

Jonathon’s mouth flattened with concern. “Hmm. I really don’t think this is a good ide—”

“Just go.” Georgie gave him a gentle prod in the ribs. “We are in Berkeley Square and I am surrounded by members of the
ton
. I will be fine.”

“All right, then.” He shook a finger at her. “But do not, under any circumstances, talk to strangers. And do
not
tell Markham. You know he will kill me.”

Georgie laughed softly. “I am not a babe in the woods. And you’re wasting time. Hurry up.”

Jonathon disappeared into the milling crowd behind them; she suspected he’d head toward the adjacent mews or one of the other nearby thoroughfares in an attempt to locate their carriage. Hopefully, he would return
before
she reached the front door.

A sudden gust of chill wind tore at her hair, cloak and ivory silk skirts, and the black satin domino of the man in front of her whipped dangerously close to her face. Pulling her own cloak tightly about herself, she attempted to step back a pace, but was hindered by the close proximity of the elderly couple directly behind her. Deep in conversation with another party of three—a pretty young woman in a pink muslin gown and matching mask and a middle-aged couple, her parents perhaps—they all seemed oblivious to her plight. And then before she could even draw a breath to politely ask them to move a little, the man before her stepped back, the heel of his black leather shoe crushing the toes of her right foot. Georgie’s cry was little more than a strangled gasp as white-hot agony knifed through her foot. Breathless with the pain, she clutched at the man’s arm, frantically trying to push him forward. Away from her.