The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (34 page)

Georgie reached out and touched Rafe’s cheek, a brief, tentative caress. “I’m relieved beyond measure you haven’t been blamed. And I should thank you. I’ve feared and despised Lord Craven for what seems like a lifetime.” She took a deep breath, mustering her courage to make an admission that weighed heavily upon her heart. “Ever since I found out that you’ve been plotting to destroy that sorry excuse for a man, I’ve been struggling with how I felt about it all. What he did to me was wrong. So wrong that words often fail me when I try to describe the gaping hole he left inside me. I do understand why you wanted to punish him so badly. I really do. And this may sound shocking to you, but I’ve only just realized I’m relieved that he is dead.” She dragged in another steadying breath and lifted her chin. “No. It’s more than that. I’m glad he is dead. I hope he rots in hell.”

Rafe’s turbulent gaze softened. “I know how difficult it can be to acknowledge such emotions, Georgie. And honestly, I’m not shocked at all to hear you feel that way about Craven. But,” his mouth twisted into a wry grimace, “I can also see that
I’ve
shocked you by my actions. In many ways, I’m not a good man either.”

“No, don’t you dare say that,” Georgie said fiercely, gripping his arms. “You are noble and kind-hearted. The very best of men.” Before he could stop her, she kissed him. Reaching up, she grasped the back of his head and pushed her mouth against his. Her movements were frantic and clumsy but that didn’t matter. She was determined to show Rafe how much she loved and admired him. How much she wanted him despite his imperfections and his dark past. And how grateful she was to have him in her life.

Rafe groaned, a primal, guttural sound and kissed her back. Spearing his fingers into her short curls, he effortlessly took control of the kiss, plundering her mouth with such fervor, she was soon dizzy with lust. She pushed her hips against his and slid her hands beneath his coat, began to fumble with the buttons of his silk waistcoat. And that’s when Rafe ripped his mouth away.

“Georgie,” he rasped. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

For the second time tonight, he set her way from him, and the pain lancing through her heart hurt more than the press of Dashkov’s knife. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Rafe pushed his hands into his hair. “I know you see me as some sort of hero after today. A man worthy of your love. But I’m not, Georgie. Not at all.”

Anger flared inside her. “Of course you are.”

Rafe shook his head, backing away from her, his expression bleak. “I’ve killed men... and worse.” He could barely meet her gaze. “I’ve tortured them to extract information, manipulated them, and betrayed others. I’ve lied, stolen, cheated, lured women to my bed with impunity, broken hearts. Name a sin, I’ve probably committed it. And I haven’t felt the remorse I know that I should a good deal of the time... Like today. I didn’t feel one iota of guilt when I shot Craven, or Dashkov.”

“Yes, you shot two men today, one to avenge a heinous wrong and the other to save me.” Georgie closed the distance between them again and caught Rafe’s hand. “Not many men would do, or
could
do what you have done.”

“Perhaps not, but it
is
my fault that Dashkov entered your life. I thought I could put my messy, sordid, ugly past behind me, but it seems that I cannot.
I
put you in harm’s way, Georgie. Me. And
that
is something I regret with my entire being.” Rafe’s throat convulsed and his eyes glimmered with tears. The tender despair in his voice, made Georgie want to weep also. With trembling fingers he touched the bandage on her neck. “Look what he did to you, my love. You almost died today. And for that, I can never forgive myself.”

And that’s when Georgie knew. This treacherous guilt clawing Rafe to pieces, it wasn’t just about her.

She drew a deep breath. “Tell me about Solange.”

R
afe bowed
his head and closed his eyes.
Solange.
Of course, Georgie would see that she had something—perhaps everything—to do with the unrelenting guilt he carried about inside him. And after everything Georgie had been through, she had a right to know about the memory that haunted him the most. She’d witnessed his nightmares. He suspected he would suffer nightmares about how Dashkov had treated Georgie too.

“I’m sorry if I’m asking too much of you,” she murmured.

“No, you’re not.” Rafe offered her a weak smile. “Of course you’re not.” He gestured toward the arrangement of chairs before the fire. “Come, let us sit down.”

Georgie chose the settee and against his better judgment, Rafe sat beside her. Her leg brushed his and it was pure torture. He wanted her so badly, yet she would never be safe if he remained in her life. There were too many other men like Dashkov out there in the world. He’d been naïve to think someone like him—a spy—could ever live a normal life. His past was like a canker that he would never be able to cut away.

