The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Read online

  And right now he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the newly widowed Ice Duchess—who as rumor had it was a card player extraordinaire, a woman who had rarely been beaten in the last decade and by no one at all in the last three years—was more than a little bit nervous being around him.

  Intriguing. It was the first time in a long time that a woman had so effortlessly and completely aroused his interest. He had been back in England just over a year and had heretofore managed to avoid most of the ton’s lackluster whirl of social events. Until his bloody friend Maxwell had persuaded him to turn up this evening.

  At least it was going to be more entertaining than he’d previously anticipated.

  He began to deal the cards. The Duchess of Darby obviously despised flirtations; her beautiful blue eyes were still narrowed with annoyance as she waited to see how he would respond to her request to play for points alone. Maxwell had warned him she would be pricklier than a gooseberry bush when he’d proposed that he, Markham, take his place in this partie.

  Now seeing the heightened color in the duchess’s cheeks and her slightly elevated rate of breathing, Rafe was going to flirt with her like mad. He could never resist a challenge. She might have a tart tongue and a glacial blue gaze, but one thing was certain, the delectable duchess was going to be the most exciting challenge of the feminine kind that he’d come across in a long time.

  “Points alone it is then, madam,” he said at last with a deliberately provocative smile. To his amusement, he was rewarded with an even icier glare, entirely at odds with the deepening flush across the duchess’s high cheekbones. “Although, if you’d like to up the stakes at any time...” Cad that he was, he dropped his gaze to her tightly compressed, rose-pink lips again.

  “Just deal, Lord Markham,” she replied in the most delightfully clipped tone, he had to bite his cheek to keep from chuckling with glee.

  But she was right. They should get down to the business at hand. Win or lose at piquet, he was going to have the time of his life.

  Lord Markham had trounced her. Well and truly.

  So much for winning for Teddy...

  The damp, cool night air was welcome after the stifling crush of the ballroom. And the terrace was completely deserted, thank God. A recent shower of rain had obviously put off those guests who usually sought illicit assignations from venturing outside. Georgie quietly took her first glass of champagne for the evening over to the farthest corner of the terrace and stared out into the dripping, lantern-lit courtyard garden. Her blue satin slippers would be ruined—she could already feel dampness creeping up through the soles—but she didn’t care.

  She still couldn’t believe it. She’d lost at piquet for the first time in three years. All because of that devil, Markham. She took a large sip of champagne to prevent herself grinding her teeth with frustration. The gossip would be all over ton circles by midday tomorrow—that the indomitable Duchess of Darby’s famous composure had slipped.

  They would think it was because she’d just come out of mourning no doubt. But that wasn’t the case at all. She couldn’t bear it.

  Now that Teddy was gone, her reputation as a ruthless card-player was the only defense she still had against men like Markham. And now it was all but shattered. Just as her heart had been shattered ten years ago.

  She lifted the cool and slightly dewed champagne flute to her flushed cheek. Maybe she was coming down with something. That might explain her inability to keep count of the cards and her poor decision making throughout the game. Yes, that must be it. Aside from feeling infuriated with herself and Markham, she also felt edgy, feverish. Her pulse was racing, as if the champagne she had just been sipping was fizzing through her veins. She was not herself at all.

  “Your Grace?”

  Georgie turned her head, knowing before she saw him that it was Lord Markham. Damn the brazen devil back to hell. She supposed he had followed her out here to gloat.

  He crossed the wet terrace toward her with an unerring stride, obviously sure of a welcome reception from her. She slid her gaze over him. She supposed many women, perhaps even Jonathon, would find him attractive. He had a lean, muscular build, and as he drew closer she was struck again by how tall he was.

  But so what if he was broader across the shoulder and more powerfully made than most other men of her acquaintance? So what if he was roguishly handsome? He was only another man.

  In the end, he would be bound to disappoint her.

  He paused but a foot away, leaning a hand nonchalantly on the stone balustrade. “May I join you?”

