“Oh, God.” Georgie’s hand flew to her mouth. “I mean how?—Jonathon. Jonathon told you. Last week when you came to Dudley House.” She turned her head away. When she spoke again Rafe could barely hear her, but there was an undeniable, heart-rending catch in her voice. “He had no right.”
“Duchess...” Rafe ran a hand down his face, trying to assemble his thoughts. He knew Georgie would be upset at his admission but he hadn’t been prepared for his own emotional response to seeing her in such pain. He felt like the lowest heel that had ever walked the earth. “Rest assured, I only know the scarcest details. I guessed some of it and Jonathon merely confirmed my suspicions that someone gravely hurt you a long time ago. And that is why you married Darby, a man who could only ever be a friend to you. Your brother only has your best interests at heart.”
A bitter laugh escaped Georgie. “My best interests. How amusing. Everyone—you, Jonathon, Phillip and Helena—you all seem to presume that you know what they are. Has anyone ever asked me what I want?”
Rafe slid closer and gently tilted Georgie’s chin up. “Well, what do you want, Your Grace?” he urged, searching her beautiful, tear-streaked face. “Tell me. Because I certainly know what I want.”
Her lower lip trembled and her eyes glittered with tears. “We can’t always have what we want, Markham.”
Dear God, she was making his heart bleed. “But perhaps, if we tried—”
She shook her head and he was forced to release his hold. “You don’t understand. Believe me, I wish... I really wish that I could be the type of woman you are no doubt accustomed to taking to your bed. A lover who is unafraid. Your equal. But I don’t know if I can. And wanting you, well that may never be enough. What occurred... What Lord Craven did... His deceit and betrayal, and all the rest of it, yes, it has affected me. Profoundly.”
Rafe’s jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists. How he’d dearly love to take Craven apart piece by piece or pummel him into dust. Or both. Suddenly aware that Georgie was watching him with a wary expression, he consciously relaxed his muscles. “Duchess”—he caught her hand and pressed it between his—“I want to reassure you that whatever you need from me, I will give to you. In the library, I was overrun with desire and I rushed you. Knowing what I know, my actions were thoughtless and selfish. I didn’t take enough care. If you could find it within your heart to forgive me, I promise you that next time—if I am indeed fortunate enough to be granted a next time by you—it will be so much better. I do not want things to end the same way.”
“But that’s just it. What happened in the library, I fear it will always be like that. And please”—Georgie squeezed his hand—“you do not need to ask for my forgiveness when none of this is your fault. It’s me. I’m... Because of... because of Craven, I have problems with...”
Georgie closed her eyes momentarily as if gathering her resolve before she met his gaze again. “This is humiliating to admit, but I cannot...” She swallowed and drew a shaky breath. “I cannot achieve satisfaction. Perhaps it’s silly or even wrong of me to want more from the sexual act, but I do. I cannot help it. Otherwise the whole business will be nothing but frustrating and ultimately pointless. For me at any rate. It’s the reason I’ve never taken a lover. And it’s the reason I will probably never marry again.”
Christ, his poor, sweet Georgiana. Rafe had suspected as much, but to have her confirm it, no wonder she avoided any form of intimacy like the plague. “It’s not silly or wrong at all to want that. It is one of the best feelings any of us ever experience in life,” he said gravely, hoping she would see he was sincere. “And I would be honored if you would grant me another opportunity to show you how wonderful relations between a man and a woman can be. If you will let me.”
But would she? Rafe held his breath, waiting.
Georgie studied his face; her forehead had dipped into a deep frown and his fingers itched to smooth the lines away. “Why? Why bother with me?” she asked eventually. “You could have your pick of any number of beautiful women. Or you could engage a mistress. Women who would be able to share themselves with you in a way that you would want. Who would readily please you and be easily pleased in return without any added complications.”
Rafe held her gaze. “But they wouldn’t be you.”
