The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  Neville breathed a little easier. He didn’t want the earl changing his mind and sending Fiona away, especially not after what they’d done together. And he damned well didn’t want to tell her cousin what they’d done.

  “I’m making ends meet now,” he said cautiously. “You know how hard I’ve worked to make the entailed properties profitable. I’ll let her use the dowry to fix those things she sees. That will keep her busy for a little while. I don’t see why she should have to know more than that.”

  “And the year the harvest fails and your investments lose money? What will you tell her then when you have to turn off staff and let the cottages fall into complete disrepair?”

  Michael knew Neville’s financial straits were difficult—he didn’t know the extent of the difficulty. He was sounding him out now, but Neville knew how to bluff. He’d been doing it the better part of his life.

  “Every year I invest a little more and the profits are a little higher. I don’t gamble, I don’t drink, I don’t frivol money away. I don’t think Fiona will be nearly half so expensive to keep as most of the women of London. You don’t have to worry about her starving or going shoeless.”

  Michael chuckled and relaxed. “No, but you will. Fiona hates shoes.”

  ***

  Having spent a frustrating day perusing the estate books, scratching for places where he could cut expenses so he could apply the money elsewhere, Neville decided he deserved some reward for his diligence. Inquiries of the footmen gave him the direction, and smiling at the aptitude of Fiona’s choice, he hurried toward the conservatory.

  Gladness swelled his heart, not to mention other parts of him, as he saw her slender back bent toward an easel while she colored in a sketch of one of the more delicate branches of miniature orchids in his collection. His scowl threatened to break his brow as a childish voice intruded upon his plans.

  “Cousin Fiona, can I use that color there for my picture?”

  He didn’t walk so softly as Michael, and Fiona must have heard him enter, yet she merely handed her watercolor box to the child instead of greeting him. Even disguised in rich velvet, the girl’s lame leg was evident from the way she sat in the chair.

  “Do you think after we’re married we’ll be so hampered?” Neville growled with rare irascibility. Frustration would make a crotchety old man of him yet.

  Fiona’s amused look of understanding didn’t help.

  “That herd of heirs you require will hamper us greatly, Your Grace, but by then, perhaps it will not matter.”

  Herd of heirs. Neville groaned at the grammar and the image of producing that herd. And then he groaned at the thought of a half dozen Fionas racing about his feet. “Perhaps we ought to rethink the whole idea, then.”

  She looked startled, and Neville regretted speaking his thoughts aloud. He hadn’t meant them as more than a jest, but they didn’t have the kind of understanding yet. He offered a wry smile as he tried to explain.

  “What if the Aberdare strain runs true? I will have a herd of heirs with red hair, whooping like wild Indians through the parlors, and a pride of princesses cutting them off at the pass with ropes slung across the hallways.”

  Fiona’s smile broadened until it lit her face, and as he caught her imagination, she giggled. Beside her, little Mary looked at them both as if they’d lost their minds.

  “A frightening thought, Your Grace,” she replied with all solemnity when she’d sufficiently recovered herself. “But even more frightening is the idea of a line of studious little potential dukes, scrubbed and gleaming and not a wrinkle out of place, standing back and watching the herd of heirs and pride of princesses.”

  Neville narrowed his eyes, then turned to their miniature guardian. “I do believe there are cherry tarts for tea, Miss Mary. Why don’t you run on and see?”

  Delighted at this treat, Mary grabbed her cane, dipped a clumsy curtsy, and limped for the door. Satisfied that they were without an audience for the first time in days, Neville moved toward the reward he’d promised himself.

  Fiona jumped up at almost the same time as Mary. But he knew she didn’t retreat in fear of him. She was only worried about getting caught.

  “I calculate we have exactly fifteen minutes before Mary reaches the parlor, Blanche realizes we’re alone, and sends someone after us. Want to see how far I can go in fifteen minutes?”