  She steadfastly tried to ignore the vibration the rich timbre of his voice sent through her just as she futilely attempted to suppress the wild thudding of her heart. She couldn’t account for her body’s wayward responses to this man.

  Stop it, Georgie. You are reacting like the foolish girl you used to be.

  “If you like,” she replied, pleased that her voice sounded even and non-committal, despite her inward discomposure. She took another sip of champagne and turned to stare out into the dark garden again. Let Lord Markham state his business and be done with her. She wasn’t going to play along.

  She felt his gaze upon her.

  “I’d heard that you hardly ever lose, Your Grace. I’ve come to offer my apologies for spoiling your run.”

  She sensed the undercurrent of smug amusement in his voice. Yes, he was definitely an arrogant peacock.

  Steeling herself against any further errant physical reactions, she angled herself toward him and summoned a slight smile that she hoped conveyed a lack of concern. “It’s no matter,” she lied.

  His wide mouth tilted into a smile. “Hmm... Your brother didn’t think you’d feel that way.”

  She bristled. “So Jonathon put you up to this,” she accused, unable to hide the sharp note of irritation in her voice. “Well it won’t work you know. I’m not interested in engaging in flirtatious banter as you make a futile attempt to woo me.”

  Markham lifted a dark eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirked. “So cynical, Your Grace. But I like a challenge.” He slid a little closer to her and sought her gaze. Even though the terrace was only dimly lit by patches of light spilling through the salon’s main door and the softly glowing lanterns placed at strategic intervals around the garden, she thought she detected a sincere light in his dark gray eyes. “However it seems I have put you out. Again I apologize.”

  He paused and leaned a little closer, his shoulder touching hers, the tantalizing scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around her. His breath warmed her ear. “Perhaps I could even offer you some recompense for ruining your winning streak. Make it up to you.”

  He was much too close. Georgie’s mouth went dry and she fought the urge to take another sip of champagne. Instead she placed the flute on the balustrade and faced him, readying herself to quit the terrace. “I assure you that’s not necessary, Lord Markham. Besides I’m certain that I wouldn’t be interested in anything you had to offer.”

  “Are you sure?” His gaze pointedly fell to her lips before returning to her eyes.

  She only just repressed a most unlady-like urge to snort. “It sounds like whatever you have in mind would be rather more for your benefit than mine.”

  His mouth curved into a slow, sensual smile. “I’m sure it would be mutually beneficial. In fact, I promise you that you’ll thoroughly enjoy what I’m offering.”

  Damn him. She realized that despite her urge to berate him for his audacity, part of her knew she probably would enjoy what he was so clearly proposing to do.

  His gaze roamed over her face before dropping to her mouth again. He angled his head a little, moved imperceptibly closer. He was going to kiss her she was sure of it.

  But then he drew back. Frustration as well as an unexpected surge of desire flared. “You’re teasing me, Lord Markham.”

  “Just heightening your anticipation, trying to turn the odds in my favor. Besides, I’m still waiting to hear if you’ll actually
accept my offer of recompense. You won’t be disappointed.”

  She shot him a heated, hopefully withering look. “You are so cock-sure of yourself.”

  He smiled and shrugged a wide shoulder, clearly unperturbed. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “May I kiss you, Your Grace?”

  Georgie narrowed her eyes, resisting the urge to let her gaze drop to his suddenly all too tempting mouth. “I’ve a mind to say no.”

  “But you won’t.”

  No, she wouldn’t.

  Markham knew it too. That utterly enticing, languorous smile appeared again and she felt breathless. Almost lightheaded. She grudgingly acknowledged that it had been a long time since she’d been so affected by a man. Been kissed by a man.

  She was such a fool to crave something that could only be bad for her.

  Markham closed the small distance between them and raised a hand to wind one of her brown curls around one long finger. “Beautiful,” he murmured, watching it slide off before he gently brushed the back of his hand across her fevered cheek. Her breath caught and his gaze returned to hers. “You’re nervous,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice.

