The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (4 page)

“What about my kisses?”

She turned her head away and looked down the room. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I won’t disagree.”

They danced in silence for a while longer. Indeed, Georgie remained aloof and stiff in his arms as they made another whole circuit of the ballroom floor. Markham knew she was seething beneath her apparently calm exterior. Perhaps he had miscalculated and had pushed her too far. He realized, with an entirely unexpected pang, that he didn’t want her to go.

He needed to come up with another tactic to keep her engaged.

The music came to an end with a flourish and Georgie immediately began to pull away. Rafe tightened his hold. “Play cards with me again, Your Grace,” he said with grave sincerity. “On my honor, I won’t flirt.”

She arched an eyebrow, her expression imperious. “I don’t think so. Two bouts of piquet and a waltz in one evening? I really don’t want to become the main topic of tomorrow’s scandal sheets.” She took a decisive step away.

Markham reached for her arm and tucked it into his to escort her from the floor. “Coward.”

She sucked in a shocked breath. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said you are a coward, Your Grace.”

Her glare was scorching. “How dare you—”

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to swoon at the prospect of a little gossip. You’re just afraid that I’ll beat you again.” He began to steer her toward the end of the ballroom where the card room awaited, trusting his bait would have the desired effect.

“No. I’m not,” she all but hissed. “Now that I’ve worked you out, I’m immune to your ploys and dubious charms, Lord Markham. I seriously doubt you could beat me a second time.”

Rafe stopped outside the card room’s entry and gave her his most charming smile. “Then play with me. I dare you...”

* * *

H
e trounced her
. Again
.

She must be in some sort of nightmare.

Georgie stormed down the stairs onto the pavement in front of Latimer House, Jonathon following in her wake.

“Georgie... Wait.”

She rounded on her brother, her silk skirts swirling and hissing about her legs. “I’ve waited long enough, Jonathon. In fact, I’ve been waiting to go all night.”

“But it’s drizzling and we’re standing in puddles. At least wait in the vestibule until the carriage is brought round.”

Georgie scowled at him. He spoke sense, but somehow that made her feel even worse. “I wouldn’t care if I had to wait knee deep in the Thames. The idea of seeing any more of... of that man, even for a second—”

“I take it you mean me, Duchess?”

Markham.
Here he was yet again, sauntering toward her like some large beast of prey. Why wouldn’t he leave her be?

“I suppose you’ve come out to
appease
me a second time,” she snapped then immediately regretted her waspish behavior when Markham flinched. To her added mortification, tears pricked her eyes. It wasn’t just the sting of humiliating defeat, or the fact she was continuing to behave like a fishwife that had her so distressed. It was the fact that she’d let a man like Markham affect her so badly, in ways she didn’t want to think about. She swung away from him and Jonathon and faced the street so they wouldn’t see how upset she really was.

Thankfully, Markham kept his distance. “No, I was simply taking my leave as well, Your Grace. It has been an eventful evening.”

Georgie ignored him and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The rain was icy cold and she could feel it trickling down the back of her neck. She started to shiver.

Jonathon cleared his throat. “Would you like a ride, Markham?”

Georgie wanted to kick Jonathon, but she was saved from displaying more unseemly emotion by Markham himself. “Thank you, but no, Sir Jonathon. My residence is but a short stroll away. I bid you good night. And you too, Your Grace.”

Georgie turned her head a little and inclined her head. She was relieved when she managed to reply without her voice cracking. “Good night, Lord Markham.”

Just then, their carriage rounded the corner and halted before her. Steadfastly ignoring both the footman and Jonathon’s outstretched hand to help her in, she lifted her damp skirts and climbed the steps herself. She didn’t dare turn back to glance at Markham, although she fancied she could feel the weight of his all too perceptive stare upon her back.

The dark interior was indeed a welcome relief. She sank into the Moroccan leather seat, leaning her head against the squabs as she closed her eyes. A moment later she heard Jonathon settle himself on the seat opposite before he knocked on the front wall of the carriage to indicate to the coachman they were ready to drive on.

Thank heavens their Hanover Square residence wasn’t far. She pressed a hand to her temple—her forehead had begun to throb in earnest. All because of Markham
.
She didn’t want this attraction, this stirring of lust within her. Between her friends and her charities, her properties and affairs in general to manage, she had more than enough to fill her days and nights. She didn’t want a man like Markham, or any man for that matter, to make her feel this way—like something was missing from her life. She suddenly felt as brittle and empty as the discarded champagne flute she’d left sitting on the Latimers’ terrace. And she didn’t like it one little bit.

“Penny for your thoughts, sis?”

Georgie opened her eyes and sighed wearily, a shaky, rattling breath that clearly betrayed how close she was to tears. “There’s nothing for it, Jonathon...” To her dismay, her voice trembled too. She took another quick breath, grateful for the near darkness inside the carriage. “I’m going to return to Harrow Hall tomorrow.” The depths of Lincolnshire had been a much needed sanctuary during her mourning period. There was no reason why it couldn’t be again.

“Tosh. All because you lost a couple of piquet rounds to Markham? No one will care, Georgie. No one that matters. I won’t let you disappear down a rabbit hole to lick your imagined wounds.” Jonathon reached forward and squeezed her hand.

“You know it’s not just about the cards.” She paused and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, as if wrapping herself up could somehow contain her pain. “Without Teddy...”

“You’re worried that you’ll be beset by unscrupulous suitors who think you’re desperate for a man. Who’ll use you and then discard you like yesterday’s scandal sheets. I know, Georgie, believe me. But not everyone is like that bastard Lord Craven.”

Georgie sucked in a sharp breath and her heart stuttered oddly. Painfully. A toxic combination of shame and fear roiled about in her belly and she had to swallow down a sudden wave of nausea. “Please don’t mention that man’s name to me,” she whispered, her voice edged with such harsh bitterness, she almost didn’t recognize it.

