The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (9 page)

Georgie pursed her lips. “Hmm. I don’t know about this tactic of yours, Helena. I’m not even certain it achieved much in the first instance.”

“Fie. What nonsense. You absolutely flogged him in the first round didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was more to do with how the cards fell.”

“I disagree. Never underestimate the power of feminine wiles. Once a man’s member is engaged, his brain all but ceases to function.”

Georgie gasped, shocked at her friend’s frankness. “Helena!”

She laughed. “It’s true, mark my words, Georgie darling. If you want to be certain of winning, you must be prepared to do whatever it takes. Remember, the rules of fair play do not always apply in love and war.”

Georgie’s frown conveyed her skepticism. “Even if that means acting like a harlot?”

“Georgie, that is something you could never be. And there’s nothing wrong with playing the temptress.” Helena winked at her over her tea cup. “In fact, it can be quite fun.”

“But your situation is entirely different,” Georgie protested. “You’re married to a wonderful man.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be wed to such a man too.” Helena leaned closer and touched Georgie’s hand before adding
sotto voce
, “If you give Rafe a chance, who knows… perhaps he might amount to more than just a paramour for a season. He might even be the one to win your heart. But first you need to decide he’s worth the risk.”

The one.

Georgie was not fool enough to deny that others were fortunate enough to find their perfect match in life. Phillip and Helena obviously had. So had Lord and Lady Rothsburgh. And Jonathon and Teddy had been the picture of bliss during their years together.

However, she was not like other people. If her past had been different—if she were different—then perhaps Markham might have been that special someone.

But not for her. Not now. She doubted that even someone like Lord Markham—Rafe—would ever be able to convince her otherwise.

And any further speculation was pointless because in her heart of hearts, she knew she would never take such a risk.

T
he assembled company
had thinned considerably by the time the ormolu clock in the drawing room heralded midnight. Only the Latimers, Jonathon and Farley remained to witness the final round.

Which meant that Georgie could at last attempt to flirt with Lord Markham again.

At this stage, she dealt from a position of relative strength. She’d won three out of the five rounds played and had gained a quite respectable score of seventy-six. Markham, on the other hand, had a running total of sixty-four.

With only one hand to play in this
partie
, victory was definitely within her reach. She was certain she could easily make one hundred or more. To beat her, Markham would have to earn an incredible number of points. His only advantage at this point was that he was now the elder hand and had the first choice of the cards from the talon.

The wicked, uncharitable part of her prayed she dealt him something dreadful. And that she had the bravado to flirt as if her life depended upon it.

As she shuffled the cards, she moistened her lower lip with her tongue, then gently pushed her teeth into the soft flesh. The effect on Markham was immediate. He sucked in a sharp breath and Georgie risked a glance at him. His gaze was riveted to her mouth.

Helena had been right, curse her. But could she keep up the performance?

She had to. She couldn’t bear the idea of spending a whole day, let alone several, in Markham’s company.

With a deep, bodice-straining sigh, she deftly dealt out their hands then spread out the talon.

Thankfully Markham had transferred his gaze back to the cards, giving her time to both sharpen her concentration and muster her strength for her next series of moves.

She fanned out her hand of twelve—more spades and clubs than the red suits. A decent run and a trio of jacks. There was potential there, but she would need to work hard. And as Helena advised, do whatever was needed. God forgive her.

She slipped Markham a glance. His brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth set in a determined line, he seemed focused—too focused—on what was in his hand and the exchanges he made. She had to unravel him. Crushing down a wave of nervousness and a bothersome pang of guilt for using grubby tactics, she set about twirling a curl of her hair around her finger whilst biting her lip, as if deep in thought.

Markham’s gaze was instantly on her again, a decided glint in his eyes—whether it was amusement or sexual interest, she couldn’t tell. “Your turn to exchange, Your Grace,” he said, his lips tipping into a smile.

Is he laughing at me?
Oh God, she hoped not. Releasing her curl, she reached for the remaining three cards in the talon. “Thank you.”

Oh no. Nothing but red. And not a single face card. Panic squeezed her heart for a moment whilst she fought to keep a neutral expression. She could still win this. She had to believe it.

Discarding what she’d picked up from the talon, she ventured another look at Markham. It was time for the declarations. Would he be honest or would he try to sink her at this juncture by not declaring everything he had?

He cocked an eyebrow. “Point of six.”