  “Are you counting, Your Grace?” She’d backed up against a table and couldn’t retreat any farther.

  “One thousand and one,” Neville whispered as he planted his hands securely on the table on either side of her. “One thousand and two.” He bent and captured her lips with his own, and all thought of numbers evaporated in steam.

  She was so light he could lift her without trying, her waist so small that he could encompass it with his hands. Neville did both, setting Fiona on the table’s edge so he could find better purchase. He cupped both her breasts in his palms, and filled his mouth with her moan of pleasure. The sound vibrated deep inside him, awakening needs and desires long dormant. He’d never been a man of passion, but Fiona drove him to the brink of it and beyond.

  “The red-haired heirs can wait,” he muttered against her lips. “It’s a red-haired wife I want right now. Let me come to you tonight, Fiona. Send the maid away.”

  “I can’t. I can’t,” she moaned again when he nibbled her lip. “She’ll tell Blanche.”

  She shuddered in his arms and slid her fingers beneath his cravat, searching for his bare flesh. Neville took a deep breath and settled his disappointment. She was right, of course. He would have to make do with these hasty caresses for a few days more. And then he would keep her in his bed until they both died of exhaustion.

  To hell with Parliament and reform bills.

  He dipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her bodice and stroked the sensitive tips of her breasts. Behind them the door opened and the butler gave a polite cough.

  Neville pulled away, reassured by Fiona’s suppressed gasp that her desire remained as strong as his own.

  Unable to turn lest whoever entered see the noticeable bulge in his trousers, Neville lifted Fiona from her perch and straightened her gown. “Two more nights, Fiona. Are you sure you’re ready?” he whispered so only she could hear him.

  He chortled at the challenge in her eyes as she lifted them to meet his. Fiona had never resisted a challenge in her life, he’d wager.

  “I’m ready, Your Grace. The question is, are you?”

  And a very good question it was, he mused as she walked out.

  Sixteen

  “One more night, my love,” Neville whispered, catching Fiona by surprise as she hid in the darkened library.

  He’d spent the entire day about estate business, never once seeking her out, but now that she had reason not to face him, he located her faster than any vulture with its prey.

  Fiona tried shrugging him off, but the duke merely shifted his hands on her shoulders. Embarrassment stifled the desire his presence usually stirred. She had to tell him sometime. She wished she’d had a mother to tell her how one went about these things. But she’d grown up in a household of men and knew only their language, not a woman’s. “We can’t,” she whispered.

  His fingers tightened, biting into her shoulders.

  “Can’t what?” he asked.

  “We can’t do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow was their wedding day, the day they’d waited for all week. Her Uncle William and Seamus had arrived just hours ago. She and Neville would speak their vows in the morning, and then the duke would think he had every right to take her up to his bed and do what they’d done before. And she couldn’t.

  Neville’s silence terrified her more than angry words. He could be so cold, so remote, so obtuse sometimes.

  “I see.” Releasing her, he leaned against the mahogany library table, every inch the noble duke. The lamp threw his sculpted cheekbones into relief. He didn’t look at her, but at the slightly worn carpet beneath his feet. “May I ask if this
is a temporary aberration?”

  Fiona held her breath and nodded. Realizing he probably couldn’t see her in the shadows, she spoke aloud. “Yes, only temporary,” she said so softly, it was scarcely better than a nod.

  The shoulders beneath his tightly tailored coat relaxed. “You mean that we may consider our red-haired heir postponed for another month?”

  She could hear the grin in his voice, damn him. She’d spent the entire day pacing and worrying about a wedding night, and he just grinned and accepted that she was a failure as a brood mare. “You have an exceedingly narrow point of view, Your Grace,” she answered coldly.

  “Yes, well I have to, you realize. Otherwise I’d be running about like a chicken with its head cut off.” He leaned over and cupped her chin, brushing her cheek with a feather-light kiss. “But I can focus equally well on you when necessary. What should you like to do with our temporary reprieve? I suppose I should have asked you earlier if there was any place you would like to go for our wedding trip. Brighton and Bath are a trifle out of season, but if you’re interested...”