Time seemed to stop as Georgie considered him, clearly weighing up the merit of his declaration. The sound of drumming rain intensified and Rafe’s heart beat hard and fast. God, he wished he knew what she was thinking. He had to get this right.
“I can’t easily explain it,” he continued softly, “but if I were to try and put it quite simply, I would say you fascinate me, Your Grace. There’s something between us, an undeniable spark that I cannot ignore. And I know you are aware of it too. No matter how hard you try to deny it.”
Georgie’s mouth curved into an inexpressibly sad smile. “I’m beginning to think you are just fond of lost causes.”
“Why would you say that about yourself?” Rafe asked gently. “I don’t see you that way at all.”
Georgie dropped her gaze to her lap where she was twisting the ruined, pink silk of her skirts in her other hand. “I’ve been broken for so long. I know other women don’t expect anything at all, that perhaps it is even wrong for a woman to feel this way, to not only want sex but derive enjoyment from it. But to have had those feelings, and to then have lost them...” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “You make me yearn for what I used to have when I was younger, before Lord Craven took it all away. And that frightens me.”
“We are all afraid of being hurt. And you have nothing to fear from me. Do you think you can trust me?”
Georgie pressed her lips together for a moment before replying. “Yes. No... Perhaps a little. I hardly know you. But I want to. Trust you that is.”
Rafe hazarded a small smile. “As I’ve said before, I’ve never shied away from a challenge. If you could trust me even just a little tonight, I believe we can overcome—”
“Ah, so that’s it,” Georgie snapped, pulling her hand from his. Even in the gloom he could see her eyes flashing with suspicion. “I knew there must be some other reason behind your interest. I’m a puzzle you need to solve. A mere conquest—”
“Hush.” On an impulse, Rafe leaned forward, captured her face between his hands and kissed her. A gentle, fleeting brush of his lips across hers, nothing more. She gasped then relented, pressing her warm mouth against his, the silken caress of her lips as soft as an angel’s wing, sweet yet sensual and utterly delicious. When he drew back, he was pleased to see her glare of mistrust had faded; in the light cast from the lantern her eyes now appeared a soft, misty shade of blue.
Holding her gaze, he pushed a damp curl of hair behind her ear. “Make no mistake, you mean much more to me than that. The feelings I have for you, suffice it to say, I’ve never felt this way before, about anyone. And an attraction, a passion like this should be given a chance don’t you think? The question is, will you dare to take that chance, Duchess?”
Georgie searched his eyes so intently, his breath caught in his lungs as he waited for her to respond. Surely she must see I’m sincere.
“I want you to call me Georgiana,” she whispered at last.
He smiled and he experienced the oddest sensation—like his heart was flipping over in his chest. “Georgiana,” he murmured as he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb along her cheek, wiping away the traces of her tears, “I will take that as a ‘yes’.”
She returned his smile. “Please do.”
Rafe didn’t need any further encouragement to take action. Sliding his hand into the tangle of wet curls at the back of Georgie’s head, he gently drew her close and claimed her pliant mouth, reveling in the soft moan she made when he slid his tongue inside her. Despite the relative sweetness of the kiss, his belly tightened and his cock jerked. God, how he wanted her. But they were both cold and wet, and the stables were not at all a suitable setting for what he had in mind. With re
luctance, he broke away. “Georgiana, we should go back to the house.”
“If you say so,” she murmured with such enticing breathlessness, it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to push her down into the hay and pleasure her right there and then.
Rafe forced himself to stand but as he assisted Georgie to her feet, she gasped. Frowning with concern, he grasped her by the arms. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
She winced as she tested her weight on her left foot. “I am embarrassed to say I foolishly thought to leave here on horseback, however I dropped the saddle on myself. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I think my foot is only bruised.”
Lord, she had really been that desperate to avoid him. The thought was indeed sobering. But no more. Rafe would see to that before the night was through. Without giving warning, he scooped Georgiana up into his arms.