She arched an eyebrow in return. She had a point of seven in spades. An additional seven points that raised her score to eighty-three. “Not good,” she replied smoothly.

“Hmm.” Markham frowned then rubbed his thumb along his jaw—a completely masculine gesture, no doubt designed to make her heart flutter—then declared again. “Sixieme.”

Oh no. He had six cards of one suit in a sequence. She did not. And that gave him an additional sixteen points making his score eighty—only three points behind her.

Her heart began to hammer. This would be a close game after all. “Good.”

Markham smiled slowly. “Quatorze of aces.”

Oh God, no. Four of a kind. Fourteen more points. And she only had a trio of knaves. Markham was now at ninety-four and he hadn’t even won a single trick yet. She would undoubtedly be lost if the cards didn’t fall her way in the course of play. Swallowing, she found her voice and forced herself to make the required response. “Good.”

Markham inclined his head. “May the best hand win, Your Grace.”

“Yes,” she agreed faintly. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to pull out her last dirty trick to stop him reaching one hundred points first. Beneath the cover of the table, she eased off her slipper then reached forward with her stocking–clad foot and found Markham’s ankle just as he played his first card, the ace of hearts.

Markham jumped. His gaze flew to hers. Then smiling, he leaned back a little and moved his leg forward so that her toe brushed against him again.

The cad. He knew what she was about. And he
was
laughing at her.

Heat scalded her cheeks and she jerked her foot away.

God help her. She was mired in the mud on the wrong side of one hundred and it seemed there was nothing—bar a miracle—that would save her.

As expected, her miracle did not eventuate and Markham won six sequential tricks. Within a matter of minutes he effortlessly reached one hundred, claiming victory with a flourish and a wolfish smile.

Helena, Jonathon and Farley clapped and Phillip handed his friend another cognac. “Well done, old fellow.”

Georgie dropped her gaze to the table and quite unnecessarily gathered the cards, attempting to make a neat pile; anything to avoid Markham’s too observant eyes.

Don’t be so sensitive. It’s only a game at a private party. It doesn’t matter
. That’s what Jonathon and Helena—even Teddy if he’d been here—would say.

But it did matter
. She’d gambled and she’d lost. And the price was heavy. Her reputation, her confidence, and her self-respect lay in tatters all around her. Three times she’d played Markham and three times he’d soundly thrashed her. Not only that, this time, she’d all but prostituted herself into the bargain.

And to make matters worse, he knew what she’d been up to. The wicked smile curving his mouth after she’d attempted to tease him beneath the table had said it all. How could she possibly attend a house party hosted by him? She’d rather die.

“Your Grace?” Markham’s voice was soft with concern. “Are you—”

“Congratulations, Lord Markham,” she offered crisply. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anything from him. Plastering a smile on her face, but keeping her gaze averted from him and everyone else, she pushed away from the table. Her vision blurred and her throat tightened so much she could barely breathe. The humiliation was too much. She had to get out of this room before she lost control of herself. “Excuse me.”

Thankfully, no one followed her as she rushed from the room into the hall then up the stairs that led to the ladies’ retiring room. Praise God it was deserted at this late hour. Collapsing onto a settee before the dying fire, Georgie buried her face in her hands and at last gave herself up to a flood of angry tears.

She was such a fool. And she only had herself to blame. Hopefully Markham would be gone by the time she was ready to emerge.

If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

* * *

R
afe lounged
against the balustrade on the upstairs landing, pretending to peruse a finely rendered painting of the Palace of Holyrood with a backdrop of Edinburgh’s Salisbury Crags. Save for the ticking of the longcase clock farther along the passage, all was deathly quiet in this part of Latimer House.

He permitted himself a deep sigh. He’d been waiting half an hour for the duchess to emerge from hiding. To his surprise, it had been Helena who’d suggested he go after Her Grace to see if she was all right—and Jonathon had readily agreed. Whilst Rafe appreciated their match-making efforts, he rather thought that Georgiana wouldn’t.

Indeed, he suspected this whole evening had been engineered to throw them together again. No wonder the duchess was livid. And fool that he was, he’d made it worse by bruising her pride yet again; not only had he beaten her, but he’d teased her mercilessly. He’d definitely pushed her too far.

This time, even a simple apology wouldn’t be enough.

