The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  However, her attempt that same evening when she’d been alone in her bed had been all for naught. As soon as she’d touched herself, the longing within her had died as quickly as the snuffed out candle on her bedside table. And she hadn’t been game enough to try again since.

  But what she’d felt when she’d been with Sir David was nothing compared to what she felt with Markham. Closing her eyes, she relived the experience of Markham kissing her, freeing her breast and claiming her nipple. A flash of heat shot straight to her quim and she shuddered, aflame with such acute longing it was like a physical pain. Dare she try?

  She had to know. The lonely years of widowhood yawned before her like a dark abyss. Whatever the consequences, it was now or never. She slid the hem of her already twisted, rucked-up nightrail farther up over her hips, exposing herself to the cool night air. With trembling figures, she then reached between the juncture of her thighs and tentatively touched the seam between her tight curls—then gasped on discovering she was wet with dew.

  Sopping.

  Don’t think of anyone but Markham. Holding her breath, Georgie feathered her fingertips along the sensitive crease again then slid one finger between her folds. Oh. She jumped, her other hand curling into the sheet. For the first time in such a long time, it felt wonderful to do something so illicit. So wanton.

  What would it feel like if she touched her aching core? Would she still feel this aroused or would the sensations die again? There was only one way to find out. Holding her breath, she flicked her fingertip over the hardened nub at the apex of her folds then whimpered as the burning, clenching need inside her womb intensified. Oh yes. She could do this. She had to or she’d die. And it was all because of Markham. Wonderful, wicked Markham.

  She emptied her mind of everything but him as she danced her fingers in and around her swollen, slick, throbbing flesh. His smile, the rich scent and taste of him, the feel of his hard, muscular body beneath her hands. Imagined how he would look divested of his shirt, his breeches... How it would feel to be pressed against him as he explored her with his hands and mouth, touched where she now touched. Stroking, teasing...

  The coil of need inside her pulled tighter and tighter as she rapidly flicked her fingertip over and around the rigid, oh-so sensitive bud. Something was happening deep in her womb. Something inexorable, like a building inferno. Georgie lifted her hips, clenched her jaw, thought of Markham thrusting inside her, whispering deliciously naughty things in her ear.

  Oh, God. She exploded. Cried out. Tears spilled down her cheeks as wave after wave of searing pleasure swept through her quaking body.

  A miracle had happened. Her body had been as lifeless as an arctic wasteland for ten long years, but now it was if the heavens had opened and she was awash with warm, pulsating satisfaction. She was whole again. And filled with glorious, budding hope.

  Dragging in a deep, shuddering breath, she curled onto her side and closed her eyes. Achieving climax by her own hand was one thing. Being able to push all her long-held fears and inhibitions aside when she was with another—perhaps someone like Markham—was an entirely different matter altogether.

  There was plenty of time to think about that dilemma tomorrow. Right now, she would fall into sleep’s waiting arms with blissful, contented abandon. And if she dreamt of Markham, so be it. Perhaps that wicked devil of a man would be her savior after all.

  Chapter 7

  After alighting from a hackney cab at the edge of Hanover Square, Rafe paused and surveyed his surroundings. It was five to three and the Square and surrounding thoroughfares appeared relatively quiet, the light passing traffic unremarkable for a Saturday at this hour. He would have much preferred visiting the duchess and her brother under the cover of darkness, but such were the conventions of the ton for social calls. At least no one appeared to have followed him. Even his man, Cowan—a former Bow Street Runner with an excellent reputation—was nowhere to be seen. Rafe would be most interested to hear his report later on.

  Judging it safe to approach Dudley House for now, Rafe turned up the collar of his coat against a sudden shower of icy, drizzling rain, then walked smartly across the Square to the impressive residence. The stony-faced butler relieved him of his damp coat, hat and gloves, then promptly ushered him into the library before he could even produce his card. He was obviously expected.