“Markham!” she protested. She might be gripping him about the shoulders but judging by her deep frown and the tone of her voice, she was more than a little indignant. Or perhaps it was just apprehension. “There is no need to coddle me.”
“Yes. There is.” Rafe strode toward the door. “I don’t want you slipping over and worsening your injury. Besides,” he smiled, “I like holding you in my arms.” He paused on the threshold and looked out into rainy evening before returning his gaze to her face. “Are you ready?”
She’d been biting her lower lip but at his question, she gave him a small smile. “I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be.”
Rafe was certain they weren’t talking about going out into the rain anymore. “It’s too late to turn back now, Duchess. For better or worse, tonight, you’re mine.”
Chapter 11
Georgie sighed deeply as she ran her fingers through her damp hair, lightly tugging out the snarls. After a long, luxurious bath in the biggest tub she’d ever encountered, she’d taken a seat before the roaring fire in her suite’s sitting room. She should feel relaxed and contented, perhaps even sleepy. But she did not.
Not when she could still recall the feel of Markham’s strong, muscular arms about her, as he’d carried her here all the way from the stables. Or his deep voice, low and husky and full of delicious, wanton promise. “I’ll arrange for a bath and a supper tray to be sent up,” he’d murmured in her ear after he’d finished examining her bruised foot. “And when you are done, it might be a good idea to dismiss your maid for the evening. I will join you around eight.”
Eight o’clock couldn’t come soon enough as far as Georgie was concerned. Flurries of nervous excitement skittered around inside her belly whenever she glanced at the mantel clock and saw the hour hand creeping toward the appointed time. When she put her hands to her cheeks they were hot and her skin tingled with awareness every time she moved; the lace along the neckline of her chemise scratched the tops of her too sensitive breasts and the cool silk of her pale blue robe slid along her arms as she fanned out her hair, making her shiver. Indeed, her whole body quivered with so much fevered anticipation, it bordered on excruciating.
But amidst all of these acute sensations, Georgie recognized another feeling deep within her heart, a feeling that was almost completely foreign to her—an unfurling sense of hope.
She’d disclosed one of her deepest, most intimate secrets to Markham, a secret she’d never before divulged to any other living soul. And his reaction had been nothing like she’d expected. He hadn’t baulked, or even worse, ridiculed her. Neither had he dismissed the impact of her past history nor her deep-seated fears. Somehow, miraculously, he understood.
It was almost as if Markham cared. Indeed, even though he’d only admitted a passion for her, the way he regarded her, kissed her, touched her, everything he did, intimated so much more.
Dear God, I pray I’m making the right decision she thought as she reached for her glass of claret with a trembling hand and took a rather large sip. I really don’t think I can survive another failed attempt to have sex with Markham. It will surely break my heart.
Her gaze darted to the open doorway of her bedchamber and the magnificent four-poster bed swathed in curtains of sumptuous, rose-pink damask—a bed she would soon be sharing with Markham. Another shiver slid over her skin. Whether it was with trepidation or desire she couldn’t have said. Then again, it was probably both. At least she didn’t need to worry about an unwanted pregnancy. Markham had already assured her that he would be careful and she was inclined to trust him.
Before Constance had departed, she had turned down the rose-embroidered silk counterpane revealing pristine white sheets and perfectly plumped pillows. Georgie’s perpetual blush grew deeper when she contemplated how disheveled the bed would look come morning. But Constance wouldn’t remark upon it, just as she wouldn’t return until she was summoned. Georgie thanked the Lord yet again for providing her with such a discrete and trustworthy lady’s maid. The girl was worth her very weight in gold.
Two minutes to eight. Georgie took another large sip of Markham’s very good wine then leaned back against the cream brocade cushions of the settee. She really shouldn’t have too much more considering she’d barely touched her supper. The wine was sure to go straight to her head. Then again, perhaps the alcohol would continue to soften her edginess. Her stomach might still be fluttering crazily, but at least her limbs were now a little looser and heavier, and the mad race of her pulse had begun to slow a fraction. When she glanced at the clock upon the mantel yet again, she could see that it was now only one minute until her would-be lover walked through her door.