  “I suppose it’s too far to Ireland?” Fiona asked, doing her best to hide the wistfulness in her voice.

  He gave her a look of genuine regret. “The session is not yet over. I have two bills that I have not given up on. I might stay away a week or two, but no longer. We’ll go to Aberdare for Christmas, if you like.”

  He’d offered her more understanding than Fiona had dared hope for. She knew the importance of his work, even though she didn’t believe government could ever accomplish anything except make the rich, richer. Still, she couldn’t fault him for trying. She offered the only olive branch she possessed. “I suppose we could stay here. You could go into London for your sessions. Perhaps that would hurry up the process and Christmas will come early.”

  Neville appeared startled at the suggestion. But then he smiled, a genuine smile that had her heart pounding all over again, and she wished for the confidence to brush a fallen strand of hair from his brow. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the library table instead.

  “All right. Perhaps that’s best. It will give you time to adjust to the estate at your own pace, without the burden of my attentions for a while. But stand forewarned, I will return before the week is out. I’ve waited too long for a wife and a marriage bed to forget them now.”

  She understood that completely. If he stayed here after the ceremony, unable to bed her, they would kill each other in frustration. She didn’t know what she would do in this place with Michael and Blanche gone, but she would have to find some way to occupy herself. She had made a commitment for the rest of her life.

  “The orphans?” she murmured, drawing him away from ticklish subjects.

  “I’ve already made arrangements. Your uncle will see to them when he returns.”

  Fiona nodded. He’d done his part. She would do hers.

  ***

  “We need to make some decision about purchasing that mine in Cornwall. Prices are down, but the men will go without work if we don’t find another seam soon,” Michael said, pacing the rug much as Fiona had earlier, Neville observed.

  The pair of them had more energy than any ten people he knew. Scribbling his name across a document Michael had brought for his signature, Neville nodded. “I’ll go down to Cornwall after Christmas.”

  Michael sent him a disgruntled look. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll be a newly married man. You can’t leave Fiona to look after herself so early in the game.”

  Neville wondered what Michael would think should he learn of his earlier discussion with Fiona. Without glancing up from the papers, he dismissed the problem. “As long as Blanche is paying the staff at Anglesey, I’ll earn my keep. She doesn’t like you traveling too far, and with the child coming, she’ll need you close to home. I can go to Cornwall.”

  Michael snorted. “You’re not thinking like a married man yet, Duke. Fiona might have an opinion on that.”

  Neville finally glanced up at the man he had once considered his nemesis. For a change, he knew something better than Michael did. “By the first of the year Fiona will have had time to settle in. She’ll have her own pursuits and won’t miss me in the least, I promise.”

  Michael stopped his pacing and picked up several brass ornaments Neville had deliberately requested to replace the porcelain figurines usually there. The earl tossed the ornaments back and forth as he studied Neville. “Does Fiona know how much time you spend away from home?”

  “Michael, you’ll have to understand that what’s between us isn’t the same as for you and Blanche. One of the reasons Fiona will make a perfect wife for me is that she is completely independent and capable of entertaining herself. I won’t have to spend every waking moment worrying over a clinging female.” Remembering the scene with his mistress when she’d flung all his gifts back in his face, Neville gave thanks to God all over again for letting him see the light. He didn’t have the temperament for demanding females.

  “If you’d married Gwyneth as we all expected, you could have restored Anglesey’s empty coffers immediately. Are you certain you’ll not regret this?”

  Neville heard the concern in Michael’s question and didn’t take umbrage. As Fiona’s cousin, Michael had a right for concern. He set his pen down and shook his head. “Pour some brandy and let us celebrate our double cousinship. Anglesey has survived for centuries. Bankruptcy won’t stop us now.”

