The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  Bowing acknowledgment to that observation, the lanky marquess strolled from the room and down the corridor.

  With a groan of despair, Neville sank into his chair again. He didn’t need this distraction. They were only a few votes short of passing the reform bill. He’d worked too hard to push the damned thing through to drop his campaign now. He loved London. He loved what he did.

  But the whole time his mind protested, the rest of him sang songs of deliverance at the thought of going home—to Fiona.

  ***

  Wanting to make a speedy journey, Neville rode instead of taking a carriage to Anglesey.

  If Townsend truly wanted him dead before the next session started, he’d have to come looking for him. Neville had told no one of his plans to leave the city.

  The fall session of parliament had ended while he’d been in Ireland. They’d stayed at Aberdare through Christmas, arranging more beds for McGonigle and the orphans, ordering the looms, and setting up the manufacturing operation in the castle’s great hall.

  It was February now, and the House wasn’t yet in session, but he had a million things to accomplish before everyone arrived. He simply didn’t have time for Anglesey. Never had.

  But Fiona preferred the country, and if the truth was told, he preferred thinking of Fiona in the country. He liked the image of his fairy sprite in forest green dashing across the countryside on her spirited horse. He’d made certain she had the best mount he could afford. He didn’t like the idea of his Irish bride displaying herself in all her glory to the jaded gazes of London society. He wanted to keep her to himself.

  He didn’t know if that was selfish or not. He’d ask Fiona about it when he saw her. She might frustrate him beyond the borders of reason, but he could always talk to her. He missed talking to her.

  That revelation jerked him down to earth. Staring at the magnificent sprawl of Anglesey across the horizon, Neville played with this new idea of missing Fiona for more reason than the physical. Was he that devoid of intelligent friends that he needed a rebellious female to converse with?

  It didn’t matter. He was almost there. Someone had seen his approach and his flag was rising on the flagpole as he watched. That kind of loyalty and pride almost made him homesick.

  Leaves hadn’t been raked from the fence rows, he noted as he rode up the drive. The gravel drive hadn’t been raked either. Even though he operated on next to nothing, Anglesey had always been well tended, thanks to his cousin Blanche’s generosity. Surely she hadn’t cut back her funding of the servants. They were family retainers. Blanche would never do that.

  Remembering the letter from his steward about Fiona’s unusual use for the gardeners, Neville turned from the main road into the lane leading toward a row of tenant cottages.

  The cold February wind threatened to blow his hat away, and Neville instantly regretted his decision. He’d much rather be sitting in front of a roaring fire, sipping mulled cider, and pulling his lovely wife into his lap. He must be insane to take this circuitous route for no good reason at all.

  But he had to see for himself. His steward had told him there was no money for repairs, that all the harvest proceeds must go into acquiring additional land so the estate could eventually break even. The tenant cottages would have to wait.

  Fiona, naturally, had disagreed.

  She’d scarcely been here a month, and she’d already turned the entire estate upside-down. Neville didn’t want to lose a good steward. But he hadn’t liked leaving those cottages in disrepair, either.

  As he rounded the bend, he focused on the roof of the first house. She must have started there. New thatch gleamed golden against gray winter clouds. It looked sound. Could Fiona really turn his gardeners into thatchers?

  Riding closer, he studied more of the cottages. Several sported new roofs. A crowd in the lane ahead indicated the current project. Instead of the leisurely process he remembered of one man tying up bundles of straw, dragging it up a ladder, and laboriously tying it to the other bundles already fastened there, the scene in progress resembled a manufactory.

  Several groups busily tied straw into thick, tight bundles. Others carried the completed bundles up several ladders to the roof, where a team of laborers skillfully lashed them into place. Roofs formed before his eyes. And one small figure kept the process running smoothly, pointing out where a bundle was needed, scrabbling up a ladder to hand up new rope—Fiona.

  His wife, the Duchess of Anglesey, potential mother of his heir—scrabbling up ladders and thatching roofs!