Georgie scowled and took yet another unladylike swig of her wine. Hurry up, Markham. This waiting is almost too much to bear.
Just at that moment, the door clicked open.
With her heart leaping into the vicinity of her mouth, Georgie turned. And her breath caught.
Clothed only in buff trousers and a loose, cambric shirt, Markham seemed completely at ease with his state of dishabille as he padded his way along the plush Aubusson carpet toward her. Never in her life had Georgie seen a man so informally dressed. Barefoot. The sight was absolutely mesmerizing and frighteningly arousing. Her quim began to pulse and her nipples pebbled.
“May I take a seat?” Markham asked, gesturing toward the space beside her when she’d failed to produce a single word of greeting. His mouth lifted into a crooked smile and there was more than a decided glint of mischief in his gray eyes as he regarded her.
Somehow, the arrogant devil knew he had stolen her capacity to speak, and now he was clearly laughing at her. Of all the scenarios Georgie had imagined, this was certainly not how she had anticipated their evening would begin.
Piqued to her bones, she found her breath and her courage. “Out with it,” she demanded, deliberately ignoring his request. “What is it that amuses you so?”
“Forgive me, it’s just that your expression when you saw how I was dressed. It was... it still is, quite priceless.” He bit his lip, suppressing a chuckle. His shirt was open at the neck and she could clearly see his Adam’s apple bobbing with silent mirth.
Georgie cast him an imperious glare. “I am simply not accustomed to seeing a man—you—in such a state of undress. And I am certainly not used to appearing like this before a man,” she gestured at herself, “either.”
“I assure you, I will not strip further. Unless you want me to of course.”
A vision of Markham wearing absolutely nothing but a wicked smile sprang into her mind and a blush washed over her cheeks. “You are doing it again,” she accused with more heat than she intended. She didn’t want to feel like this, flustered and exasperated.
Markham raised a dark brow. “What?” he asked with apparent innocence.
“You know exactly what,” she retorted. “You are teasing me. You know I don’t like it.”
His smile softened. “I guarantee that you will love it before the night is through.”
Oh... When Georgie didn’t reply—simply because she couldn’t—his gaze drifted to the glass o
f claret she still held. “How is the wine?
Even though her cheeks had grown even hotter in response to his less than subtle double entendre, she was determined to put on a brave face. Lifting her chin, she tried very hard to affect an air of elegant ennui as she answered his question. “Very good.”
Damn. Her voice sounded breathy. She didn’t sound cool or confident at all.
Markham seemed to notice too as his smile broadened. “May I have some?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Well, as it is your wine, I can’t very well refuse now, can I?” She waved a hand toward the nearby decanter and the additional glass that had been conveniently sent up with her dinner tray. “Help yourself.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” Markham drew close, poured himself a sizeable glass then raised it in a toast. “To you, Georgiana.” His eyes met hers and held. “May this evening be everything you hoped it would be.”
He watched her over the rim of his glass as he drank and Georgie’s heart began to pound furiously again. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I promise you, the pleasure will be all yours,” Markham said in a velvet soft voice.
Oh, my goodness. Not able to meet his smoky gaze, Georgie took another hasty sip of her claret. When she raised her eyes, she noticed Markham was still studying her.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he murmured as he placed his glass down then sat beside her. Reaching forward, he wound a damp lock around one long finger, just as he’d done the first night she’d met him. “It is the most glorious color and texture.”
Georgie shrugged a shoulder, affecting an indifference she didn’t feel. “I have always thought it was a rather ordinary brown.”
“Never. It is rich and thick and silky. And the way it catches the light, it reminds me of toffee or caramel.” Markham leaned closer—very close—and pressed his face against her temple, inhaling. “But it smells far sweeter. Like jasmine or honeysuckle. Or orange blossoms. What is the perfume you use?”
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 16