  Georgie swallowed. Yes, she was. But she didn’t want to acknowledge the real reason why. “We... I need to be discreet that’s all,” she lied.

  He frowned. “Of course.” He glanced over to the salon door before he gently reached for her arm and drew her into a dark corner behind a screen of potted firs. Even that simple touch—his hand on the bare skin between her sleeve and glove—sent a strange shiver of heat through her.

  Heaven help her. She mustn’t be in her right mind to be letting him do this, drawing her closer, his large hands on her all but bare shoulders. And how strange that she suddenly wanted him to kiss her so very much. She closed her eyes—raised her hands to his wide chest, and then felt his firm, warm lips angle across her own.

  His kiss was surprisingly light at first, undemanding—it was almost as if he was anticipating she would change her mind. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he had promised. He was holding back, teasing her, provoking her.

  Arousing her.

  Without conscious thought, she leaned closer into him, inviting him to take more. At last one of his hands rose to cradle the back of her head and he drew her closer still—she willingly yielded to the increase in pressure against her mouth.

  Yes. Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue entered to softly taste her. Warm, drugging desire began to heat her blood, pulse insistently between her legs. Now even this gentle exploration wasn’t enough.

  She could scarcely recall ever feeling this way before.

  Needy, hungry. Insatiable.

  She realized she wanted more. So much more.

  Her hands curled into the lapels of his superfine jacket and she felt the kiss change again. Markham groaned against her mouth and pulled her hard against the long, hard length of his body. Then pushed her up against the wall. His tongue plunged farther, deeper and this time she answered with a bold sweep of her own tongue. Then another. Her hands tangled in his hair.

  He tasted like cognac and heaven. He tasted like everything she used to desire.

  Foolish, Georgie.

  She abruptly pulled her mouth away, panting. Markham was breathing heavily too, the look in his eyes soft yet smoldering like hot, dark smoke.

  He had been right about one thing. She hadn’t been disappointed.

  “So, Your Grace,” Markham removed his hand from her nape and ran a finger along her undoubtedly kiss-swollen lower lip. His gaze was intent, his voice a soft caress in itself. “Did I succeed? Are you appeased?”

  Appeased? Georgie felt anything but appeased. She felt restless and ruffled. Reluctantly aroused. She pressed her lips together, not willing to concede her enjoyment. The man was already far too conceited for words. “It was just a kiss, Lord Markham.” She started to disengage herself from his hold, but as she stepped back, he caught her gloved hand.

  “So it’s not enough then?” Markham raised an eyebrow in query as he lifted her hand to his lips. Even the light contact of his mouth through the silk of her glove seared her, deepened the hot ache inside her. “Perhaps more kisses are in order.”

  He turned her arm slightly, then placed another teasing kiss just above the crook of her elbow, on the sensitive skin between her glove and silk sleeve. “I am at your disposal,” he murmured softly, drawing her closer. Another kiss fell at the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “For whatever you require...” He rained a trail of light kisses from her ear, along her jaw, toward her mouth. “Or want...”

  Dear Lord. Her bones might be as soft as melted candle wax and her skin aflame beneath Markham’s assured caresses, but what her body wanted didn’t matter.

  What she needed, was to get away.

  She drew a shaky breath, trying but not succeeding to summon a voice that didn’t quiver. “Really, Markham. You presume far too much.” She pulled herself from his hold and thankfully, he let her go. She hardened her voice. “As if I’d even consider—“

  “Georgie?”

  Jonathon!

  Markham sighed then muttered what she thought might be a curse. “Your brother has impeccable timing, Your Grace.”

  Georgie threw him a wry smile. “Yes, he does. I trust you’ll be a gentleman and remain here until I’ve gone inside.”

  Markham smiled and inclined his head. “Of course.” He caught her hand and kissed it as she attempted to brush pass him. “Until we meet again.”