  Lingering in the shadows, Fiona covered her gasp with her hand. She wished she’d entered without eavesdropping. She had only meant to wait for a break in the conversation. Now she knew entirely too much, and anger as well as fear shook her. Bankruptcy. No wonder the tenant cottages hadn’t been repaired. She knew poverty well.

  He should have told her he needed Gwyneth’s money. He should have told her marriage between them was out of the question. He couldn’t let his tenants suffer because of her, because of their lust and selfishness. It wasn’t right.

  Confused, appalled, and frightened, Fiona grabbed a shawl and fled out a side door. She would have an entire lifetime in which to repent if she didn’t do the right thing now.

  There was no child. She’d been given a reprieve from her foolishness. God had given her time to think this through.

  She didn’t place much consequence on the knowledge that she was no longer a virgin. She had never particularly expected to marry.

  She had entered into this agreement in hopes of relieving the people of her village and saving the orphans. She hadn’t realized that she might cause the suffering of others in return.

  Fiona shivered and gazed up at the stormy night sky. Her shawl did little to keep the autumn wind from freezing her bare arms. Clouds scudded across what few stars dared show their faces. The wind had stripped the trees, and their naked branches tossed and turned against the sky. It seemed only fitting that she must make a difficult decision on a night such as this.

  Michael and Blanche would never forgive her if she bolted. The duke would resent her for the rest of her life, and the notion brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t want him hating her.

  Disturbed by the realization that she truly cared what he thought of her, she had no choice but to admit that she didn’t want to give him up. If she gave up the duke, she would never again know a man’s touch or feel a child’s suckle. She would condemn herself to a life of loneliness.

  She didn’t normally cry. She’d railed against the fates, shaken her fist at the stars, raced her horse across the countryside until she worked out her tears and anger. But none of those methods would work now. For just a little while, for a very little while, she’d felt needed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted that.

  Of course, Neville didn’t really need her. He could have any mistress he wanted, any wife he chose. Yet despite what she had done to his hopes for the future, he had treated her like a queen. He’d led her to believe she could truly be his wife, that he wanted her and only her.

  And so, for h
is sake, she must be equally kind. He’d been forced to offer marriage. She would relieve him of the burden of marrying a penniless thorn in his side.

  That decision formed, Fiona considered the consequences. Aberdare would suffer for it. There would be no dowry to buy the looms, though Michael might be persuaded to buy them after he quit being angry with her. The village would have to struggle along until then. The fate of the orphans was most pressing. She must hurry back to Aileen’s children, find some way of providing for them.

  She was good with horses. She’d trained the yearlings that kept Aberdare from bankruptcy. She could hire herself out, if she could disguise herself as a man. Something better might occur once she returned home.

  Home. She needed the funds to return. She’d made that horrible journey alone once before. She wouldn’t do it again without money. Blanche had given her a small allowance, but that wasn’t sufficient. She hated stealing, but she had naught else. The duke hadn’t even given her a betrothal gift. Everything had happened too quickly.

  She would wait until Michael and Blanche had retired to their bed. Michael would have coins somewhere about. She didn’t want to steal from Neville. She wasn’t his responsibility any longer.

  She wandered toward the warmth of the stable. The huge stone building broke some of the wind, and she brushed strands of hair back from her face as she paced beside it.

  She didn’t want to hurt Neville.

  That idea struck her so forcefully that Fiona deliberately attempted to avoid it by listening to the wind. Instead, she thought she heard horses and voices. On a night like this? Shaking her head, she turned the corner, seeking the stable door and the warmth of the animals within.

  She did hear voices.

  Glancing up, Fiona saw the silhouette of a horse rearing a protest against the night sky. A groom fought to hold the animal down. None of Anglesey’s horses behaved so badly. They’d all been properly trained and had no reason to fear their grooms. Had the duke possessed an animal like this one in his stables, she would have thought twice or more about marrying the man.