  He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Or maybe he would have.

  Neville dismounted and stalked through the crowd. His tenants fell silent after the first greeting failed to bring a smile or nod of recognition. He’d never ignored or condescended to his tenants. Right now, though, he had other things on his mind.

  “Your Grace!” Neville shouted loudly from the bottom of the ladder he’d last seen her ascend.

  Startled, Fiona teetered backward. His heart caught in his throat as he watched her regain her balance. “Fey-onah Perceval,” he shouted, his anger escalating, “get yourself down here this second!”

  Green eyes brimming with curiosity peered over the roofs edge. “Neville? What the divil are ye doin’ here, then?”

  Uh oh. The Irish brogue didn’t bode well. But the sight of her leaning precariously over a roof a good ten feet above his head gave him heart palpitations. “I’m ordering you down here where you belong, you idiot! Or must I go up after you?”

  The loud bellow of his command descended into astonished silence. Caught off guard by the sound of his own voice, he glanced around. Even the children stared. At him. Realization dawned slowly.

  He was shouting. In front of his tenants. He was standing here in all his dirt, squalling like a hog farmer at his wayward livestock. Him. The Duke of Anglesey, who never raised his voice or presented himself in less than impeccable attire. He must be mad. He truly had dicked his noggin.

  To his immense relief, Fiona scrambled down of her own accord. Instead of flinging herself into his arms in welcome—a welcome he’d had some foolish hope his homecoming might inspire—she propped her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  “Are you after bein’ the death of me then, scaring me like that that?” she demanded.

  “No wonder nobody understands the Irish. They don’t speak the same damned language!” Uncomfortably aware that they created a scene the entire countryside would talk about for weeks, Neville still couldn’t control his fury. Or his terror. Mental images of her tumbling off that roof on her curly head paralyzed his mind.

  Without giving a second thought to what he did, Neville scooped up his obstreperous wife before she could unleash another diatribe, and flung her into his saddle. He was up beside her before she could climb back down.

  “What the divil do ye think ye’re doin’?”

  “Taking my wife home where she belongs,” he said calmly, although he felt far from calm. Terror gave way to scents of lilac, the brush of soft curves, and the teasing of a headful of auburn curls against his chin. Behind him, he heard a male cheer of approval as he kicked his horse into motion. He’d never sought the approval of his tenants before, but triumph surged now.

  “You’re behavin’ like a blitherin’ idiot, your worship! Put me down. I’ve left my horse back there.”

  Neville adjusted her more comfortably against his thighs, glad that Anglesey wasn’t far. A nice wide bed would be more suitable than a saddle.

  “I’ll send someone to fetch the horse. If I’d known how you’d abuse your freedom, I’d never have given you a horse.”

  “Abuse! And how am I after abusing anything by seeing your people with decent roofs over their heads, I ask you? I’ve done naught more than any decent-minded landlord would do. Put me down at once, Neville! I’ll not be hauled around like a bit of baggage.”

  Neville reined his horse to a halt at the bottom of the graceful stone
staircase to Anglesey’s main entrance. Throwing the reins to a groom, he dismounted and hauled Fiona down before she could do it herself. Giving orders for the retrieval of her horse, he carried his wife, protesting every step of the way, up the stairs. The door opened silently without need of his knock, he noted with relief.

  His relief only lasted long enough for him to discover no fire warmed his bedchamber. “It’s freezing in here!” he shouted, irate at the shattering of still another homecoming illusion. “What happened to the damned fires?”

  Almost humbly, Fiona pointed to the connecting chamber. “There’s usually a small one in there. If you’d warned me you were coming, the others would have been lit also. I’ve just been saving on fuel.”

  Neville gave her woebegone expression a look of disbelief and proceeded into the next room, still refusing to put her down until he achieved his objective.

  Someone had apparently hurried in here and stirred the grate. Flames danced merrily, releasing a cozy warmth.