  Jonathon Winterbourne was alone; he smiled broadly and extended his hand in greeting. “Welcome to Dudley House. Miserable day to be out and about though. Shall I send for tea or coffee,” he gestured at a mahogany sideboard where an impressive array of spirits and liqueurs sat atop a silver tray, “or do you fancy something a little stronger?”

  I would prefer your sister. Pushing the distracting thought aside, Rafe answered smoothly. “Coffee if you don’t mind.” As much as he would love to see Georgiana, it actually better suited his purpose that she wasn’t present during this discussion.

  After dismissing the butler with an instruction to fill his request for coffee, Jonathon indicated they should each take a seat in the pair of matching leather wingback chairs gracing the Persian hearth rug. “First of all, let me say that my sister wishes to extend her thanks for the roses you sent this morning.”

  Rafe inclined his head in acknowledgement. He’d sent deep red roses this time, the exact shade of the alluring burgundy dress she’d worn the night before. “I hope this day finds her well, considering what occurred last night.”

  The corner of Jonathon’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I take it you are referring to what happened on the doorstep of Latimer House and not to the events preceding that.”

  Nice attempt at fishing, Winterbourne. Rafe’s mouth twitched but he wouldn’t be drawn on what had occurred in the ladies’ retiring room. And he rather doubted that Georgiana had divulged any details of their encounter to her brother. Schooling his expression into seriousness again, he met Jonathon’s gaze directly. “I want you to know that I highly esteem the duchess and have nothing but the best of intentions where she is concerned.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment, Markham. I trust the Latimers implicitly and if they deem you a worthy candidate to attempt to snare my sister’s—shall we say interest?—who am I to stand in the way? I just wished Georgiana would...” Jonathon rubbed his chin, studying Rafe for a brief interval before he added, “She can be prickly, but I want you to know that you have progressed much farther than I would have thought possible in such a short space of time. She likes you. I was surprised by how genuinely worried she was about your safety last night.”

  Rafe was again, secretly pleased to hear the duchess had been concerned for him, but he hadn’t come here to have his ego stroked. He’d come here for information. He fixed Jonathon with a hard stare, determined to find out what he needed to know—to help him understand Georgiana. “I must confess that I have been more than a little surprised at the support I have received from both you and the Latimers. Which begs me to ask, why are you doing this?”

  “Encouraging your suit?”

  “Yes.”

  Jonathon sighed then got up and poured himself a brandy. “Care for one?”

  Rafe consented. Why not? If it helped him to build up more of a rapport with Georgie’s brother and encouraged the inviting of further confidences, he wouldn’t say no.

  Jonathon passed him a rather full tumbler then with his own glass in hand, returned to his seat. He took a long sip before catching Rafe’s eye. “My sister, although she would be loath to admit it, is in a word, unhappy.”

  And lonely. After a nine-year marriage of convenience, Rafe didn’t doubt it. Time to take a gamble and make use of what he already knew. “I know how things really were between her and Darby.” He held Jonathon’s suddenly sharpened gaze. “And you.”

  Jonathon paled. He swallowed then licked his lips. “Who told you?”

  “No one. I worked it out for myself. From bits and pieces I’d heard from my Cambridge days. From things Helena and Phillip did or
didn’t say. And I’m very good at reading people. But don’t worry. I assure you, your secret is safe with me.”

  Jonathon nodded then his shoulders heaved with a deep sigh of resignation. “I believe you.” He stared into his brandy, clearly mulling over what to say next before he returned his attention to Rafe. “So you know how lonely Georgiana really is?”

  “Yes.” Rafe let the silence between them extend for a few moments. “But it’s not only her loneliness that I’ve noticed.”

  Jonathon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I also sense your sister has a very real and very deep fear of being hurt. Again.”

  Jonathon’s jaw dropped but then there came a knock at the door and a footman entered bearing a tray with the coffee and an assortment of light luncheon delicacies.