And he had to make Georgie see that.

“At the start of the Peninsular War, eight years ago, I was sent to Spain by the Foreign Secretary, Baron Hawkesbury, to gather intelligence on the activities of the French,” he began. “Old Boney had invaded and had made his older brother the new King of Spain.”

Georgie squeezed his hand. “Yes, I recall that. King Joseph. There was much fear at home that Bonaparte was going to conquer all of Europe.”

Rafe nodded. “Quite so. Posing as a French servant, I found employment as a footman within the household of a French officer of interest, General Duchamp who had just been posted to Madrid. It was believed he was within Bonaparte’s inner military circle. And he had a wife. A much younger, quite beautiful wife. Madame Solange Duchamp took care of her husband’s household affairs including the hiring of staff.”

“She offered you the position?”

“I spoke excellent French and was armed with an impeccable, albeit false, set of references.” Rafe didn’t care to add that the footman he replaced had met an ‘accidental’ death only several days before he’d arrived on Duchamp’s doorstep on the Calle de Alcalá. Georgie needn’t know about every violent act he’d committed in the line of duty. What she was about to hear would condemn him easily enough.

“As you can imagine,” he continued, “Duchamp spent a considerable amount of time away. But when he was home, I would eavesdrop whenever I could, and scour any documents I came upon so I could pass the information on to another contact. That man would then send the intelligence onto our British officers who were leading the campaign.”

“You mentioned Solange was younger than her husband,” prompted Georgie. “You fell in love with her.”

Rafe had denied it once before, but he couldn’t deny the truth now. “Yes. Although I told myself at the time it was only lust that I felt for her. I was twenty-four and I knew from the very beginning Solange was attracted to me.” The memory of how her large, dark brown eyes would shine whenever he’d walked into the room would stay with Rafe forever.

When he looked at Georgie, she was smiling. Thankfully, there was no censure in her expression. “I can imagine,” she said softly. “I am sure you were quite a sight in your livery.”

Rafe almost laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. Powdered periwigs do tend to make any man look ancient. But, I digress.” He blew out a sigh, preparing himself to relate the next part of this sorry tale. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone before, Georgie. So please forgive me if I’m not particularly eloquent.”

“I understand.”

The light of compassion in her eyes made it possible for him to continue. “I had been employed but a month when Solange and I embarked on our affair. She was quite lonely and desperately unhappy in her marriage. You see, Duchamp was a despicable man—he had exacting standards and a blazing temper, which only became worse when he drank, which was often. Although she denied it, I had strong suspicions Duchamp actually struck Solange if she did something to anger him. In private I saw marks on her—bruises on her arms and other places on her body and once she had a swollen lip—but she was reluctant to talk about it. She always had a ready excuse to hand to explain her injuries away.”

Georgie blanched. “Oh, my Lord, Rafe. That’s terrible. Did they have children?”

“No. That was another source of tension in the marriage. Solange told me they’d been married six years but were childless. She suspected she was barren. And Duchamp was not happy about it.”

“It must have been very difficult, working within that household, knowing what was happening to the woman you cared about.”

As always, Rafe was amazed by Georgie’s understanding. “Yes. It was
a tense, troubled time to say the least. There I was, a young man, flagrantly stealing confidential military information from a French general, and all the while, I was having carnal relations with his beautiful wife. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t falling in love with Solange but of course I was. I was such an idiot to think I could handle the situation. I wasn’t careful enough and poor Solange paid the price.”

Georgie raised a hand to her throat. “What happened?”

“Solange discovered what I was doing. She caught me going through her husband’s papers in his study one day. Fortunately, she didn’t care. She just wanted to be with me. In fact, she wanted us to run away together as soon as we could manage it. I understood of course but I just couldn’t give her what she asked for. It wasn’t as simple as that. There was no foreseeable end date to my mission... You may condemn me for this, Georgie, but I believed I had a job to do. There was so much at stake—the lives of hundreds if not thousands of British soldiers. And as much as I cared for Solange—and as much as I hated the mistreatment she endured at the hands of her husband—I felt my duty to England was far stronger. I promised Solange that when I was able to, I would help her leave Duchamp. But it turned out I grossly underestimated the general and what he was capable of. And in doing so, I completely misjudged Solange’s situation.”

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.