The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (35 page)

S
outh Audley Street
, Mayfair, 21st December 1816

R
afe groaned
and pulled a pillow over his face but it didn’t help to muffle the violent pounding on the door that seemed to match the rhythmic pounding in his head.
Christ and all his saints.
Who the hell was trying to beat his way into his bedroom?

He lurched into a sitting position and when the room stopped spinning, he snatched up his pocket-watch from the bedside table and squinted at the time. One o’clock in the afternoon. He supposed he should get up if only to dispose of the bastard on the other side of the door.

“Markham, answer me for God’s sake. Or do you want me to break down this door?”

Shit.
It was Phillip. Rafe sighed as he slid out of bed and pulled on a robe. He’d half expected his friend would try to dig him out of his rooms eventually. It had been well over a month since he and Georgie had parted ways, and he’d only ventured out of his townhouse on a handful of occasions.

It was time to face the firing squad.

Rafe unlocked the door, admitting his friend. “I suppose Castlereagh wants something,” he growled.

Phillip looked him up and down with undisguised disgust. “Enough of this wallowing in self-pity. Even if Castlereagh did want something from you, you are worse than useless in your current state.” He wrinkled his nose. “Christ, Markham. When did you last bathe?”

Rafe pushed a hand through his hair and frowned, trying to remember. “Don’t recall.”

Phillip arched a brow. “I’d wager it was probably last week when I saw you at White’s.”

Rafe shrugged. “Why don’t you make it the subject of this week’s club wager then?”

“Not funny, Markham.” Phillip crossed the room and thrust back the blue damask curtains before throwing the casement window open. “Where’s your valet?”

Rafe groaned again and massaged his throbbing forehead. “God knows. Probably in the kitchen drinking the cooking sherry with the butler. Why the bloody hell are you here anyway if it’s not at the behest of Castlereagh?”

Phillip leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms over his chest. “Helena and I want to speak with you. She’s downstairs in your drawing room so you’d best not dawdle over your toilette. You know what she’s like when she’s kept waiting.”

Rafe scrubbed a hand down his face. “Your wife is downstairs?” His gut began to roil with unease as well as nausea. “What’s wrong? Is it Georgie?”

“Of course it’s about Georgie, you dunderhead. But you don’t get to find out the details until you clean yourself up. You’ve got half an hour.” Phillip strode to the door, adding as he left, “I’ll order coffee.”

Twenty minutes later, a washed, freshly shaven and suitably attired Rafe stepped into his own drawing room.

Helena immediately rose from the settee and greeted him with her infectious smile. “Rafe, it’s been far too long. Come and sit by me and I will pour your coffee.” She turned to her husband who stood by the fire. “You shall only have tea this time, Phillip. You’ve already had enough coffee for one day.”

Rafe cocked an eyebrow at his friend who gave a resigned shrug. Phillip had told him on many an occasion that it was a silly man indeed who opposed his wife. Rafe had the distinct impression he was about to find that out first-hand.

He took his place beside Helena on the claret velvet settee, and accepted his coffee with thanks, but declined a sandwich. Once Phillip was armed with his permitted cup of tea, Rafe gathered his patience together and addressed his friends. “While I anticipate taking nuncheon with you both will be quite pleasurable,” he said glancing between Helena and Phillip, “I believe you have something you wish to tell me. About Georgie.”

Helena put down her cup and saucer on the oak table with a precise click. “Yes.” She fixed her gaze on him, studying him for a brief moment. “I know these past few weeks have been very difficult for you, Rafe. And I understand your decision to end things with Georgie was for the very noblest of reasons. But,” her gaze flitted to Phillip as though she was seeking his reassurance before returning to him again, “Phillip and I thought it was best you hear the news from us, rather than from another, less reputable source.”

Rafe felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart thudded oddly in his chest as he put down his coffee. “What news?”
God, if anything had happened to Georgie...

Phillip cleared his throat. “Georgie is to be married.”

“
What?
” Rafe lurched to his feet, nearly upsetting the tea table. “You have got to be joking.” His gaze darted between Helena and Phillip. “Please tell me this is some sort of sick joke.”

Helena put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “It’s not a joke, Rafe. We would never jest about something as important as this.”

Rafe pushed his hands into his hair and began pacing up and down the Turkish hearthrug. Was he really awake or was this another one of his twisted nightmares? He’d had so many of late... “Who? Who is she marrying?” he demanded as he came to a stop in the middle of the room. “And when? Where?”

Phillip and Helena exchanged a speaking look. Phillip cleared his throat again. “To answer your first question, Lord Farley.”

Rafe’s mind spun with the sheer incredulity of the idea. “Farley?
Winterbourne’s
Farley?”

Helena nodded. “I’m afraid so. We,” she gestured toward her husband, “have been asked to attend the wedding at Harrow Hall. Three days hence, on Christmas Eve.”

Rafe dragged a hand down his face. Georgie was going to marry Lord Farley. Another man who preferred the company of men. There had to be a very good reason for such a monumental decision.
Surely she isn’t...
“Please forgive my indelicate question, Helena, but do you think Georgie is with child?”

Helena held his gaze steadily. “She hasn’t shared such a confidence with me, Rafe. But, I rather think
you
might know if that were a possibility.”

Phillip coughed. “Our carriage is waiting outside, Markham, if you would like to make the journey to Lincolnshire with us.”

Rafe strode toward the bell-pull to ring for his valet. “Give me ten minutes.”