  By the time the footman had arranged everything on a nearby table and had then departed, Rafe’s host seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. Ignoring the coffee and array of sandwiches and savory pastries, Jonathon pinned him with a narrow look. “You are shrewder than I thought, Lord Markham.”

  Rafe shrugged. “It was not so difficult to deduce the truth of the matter. Why else would Georgiana continue to view most male suitors with such antipathy? And why else would someone as remarkable as her wed someone like Darby, a man who could only ever be a friend to her? She must have known how things were between you and the late duke.”

  Jonathon paled again; he looked drawn. And perhaps guilty. “Yes. She did.”

  Rafe put down his brandy and leaned forward. He was so close to hearing the truth, he wouldn’t let go, no matter how uncomfortable Jonathon grew. “A young woman entering society would need a very good reason to agree to such a marriage I would think. A compelling reason.”

  Jonathon huffed out a large breath and ran a hand down his face. “I know you’re a capital fellow, Markham. But I don’t feel comfortable going into… detail. It’s Georgie’s business.”

  “I understand your reluctance and you are wise to be wary,” Rafe said whilst somehow pushing aside the urge to pummel Jonathon for more information. “But please do not doubt my motives. I said before that I esteemed your sister. Actually, I should confess my feelings are much stronger than that. I also strongly feel that if I am to move forward with Georgiana, I need to understand the reason behind her… hesitancy. I only need a name.”

  Jonathon’s blue eyes grew a shade darker as he assessed Rafe. The set of his jaw hardened when it appeared he’d made up his mind. “Oliver Cantwell, Lord Craven,” he said roughly as though it was hard for him to speak the words without choking on them. “A bastard to his very bones.”

  Craven. Rafe knew the name. Why? Whilst he inclined his head in thanks for Jonathon’s concession, he scanned his memory for any recollections. Craven was undoubtedly a rakehell. Probably one of the worst of his kind. That was it. He’d run with the late Earl of Beauchamp’s pack—the Sapphire Club—the most soulless group of reprobates he’d ever come across. Oh, God. Poor Georgiana.

  He tried and failed to stop the muscle tic in his clenched jaw.

  “You know him.” Jonathon’s tone was flint-like. Angry.

  “Of him,” Rafe corrected. His name had come up when he’d been discreetly investigating the sordid private life of the Marquess of Rothsburgh’s first wife, Isabelle. Whatever Craven had done to Georgiana, it had to have been deplorable. Despicable.

  He drew in a measured breath as he reached for his brandy. “I have a question for you, Sir Jonathon.” His voice was as hard as the cold knife of rage slicing through him. “Do you want Craven to pay?”

  Jonathon’s eyes widened momentarily before his mouth flattened into a grim line. “For how he made Georgiana suffer, yes. Yes, I do.”

  Rafe nodded once. “So be it.”

  “Your Grace?”

  Georgiana cursed beneath her breath at the sound of Markham’s deep voice directly behind her. Trapped in the vestibule. How ironic considering she’d been hiding from Markham for the best part of an hour. But then it had been silly of her to try to sneak from the drawing room and back up to her own apartments when she knew very well his interview with Jonathon was probably due to finish.

  After surreptitiously running her suddenly damp palms down the gauze skirts of her pale blue day dress, she drew in a fortifying breath then turned to face him.

  “Markham.” Sliding what she prayed was a cool smile into place, she extended her hand. “My brother mentioned you may be calling on him this afternoon.” She really should have added how lovely it was to see him, but as he took her bare hand in his and bent over it as any gentleman would, the words caught in her throat. Dear Lord, how was she to observe the expected proprieties when all she could think about was how the very fingers he held had been buried in her quim last night as she’d fantasized about him?

  Despite her best efforts not to react to his touch or her own libidinous thoughts, a hot blush washed over her cheeks.

  Markham, as she expected, looked amused when he straightened and released her hand. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but strangely, his eyes held a soft light rather than a devilish twinkle. “I also came to see you.”