  Fine then, her room it would be. Neville abruptly dropped Fiona in the center of her bed. Before she could dash off the other side, he fell on top of her, neatly trapping her beneath him.

  “What...what are you doing?” Wide-eyed, Fiona stared up at him as if he’d well and truly gone mad.

  Maybe he had. But he’d never felt so completely in charge of his life as he did now, with his wife firmly caught under him and the sturdy walls of Anglesey shutting out all else.

  “I’m working on our herd of heirs, my dear,” he informed her, before pinning her shoulders to the bed and drowning her protests in his kiss.

  Twenty-nine

  Happiness and fear warred within Fiona’s breast as Neville crushed her into the bed and covered her mouth with his.

  She’d missed his kisses, missed finding his arms around her in the middle of the night, even missed the challenge of arguing with him every waking minute. She’d simply been filling up the days, waiting for his return. Silly, foolish thing to do, thinking like an abandoned wife.

  Remembering their wedding night, she relaxed and enjoyed the confrontation. Neville had a temper as strong as her own. He’d just learned to curb it better. Apparently, he didn’t see the need to curb it with her. She thought that might be a good thing. Indifference from Neville would be truly terrifying.

  His hands no longer pinned her shoulders but tore at her bodice. Near breathless from his kisses, Fiona struggled to return the favor, ripping at his waistcoat and cravat. But he was faster and she had fewer fastenings. She gasped as his cold fingers warmed around her bare breast.

  “This is where I want you,” he murmured, nuzzling at her lips and the line of her jaw as his fingers wreaked havoc with sensitive nipples.

  He drove her insane. She wanted him inside her, wanted to tear him apart as he did her, wanted a thousand things all at once. She didn’t want to be told her only place was in the bed, however.

  “I’ll not be your whore!” Fiona protested before Neville shut her up with the clever play of his tongue. The practiced skill of his palms as they slid over her breasts drove her into a frenzy. She tore at his clothing, wanting him to know it was her and not just any female.

  “My wife,” he asserted firmly, neatly avoiding her hands by bending to suckle at her breasts.

  It had been too long since she’d felt his mouth there, and Fiona cried out with the joy of that welcome touch. To hell with this senseless argument. In this, they wanted the same thing.

  She helped him pull the gown and chemise over her head. He shucked his coat and waistcoat with ease, but lost patience as she tackled the knotted ties of his shirt. He pressed her breasts together so he could pleasure himself there. Then he cupped her buttocks so he could lift her for more intimate kisses. He’d taught her these things once, but she’d forgotten the lesson. His touch between her legs rendered her mindless.

  He used his tongue to drive her almost to the pinnacle and drew back, teasing her. He didn’t move fast enough. Brashly, Fiona attacked the buttons of his trousers and triumph surged at his shout of freedom.

  Swiftly, he rolled over and pulled her on top of him. Startled, Fiona gazed down into silvered eyes, heavy-lidded with desire. Golden brown hair fell over Neville’s noble brow and the bristles of his beard shadowed his jaw. He still wore his lace-edged shirt, although it lay half open, revealing the brown hairs curling against his muscled chest. Desire heated her blood, but the look in his eyes shot straight to her heart. “Love me,” he commanded.

  Foolish man, to think he could command such a thing as love. But she wasn’t at all certain that he knew what he was saying. Perhaps this was what he thought love was—a passionate tumble between the covers. If so, she would provide it for him. Fiona realized she needed his happiness to complete her own.

  “Show me,” she whispered.

  He obliged, lifting her to accommodate him. He still wore his muddy boots and trousers. She was as naked as the day she was born. Wild abandon swept her as she thrilled to the power of her new position. Joy bubbled out as laughter as he surged upward and into her.

  She couldn’t thrust fast enough for him. He rolled her onto her back and took charge again, plunging deeper and more powerfully with each stroke until Fiona lost all consciousness of everything but the deep driving need for completion.

  It erupted in a burst of wildfire and molten lava, consuming them so swiftly, Fiona could scarcely catch her breath. They quaked together, perspiration oiling their flesh in all the places where they rubbed. The musk of their mating perfumed the air around them.