* * *

H
arrow Hall
, Harrow-on-the-Wold, Lincolnshire, 24
^th
December 1816

G
eorgie sat
in the window seat in her bedroom at Harrow Hall and tried to pay attention to Constance’s endless prattle about her wedding attire. If truth be told, she didn’t give a fig about the arrangement of her curls, or which ribbon or comb Constance would use to secure her hair, or anything at all to do with her impending marriage to Ambrose, Lord Farley.

Oh, dear God, am I really going to go through with this?

Georgie clutched her hands together as a fresh wave of despair washed over her. She took a shuddering breath and blinked away tears. Being this upset all the time couldn’t be good for the baby.
Rafe’s baby.
A baby he would never know.

She cast her gaze over the snow-blanketed view outside her window and fervently wished she were numb inside, frozen to hardness like the lake by the denuded willow copse. But she wasn’t numb. Far from it.

Her heart ached and her belly churned with doubt even though her ever-practical mind insisted there was only one sensible course of action for her to take, and that was to marry Lord Farley.

When she’d realized she was pregnant—a fortnight ago—she had confided in Jonathon. He’d immediately suggested the most expedient and logical way to solve her predicament—enter another marriage of convenience. Jonathon confessed that whilst Ambrose could never replace Teddy in his heart, he had fallen very much in love with the young earl. And like Teddy, Ambrose required a wife and heir.

Still reeling from Rafe’s rejection, Georgie had straightaway agreed to the proposal. There was no way on earth she would let her son or daughter be born into this world with the ignominious label of ‘bastard’. Nor was she willing to be labeled a fallen woman. Of course, she could always steal away to the Continent to have the babe, but then she couldn’t tolerate the notion of giving the child to someone else to raise when she returned to England.

She wanted this baby with her entire being.

It was all she had left of Rafe.

She’d briefly contemplated the idea of seeking Rafe out to tell him that he was going to be a father. However, he’d made it abundantly clear—despite the fact he loved her—that there was no place for her, or
any
loved ones, in his life. And so in the end, she’d discarded such a foolish plan. She certainly wouldn’t beg him to take her back. For better or for worse, she had too much pride within her to do such a thing.

Marriage to Lord Farley was the only way forward for her and this baby.

“Shall I make arrangements for your bath, Your Grace?”

Georgie started at Constance’s question. “I...” She glanced at the ormolu clock; it was eleven o’clock, and she was still dressed in only a pale blue satin robe. Her gaze darted to the bed where her wedding gown lay, a confection of silver muslin and white satin, beaded with seed pearls.

“Not yet,” she said. “I have plenty of time.” Ambrose had obtained a special license and they were to be wed in Harrow Hall’s private chapel at three o’clock. “Besides,” she added, “I would like to wait for Lady Maxwell before I begin to get ready. I trust she will arrive soon.”

Constance curtsied. “Yes, ma’am...” Her brow furrowed with concern. “I apologize if I seem forward, but if there is anything else that I can do for you, anything at all, just let me know and I will do it straightaway.”

Georgie inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Since returning to service, Constance had carried out her duties with unquestionable dedication and with the utmost discretion. Considering Georgie had missed her courses and had been sick every morning for the past fortnight, Constance must know her mistress was pregnant. Yet her maid had remained tight-lipped on both matters.

And Georgie was nothing but grateful. Despite Constance’s involvement in Dashkov’s scheme, Georgie still trusted her. Constance and her family had been the baron’s victims too.

As Georgie drew another breath to dismiss her maid, she heard the distant crunch of horses’ hooves and wheels on gravel.

Glancing out the window, she confirmed it was the Earl and Countess of Maxwell’s carriage; she watched the glossy black coach follow the curved drive until it drew to a stop before the main wing of the gray-bricked Restoration-style manor. Phillip had sent a message via courier earlier this morning indicating he and Helena would arrive at Harrow Hall by noon at the very latest. And true to his word, here they were.

The corner of Georgie’s mouth twitched. It was the closest she’d come to smiling in days. She was both heartened and thankful her friends had accepted the invitation to attend her wedding; she regretted she’d hardly seen them in the past month. The day after Rafe had ended their affair, Helena had come to see her at Dudley House to coddle her—as only Helena could—and to commiserate. However a week later, she had decamped to Harrow Hall. Remaining in London, when Rafe was so close was pure torture. If she ever saw him again, she knew she would be completely undone.

But then, what if she
never
saw him again? There was certainly every chance he was already gone, sent on a mission to some far flung place by Lord Castlereagh.

She gripped the edge of the window seat and squeezed her eyes shut. The pain that she had been trying so hard to suppress every single minute, of every single day suddenly sliced into her heart, and she had to bite her lip to stifle a whimper of distress.

No. Don’t think about him, Georgiana Dudley. He’s gone. There is nothing you can do and you have a wedding to prepare for.

“Your Grace?” Constance was at her shoulder.

Unable to speak, Georgie waved her away. “Please arrange for tea to be served to our guests in the drawing room,” she said eventually, her voice husky with strain. Swallowing hard, she somehow regained a semblance of control before adding, “And when Lady Maxwell is ready, please direct her to my rooms.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as the door closed, Georgie rushed to the wash basin and splashed cold water over her face to stem the flood of scalding tears she could feel gathering behind her eyelids. Perhaps in time she wouldn’t feel this way. So angry and broken and utterly desolate.

As far as she was concerned, that day couldn’t come soon enough.