  Of course he has. He sent you roses again, Georgie. Don’t pretend you didn’t expect this. She broke away from his gaze to glance behind one of his wide shoulders, but the vestibule was deserted. Where on earth was Jonathon, or Reed or Perkins for that matter? Seeing no way to extract herself from Markham’s company without appearing supremely rude—or worse a coward—she dredged up something customary to say. “I trust you have already taken tea with my brother.”

  “Yes.” Markham glanced back over his shoulder—perhaps to check the vestibule for occupants as well—before his eyes returned to meet hers. “Even though it is perhaps presumptuous of me to ask, I wondered if we might speak somewhere privately for a few moments?”

  Georgie’s heart kicked into an unbridled gallop. Jonathon had thought this call had been arranged so Markham could seek approval for continuing his courtship, despite the fact her brother’s permission was not really necessary given she was a widow; and despite the fact she’d clearly told Markham to pursue another. But Markham didn’t seem the type to play by any sort of rules except his own. She’d be naïve indeed to believe he’d continue to behave as a gentleman should when they were alone. Especially after last night.

  Her wariness must have shown on her face.

  “I have no untoward designs on you, Duchess, if that’s what you are concerned about.” He suddenly leaned closer, his eyes alight with the mischief she’d been expecting to see. “Although when we’re alone, if you would like me turn you over my knee—”

  “I thought you said you only wanted to speak with me,” she accused.

  He smiled. “True. But I’d be happy to oblige if you requested anything else of me.”

  She sighed in resignation, and tried not to smile back, her irritation dissolving as quickly as a lump of sugar in her tea. “You’re impossible.”

  He grinned back. “So you told me when we first met.”

  “Follow me.” She turned on her heel and led Markham into the drawing room. If she ignored the racing of her pulse, and considered the situation with a cool head, what wickedness could he possibly get up to in broad daylight whilst her servants and Jonathon were within calling distance? Nevertheless, she left the door ajar after they’d entered the room.

  Markham’s gift of red roses was on prominent display atop a small mahogany table in the window alcove facing Hanover Square. Their heavy scent filled the room; much like him, they couldn’t be ignored.

  “I have been remiss in not thanking you in person for the bouquet you sent,” she said with as much gracious aplomb as she could; not an easy feat given the wild fluttering of her stomach. Indeed, it felt like a battalion of butterflies swarmed around inside her.

  “It was the least I could do considering the events of last night.”

 
Markham’s comment was as layered as a mille-feuille pastry. So much had happened at Latimer House, it was impossible to know which specific event or events he referred to—trouncing her at cards again, attempting to seduce her, the accident with the rude stranger, or making crude suggestions to her on the street. Georgie certainly wasn’t going to ask him to elaborate.

  And she wasn’t going to offer him a seat. Instead, she hovered at the edge of the room, not far from the open door. “You wanted to speak with me,” she prompted.

  “Yes.” Markham took several steps closer and she stepped back. His advance and her retreat reminded her of their encounter in the ladies’ retiring room.

  “Markham,” she said in a low voice edged with warning.

  He stopped his approach immediately and his brow creased into a deep frown. “I wanted to make sure you were all right, after the collision.” His gaze drifted to her right shoulder and upper arm, however her sleeve hid her flesh from his eyes. “You said you’d been bruised.”

  She couldn’t resist arching her eyebrow. “That’s odd coming from a man who keeps suggesting he wants to spank me.”

  His eyes darkened to a stormy gray. “I’m serious. Did he hurt you?”

  “A little,” replied Georgie, taken aback by the depth of his concern. “It’s nothing.”

  Markham moved closer and before she could utter a word of protest, he gently pushed up the silk gauze of her sleeve. His lips tightened into a hard line when he saw the livid purple marks—fingerprints—on her upper arm. “You’re sure he spoke German? What did he say?”