Jonathon sighed and he reached for her again, but she kept her hands clenched tightly in the damp silk at her chest. She was too furious and heartsick to even accept that small gesture of comfort.

“I’m sorry, Georgie-bean,” he said softly and sat back again, clearly accepting that she’d retreated behind a wall of sullen anger. “That was unthinking of me. But I honestly don’t think Phillip and Helena would have introduced you to Markham if he was a complete cad. Or worse.”

Georgie snorted. “I’d never even heard of the man until he sat down in front of me and bold-as-you-please introduced himself. How much could Phillip and Helena really know about him? He could be exactly like Lord Cra—” She couldn’t finish the word and she glared at Jonathon through a haze of hot, stinging tears. The light from a lamppost revealed his guilt-stricken face for a fleeting moment, and her heart twisted a little more—this time with her own remorse. Jonathon meant well, she knew that. She swallowed past the ache in her throat then drew in a steadying breath before attempting to speak in a gentler tone. “How much do
you
know about him?”

Jonathon’s shoulders heaved with another weary sigh. “Only what Phillip told me, to be honest. Markham’s recently become the heir to the Marquessate of Avonmore. His older brother, who was much given to living quietly in the country, passed away about a year ago without issue—a hunting accident—so Markham’s now an earl and next in line for his father’s title.”

Georgie nodded. She only vaguely recalled the details of the marquess’s son’s death because it had occurred about the same time as Teddy’s. But still... She frowned. Rafe Landsbury, the new Earl of Markham was almost a complete stranger in the realm of the
haut ton
. And she was intrigued as to why that should be so. She knew nearly everyone. “That still doesn’t explain why you and I have never laid eyes on him before tonight.”

“Apparently Markham’s been overseas in diplomatic service for some years. Russia, Sweden and the like. Though, I believe he attended Cambridge at the same time as Phillip and Rothsburgh. However, he would have been known as Lord Rafe Landsbury then.”

Georgie sighed and lessened her vice-like grip on her shawl. That piece of information reassured her a little. Perhaps Markham wasn’t rotten to the core. But nevertheless, he was still very much a rake. And for that reason alone she should avoid him. One broken heart was enough for one lifetime. She’d never risk giving it to anyone again.

“Well, all of that hardly signifies,” she replied stiffly, “as I’m not interested in cultivating any sort of relationship with another man. Least of all someone like him.”

“Really?” Jonathon’s voice quivered with sudden mirth. “Then why did you let Markham kiss you?”

Georgie huffed out an exasperated sigh. There was no point insisting that Markham hadn’t kissed her when Jonathon had seen her emerge all flustered from the shrubbery-screened corner of the terrace with fir needles in her hair. As to why she’d let Markham talk her into such an encounter... No, she still didn’t want to think about it. “It was the champagne and well... Markham is devilishly handsome.” She was willing to concede that much. “But it was only one kiss. And that is all there will ever be between us.”

“But what if you could have more? You might not want another husband but surely—”

“I don’t need
more
of anything, Jonathon,” she bit back. “Why won’t you drop this subject? I don’t want to talk about Markham any longer. Besides, I have a fiendish headache.” She leaned back against the squabs again and rubbed her fingertips up and down along her temple to prove her point.

“All right. I’ll drop it... for now. But promise me you won’t hare off to Harrow Hall tomorrow. You need to rest by the looks of you. I pray you’re not coming down with something after all.”

“You are such the mother hen,” Georgie chided but without any real venom this time. She opened her eyes and attempted a small smile. “And I promise I won’t bolt. Not tomorrow at any rate.” She really did feel unwell. Shivery with an achy back, and the beginnings of a scratchy throat. Perhaps she had caught a simple chill. Probably from lingering on cold, wet terraces and standing in the rain.
But she wouldn’t mention how she truly felt because she didn’t want to worry Jonathon unduly.

Jonathon reached out and touched her hand again. “Good.”

The carriage slowed and Georgie glanced out the window. By the glow of the lamplights she could clearly discern the marble Corinthian columns flanking the portico of Dudley House, their rather grand four-story townhouse—an unentailed bequest from Teddy. Perhaps having a cold would work to her advantage—she could hardly attend any social events if she was unwell. And then she could legitimately claim she needed to retreat to Harrow-on-the-Wold to take the country air.

With any luck, Markham would have disappeared to resume his mysterious overseas duties—whatever they may be—by the time she returned to London for the Season proper next year.

After Georgie had alighted from the carriage, Jonathon took her arm. “It’s lovely to see you smiling again,” he said in a low voice as they ascended the stairs into the inviting warmth of the vestibule, “although I suspect it’s not just because we’re home.”

Georgie arched an eyebrow as she shrugged off her wet shawl and handed it to Reed, their stalwart butler. “Oh? Whatever do you mean?”

“Despite what you said before, you’re hatching an escape plan. I know it,” he murmured after Reed had disappeared with their wet things.

Georgie yawned theatrically behind her gloved hand. “The only place I’m escaping to right now is my bedchamber. Good night.”

Jonathon’s blue eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief. “Good night to you too, sis. I’m sure you’ll have sweet dreams.”

Georgie didn’t miss his cheeky jibe. She sniffed then stalked off toward the stairs with as much poise as she could muster given her body was aching more with each passing moment. She’d send Constance, her maid, to fetch some warm milk or even better, an urn of hot water and her tea caddy so she could brew some of her favorite herbal tea, a special blend of chamomile and valerian that never failed to soothe her. With any luck, she’d sleep soundly and have no dreams at all.

She certainly wasn’t going to dream of the mysterious, odious, Lord Markham.