  And Fiona realized how much this had become a part of her life. She didn’t want him to leave again.

  That thought scared her even more than Neville’s temper. As their over-heated bodies cooled, he pulled the covers around her, and sat up to remove his boots. As they did so often, they said nothing, although the air between them thickened with unspoken words. Somehow, they must learn to speak of these things, Fiona thought as Neville lay down beside her, bootless, and pulled her into his arms. Terrified that this might be all they had between them, she couldn’t bear to disturb the beauty of it with words.

  So she snuggled against his shoulder and slept, leaving all the words for another day.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, Neville, but the man is a stiff-rumped snob of the worst degree, and I’ll not have him dictate to me or mine. I swear, I shall sell your family jewels and fund a cathedral before I’ll set foot in that man’s church again. For all I know, I’ve given up my eternal soul for you, but I’ll be damned if I suffer the torments of hell before I must.”

  Neville tried to keep his lips from twitching at the fiery tirade as his petite wife paced up and down the carpet of his study for all the world as if she were as large and strong as Effingham. He could span her waist with his hands, throw her over his shoulder with no more effort than a sack of grain, but her attitude was twice as large as her puny size. Or her current size, anyway. He grinned inwardly at that amendment.

  “The jewels are entailed. We can’t sell them,” he informed her, knowing perfectly well that his composure only drove Fiona to greater heights of fury. He sat back and sipped his brandy in the firelight and watched her go up in flames.

  “Then I’ll bloody well pawn them!” she shouted, flinging her hands in the air, and dislodging her auburn curls until several tumbled over her shoulders. “I’ll not set foot in that hypocrite’s church, Neville. I won’t!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

  “All right, don’t.” He kept as straight a face as he could muster beneath her disbelieving stare. “His living comes from Anglesey, though. Would you deprive the entire village of his services?”

  “I would,” she grumbled mutinously, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d not put a farthing in that pinch-penny’s cup. The village can attend chapel here, with us. If I can endure that Methodist sermonizing, so can they.”

  Neville sincerely hoped the new Methodist preacher had sense enough to a
void topics that raised his duchess wife’s ire, but knowing the breed, he expected further rebellion in the ranks. Perhaps it was time to teach Fiona the responsibilities of so much power. She had certainly grasped its uses quickly enough.

  “Ravensworth has a family, a poor brow-beaten wife who has favored him with five lovely daughters. They’re all well-behaved, unspoiled chits who go behind his back to help those in need. Would you put them out of the only home they know just because you disagree with their father’s stiff-necked prejudices?”

  Fiona’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged. With some practice, Neville thought he might become good at this. He did have a few more years of experience than she.

  Before she could find an adequate reply, Neville continued without a trace of admonishment. “I think we can adequately fund your Methodist as well as the vicarage, since the chapel is already here and needs regular maintenance whether used or not. But you must realize that once this new man comes to rely on Anglesey income, he’ll start planning a life of his own—a wife, children, a house of some sort. Should you decide you dislike his teachings, you will face the same difficulty dislodging him as we face with the vicar now. The power we wield over peoples’ lives is a dangerous thing, Fiona.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, as she absorbed this lesson. Neville had no doubt she would have learned it sooner or later on her own. He gave her credit for an intelligence equal to his. He just didn’t want her learning the hard way.

  “I’ve been playing duchess, haven’t I?” she asked, huddling within herself as she stood in front of the fire.

  Satisfied he’d made his point, Neville set his glass down and crossed the room to stand before her. “No, you are playing the part of Fiona, savior of the world, as always. You were born to be a duchess. I could not have chosen better had I searched the heavens.”

  A tear winked briefly in her eye as she turned toward him. “I’m not born to the silver, your honor. You’ve seen that for yourself. I can’t not help with the thatching, or interfering with the vicar or the steward or any of those other things I’ve done. It’s not in me to be idle.”