The Ice Duchess by Tracy Sumner
Chapter 11
A promise fulfilled on Twelfth Night…
Dex shoved his hands in his greatcoat pockets and shivered. The day was frigid, the sky reconciled between wretched and ghastly, icy splinters sneaking beneath the brim of his beaver hat to strike his cheek. As he crossed Great Russell Street, his heart, like the sky, was leaden, his chest taut, making breath a rare commodity. He was barging inside the first public house he encountered, no matter how appalling, and not coming out for days. He was going to drown himself in the finest spirits the district of Bloomsbury had to offer—and then he was going to start on the worst. Maybe he’d unleash his temper, use his fists to alleviate his misery. It’d been years since he’d used them in this manner, but it likely wouldn’t be the last.
Georgie hadn’t shown.
He’d waited in the damned natural history bay for one hour, his donated rocks mocking him, then stalked from room to room should she have gotten lost amidst the group of Oxford professors who’d been wandering the halls since morning. Had he confused the time? Done something to offend her? That blasted map, he thought and gave the bridge of his nose a hard pinch.
The least traditionally romantic gift of all he’d given, but the most personal.
Had she hated it? Not grasped it’s meaning? He was asking her to stay with him, to travel with him, to be with him.
Offering his heart and all that went with it.
He didn’t know how to impress a woman. He’d never known.
Dread cut a wide path through him. It was simple: Georgie wasn’t going to allow herself to love him again.
In a burst of confidence, he’d even sent a missive to his father. The Duke of Markham had always loved Georgie. He’d be pleased to know Dex did, too.
When all Dex had done was curse himself.
He bumped into a man exiting a bootmaker’s shop and snarled a rude rejoinder when he was utterly at fault. She didn’t love him; this was obvious. Not enough, in any case. Didn’t want to be his duchess, which he understood. Who truly desired that ridiculous title and the mess that went with it? But if Georgie loved him, the future Duke of Markham, if she needed him as he needed her, the duchess piece was, unfortunately, part of his package.
The velvet box in his waistcoat pocket sizzled and stung, a woeful little weight reminding him of his idiocy. He should have asked her to marry him years ago, after their impetuous kiss. When she’d had stars in her eyes and no memory of an earl who’d married her and made her life miserable. She’d admitted she would have said yes. They’d been young, but his heart hadn’t shifted since then. Not one tick. Now, she had more pressing issues to be concerned with. Bigger dreams. Her society, a group spoken about in apprehensive tones by the inhabitants of White’s. Viscount Reading’s cheeks had paled when he mentioned his betrothed was meeting with Georgiana the following week to discuss how best to settle their marital contract. The woman he loved had the ton by the short hairs, and Dex could almost, almost laugh about that.
When he got over feeling like he wanted to cry instead.
Halting in front of St. George’s, he climbed the church steps and let the crowd pass, unsure what to do next. Perched against a marble column that felt like a block of ice, he’d worked himself into a sufficient despondency when he heard someone shouting his name.
He looked up, dizzily, blood draining from his head to pool at his feet.
Georgie was hanging half out of a hackney window as it bounced down the street and into the curb, her bonnet, if she’d had one, long gone, her chignon destroyed by the wind and sleet. Before the driver got off his box, Dex was there, ripping open the carriage door and pulling her into his arms right on the sidewalk while a crowd of pedestrians funneled past.
“Oh, Dex, I’m sorry.” Her face was tear-streaked, her nose as red as the holly berries he’d sprinkled along a Derbyshire hallway so she could find him. “My carriage hit ice and lost a wheel as they were bringing it around this morning. I had to locate other transport after making sure my coachman wasn’t injured and—”
His gloved hands rose to frame her chilled cheeks. “Georgie girl, hush. I’m here. It’s okay.”
She broke down then, absolutely distraught. Agonized pleas he couldn’t make out mixed with sobs and hiccups. Worry about his finding his duchess at a musicale or on the street in front of a millinery.
Her adorable hysteria dropped him deeper in the pit of love.
Taking her by the arm, he guided her up the steps and into St. George’s while murmuring soothing words. The vestibule was deserted, hushed, except for the sound of ice striking a high windowpane and the stifling aroma of frankincense and myrrh. “Don’t cry. Please, you’ll break my heart with your tears. I would have gotten inebriated and stormed over to your townhouse in a manner of hours anyway. It was already in the planning area of my brain, even if I’d like to deny it.”
She sputtered out a laugh, sniffled, swallowed. When she lifted her head from her study of the marble floor, her eyes were as bright and moist as bluebells soaked in dew, her lashes dark, her skin flushed. With a breathy sigh, she charged into her confession in a most appropriate spot. “I’ve made a hash of this. Us. Since Christmas. Ungrateful, too, not thanking you for the gifts. I’ve worn the brooch every day and made the tea and eaten the chocolate and looked at the map a thousand times when I left Derbyshire without—”
“Stop,” he pleaded, catching her around the waist and bringing her up on her toes. Cradling her face, he slanted his head and took the kiss to a magical place only those who fit together seamlessly could reach. Her gloved hand met his cheek, slid into his hair, tangling as a moan slipped from her throat. Going on instinct, they offered themselves without words, without thought.
“I love you, Dexter Reed Munro,” she whispered against his lips. “I always have.”
Dex dropped his brow to hers, his chest as tight as if a metal band had been fastened around it. He drew in the scent of the church, of lavender and nutmeg, of Georgie. “I’m the sorry one. I made the mistake of leaving England without you before.” He moved back enough to see her eyes. “You’re going to say yes, right? Make the Duchess Society the genuine article? Make a life with me? Have my children? Grow old with me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, a tear streaking down her cheek. “I am.”
He brushed it aside with his thumb. “No more of this. Don’t you know? You’re the most suitable suitable. And I would have waited for you. I would have gone to the ends of the Earth before I gave up on us. I just would have, I’m stubborn that way. My heart was dented, it’s true, but it would’ve mended enough for me to fight for you had you not hung out of a hackney racing dangerously down Great Russell Street and brought me quickly to heel.” Dex was not a religious man but taking in the space where they stood—the paschal candle, the baptismal pool, the wall-mounted founts, the glistening wood, and aged velvet, the feeling of permanence and glory—he decided this was the ideal place to start their life together.
Stepping back, he wiggled the velvet box from his waistcoat pocket. It squealed when he opened it, a sound drowned out by Georgie’s gasp. The ring, an emerald surrounded by a circle of diamonds, had been in the Munro family for centuries. He’d never expected to love anyone enough to ask them to wear it. “If Anthony were alive, I would have gone to him first. As it is, it’s only us now.” He blew out a nervous breath, shuffled from one glossy Hessian to the other. “Will you be my duchess, my best friend, my geological assistant, my partner?”
Throwing herself into his arms, Georgiana said yes to all.
Just like that, the Ice Countess melted.
And a new duchess was born.