The longcase clock struck a quarter to one and Rafe started down the hallway, counting doors. At the risk of increasing the duchess’s wrath tenfold—and having a chamber pot hurled at him—he was going to have to invade the hallowed sanctuary of the ladies’ retiring room. Although he was generally a patient man, he really didn’t want to wait all night. And he wouldn’t leave the Latimers until he’d made peace with Georgie.

Fourth door along on the right, Helena had informed him. He stopped and listened, his ear to the wood panels but all was silent within. He should knock. But then he wasn’t like other men. Breaking rules like uncovering secrets, was as natural to him as breathing.

He turned the handle and stepped into the small, dimly lit room.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust—the almost extinguished fire, and a pair of low-burning oil lamps in wall sconces on either side of the chimney were the only sources of light. And then he saw her, huddled on a low settee, staring into the dying embers in the grate.

“Your Grace?”

Her whole body jerked. “Markham. What in God’s name are you doing in here?” She rose and even in the poor light it was obvious she’d been crying. Her voice was husky with tears and barely suppressed fury, her toffee-brown hair a disheveled halo. “Get out. At once.”

“No.” He advanced toward her. “We need to speak.”

“No. We don’t,” she bit out. She took a step back, then another, edging away from him toward the other side of the room.

“I beg to differ.” He followed her around the settee as she continued her retreat.

“You can beg all you like.” Her blue eyes glittered with cold derision. “I don’t want to hear your gloating condescension dressed up in pretty words. I don’t want an apology. And I certainly won’t be mollified or
appeased
or anything else you want to call it this time.”

She bumped into the oak-paneled wall and before she could fire another verbal shot at him, he crowded her in with his arms, one hand at the level of her shoulder, the other beside her head; his body almost pressed against hers, but not quite. At these close quarters, the scent of her floral perfume teased him. The heat of her body aroused him, made his pulse race, his cock twitch.

“How dare you? Leave me be,” she hissed. Her chest heaved and judging by the hard set to her jaw, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was contemplating clawing his eyes out. “Your attentions are not wanted.”

“Are you sure?” he murmured thickly as he pushed a wayward curl behind her ear. “Because it didn’t seem that way at all during the game. And you’re wrong you know.” He trapped her furious gaze again. “I didn’t come here to gloat or apologize. Or to appease you...” He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “I came here for this.”

Before she could even utter a sound of protest, he captured her tear-stained face with his hands and ruthlessly claimed her mouth. She gasped beneath him; her hands clutched at his shirt, her fingernails biting into him even through the linen. But she didn’t push him away.

Far from it.

She moaned then swept her tongue into his mouth, even before he could taste her. Kissed him back with needy, almost desperate abandon. Her hands slid up to his neck and she speared her fingers into his hair, dragging him closer. Lust immediately roared through his veins, thickening his cock, at the thought she was actually mad for him too. He devoured her, sucking her tongue further inside him, thrusting himself into her in return.

God in heaven, she tasted divine
. Hot and sweet and salty. Honey laced with tears. And entirely addictive. More potent than cognac or even opium. He could easily get drunk on her, and perhaps he was so already.

Suddenly ravenous for the taste of her fragrant, satiny skin, he slid his mouth from her lips and traced a line of kisses along her jaw to her throat, and then lower. His tongue delved into the sweet cleft between her breasts as his fingers pushed aside the slippery satin of her bodice to expose her nipple. When his lips closed around the hardened bud and he suckled, she gripped his head and a low moan tumbled from her throat.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. “I shouldn’t... You shouldn’t...”

“Shouldn’t what? Do this?” Cradling the plump mound of her breast with one hand, he circled his tongue around and around the tight, rose-colored flesh. “Or this?” He then delivered a light volley of flicks with his tongue tip before covering her with his mouth, suckling again.

“Any of it.” She tugged at his hair, pulling him away.

“Why not?” He searched her eyes, hoping against hope she’d answer him truthfully. Given the way she kissed him, pushed her body into his, he didn’t think she was a virgin. But perhaps he was wrong—and that might explain her reticence to go further. “Tell me.”

“Because...” She drew in a shaky breath. “You are exactly what I don’t need. And I cannot be what you want me to be.”

“And what is that? Speak plainly.” He narrowed his gaze, suddenly exasperated with her for always thinking the worst about him. “How can you possibly know what I want from you?” he demanded. “And maybe I’m exactly what you need.”