  “I wouldn’t count on such a circumstance eventuating, Lord Markham.” Raising her chin, and gathering as much icy hauteur about her as she could, given that her cheeks were flushed and her lips were kiss-bruised, Georgie pulled her hand away then stepped out from behind the screen of firs. “Here I am, Jonathon. I was just taking a turn about the terrace.”

  Jonathon raised an eyebrow as she approached him by the salon door. “Of course you were.” A mischievous smile played about his lips. “I trust Markham has been keeping you entertained.”

  Georgie scowled and lightly swatted his arm. “Is that what you call it?” she snapped. “Well I don’t need entertaining by men like him, Jonathon. And I don’t appreciate being lied to by you and the Latimers. I’ve had enough of being a source of amusement to you all. Will lonely Georgie get a good swiving tonight because, Lord knows, she must need it?”

  “Now, now, Georgie-bean.” Jonathon took her arm to escort her back inside. “There is nothing wrong with a good swiving. And no one is laughing at you, just as no one set you up with Markham.”

  “Liar.” Georgie held her ground. She hadn’t finished with her brother by any means. “You and Helena made me sit down to cards on the pretext of playing with Phillip and then he didn’t show. Not only that, Markham all but admitted that you sent him out to placate me for losing, or some other such nonsense. You are all treating me like a child.” She was so cross she wanted to stamp her foot, but she didn’t, knowing it would appear just that—childish. “If Teddy were here...” She couldn’t finish. She swallowed, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. If Teddy were here right now, he’d be doubled over with laughter at my fit of temper, and in the process he’d have made me laugh at myself also.

  But then if Teddy were still here, none of this would have happened. He’d always known how much she despised rakehells. And Jonathon knew very well that she did too.

  Jonathon’s expression sobered. “I’m sorry to have upset you, sis. It was only meant to be a bit of fun because there’s been little enough of that of late. Surely you must agree. As for setting you up... I will admit that I did point Markham in your direction when I saw you step out here. But please don’t blame our friends. Phillip was actually called away by Helena at the last minute. Little Phillipa is being particularly fractious tonight and they’ve sent for the physician, I believe.”

  “Oh dear.” Georgie immediately felt a sharp twinge of contrition for assuming the worst about Phillip�
�s withdrawal from cards. “I hope it’s not too serious.”

  Jonathon frowned. “I’m not sure. But come inside, Georgie. Aside from being cold and wet, it’s now windy out here and you haven’t a shawl. We can’t have you falling ill now.”

  Unspoken were the words, like Teddy. Teddy’s sudden illness—a virulent ague—had descended without warning and had taken him within the space of a week, last autumn. “I’m fine, Jonathon,” she reassured her brother, all of her rancor suddenly dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

  “Not quite.” Jonathon reached up and pulled a fir needle from her hair. He smiled gently. “That’s better.”

  Georgie blushed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now why don’t we get some supper? I’m famished.”

  She sighed heavily in resignation. “As you wish.” As much as she wanted to leave, she couldn’t without saying good night to Phillip and Helena. She prayed their daughter, who was only two, would be all right.

  As Jonathon escorted her back into the noisy, glittering ballroom, she chanced a backward glance at the screen of firs. There was no sign of Markham. At least he had been a gentleman in that regard.

  But would he be a gentleman next time they met?

  Somehow, she rather doubted it.

  Rafe leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the delectable Georgie to quit the terrace with her brother before he emerged—like he’d promised. He could definitely do with another cognac right now. Aside from warming him—a chill wind had suddenly picked up—it would help to put out the fire surging through his veins straight to his cock. God, how fine had that woman tasted? And such a contradiction—positively glacial on the outside yet all fiery passion beneath. What he wouldn’t do to have her underneath him. Or on top. Or whatever way she damn well wanted.

  When he’d said until next time, he’d meant it.

  Snatches of conversation between the duchess and her brother drifted to him on the wind. Her acerbic comment about the need for a good swiving would have been amusing except for the fact that she’d also hinted she was lonely. Many a true word was spoken not only in jest, but in anger. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t file that tidbit away for future reference.