The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  “You will learn soon enough that the more power you assume, the more work you must do. At some point, you’ll have to delegate some of your authority to others and hope for the best.”

  He cupped her face in his palm. He was so full of joy at this minute, he thought he might burst. Joy, and pride, he admitted, without conceit. He’d had so little of those things in his life, he savored them now. Had he a choice, he would shut out London and Parliament and all his worldly duties, and remain here, basking in the contentment of home and family. He hadn’t thought such emotion possible, not for him. Fiona had taught him otherwise.

  He kissed her, and her response told him the time was ripe. He wanted to share this new found joy. Gently, he stroked her sides, cupping the fullness of her breasts, spanning her waist with his hands. Was it his imagination, or was there a gap between his fingers that hadn’t been there before?

  Smiling at the thought, Neville lifted his head and watched the shadows flit across Fiona’s lovely face. “Your list of responsibilities already grows greater, does it not? In a few months time, you will be supervising a nursery. I understand that is a considerable task.”

  Fiona’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into Neville’s sparkling eyes. She had never seen such pure joy there, not even when they made love. She could scarcely conceal the leap of hope in her heart. “How did you know?” she asked, searching his face for clues. “I’d thought I’d wait until I was further along to tell you, so you needn’t worry more than you must.”

  She thought his smile the most beautiful she’d ever seen. She loved the way Neville’s upper lip curved, and the way his lower lip beckoned to be kissed. Daringly, she rested her palms against his waistcoat and admired this awesome duke, her husband.

  “Did you think I did not memorize every inch of your lovely body, my Fiona? How your breast weighs just so in my hand?” He cupped her through the wool of her gown. “How your waist fits the span of my hands?” He measured her there again, as he had before. “Did you think I’d not notice my thumbs no longer meet and that your breast weighs heavier?”

  His expressive eyebrows raised, revealing the glint of humor in his eyes. She loved his dry humor. She ought to smack him for hinting she had grown fat. But she was proud of that extra inch of waistline.

  “What will you do when I grow so big and round your arms cannot encompass me?”

  “I’ll hug you from behind,” he whispered in her ear as he showed her how well she still fit within his embrace.

  “What if it’s a girl I carry and not your precious heir?” she asked defiantly, biting her lip to hide her fear.

  “I will be overjoyed that we must take another wedding journey and try again.” He chuckled when she pinched him through his waistcoat. He captured her hands, pulling them behind her. “Let us not get out of practice while we wait to see what it will be. You will not deny me now that you’ve done your duty?”

  As if she could, Fiona thought wildly as Neville’s mouth descended on hers. That was the last coherent thought she had before the very proper, very staid Duke of Anglesey laid her on the carpet before the fire and had his way with her.

  ***

  “Durham, you’re a sapskull! You’ve accomplished absolutely nothing except cementing the relationship between that unholy triumvirate more thoroughly than ever. Effingham is laughing in our faces and Aberdare threatens to cut off the ears of the next person who defames his cousin. The duke doesn’t need to say a word,” Townsend shouted at the man standing in front of his desk.

  Slump-shouldered, Durham brushed at his receding black hair and toyed with his threatened ears. “I had Aberdare’s people up in arms and ready to burn the castle, but the earl interfered with his lies. Then McGonigle reneged on his promises, all because of the duke and that damned female. Who would have thought the duke would fall for that pestilent chit? I never gave her a thought.”

  “You were supposed to keep Aberdare and the duke in Ireland and out of London entirely. Instead, you got some poor peasant robbed and killed and set all Effingham’s spies after us. It’s time you started earning your way around here.”

  Durham tugged nervously at his ear. “Burke’s death was an accident. I keep telling you, nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

  “Right. You loose a band of ruffians to burn a castle and think no one will get hurt? Don’t be a lobcock, Durham. People get hurt all the time. Power goes to the strongest, and the weak get hurt. That’s how the world operates. I swear, if you weren’t my son-in- law, I’d...”

  Durham straightened his shoulders and tugged at his tweed coat. “I can do it, sir. I can have all three of them out of London before the bill comes to a vote. You just need to raise the majority, and the cabinet post is yours, sir.”

  The older man behind the desk looked vaguely placated. “See that you do, Durham. I’m not rich as Croesus and my daughter’s portion dwindles with every minute we waste here.”

  Holding his shoulders rigid and his paunchy stomach in, Durham nodded briskly. “Right you are, sir. I’ll take care of the matter.”

  He marched out, not seeing the balding, bespectacled clerk holding the door for him.

  The clerk’s worried frown would have given him away had anyone looked, but men of wealth and power never noticed ten-shilling-a-year clerks.

  Thirty

  “Must you go so soon?” Fiona asked as Neville shrugged into his caped greatcoat.

  Surely a warm fire would be much more pleasant than a ride to London in the wintry gloom. Shouldn’t dukes have the right to do as they pleased? She didn’t ask the question aloud. She already knew her noble husband’s response.

  “I’ve already lost all my work on the Emancipation Bill while I dallied with you in Ireland, Fiona. I cannot afford to let the crime reform bill die, too.” With his usual gruff impatience, Neville fastened his coat and jerked on his gloves. “The lives of too many people are at stake.”

  “I cannot believe a wee bit of paper will save them,” Fiona replied bitterly. “The bloody English never let bits of paper stop them before. They’ll just find new and more infernal ways of disposing of those who annoy them.”

  Neville brushed a kiss across her forehead. “I’ve already explained the importance of this bill and I’ll not argue, my love. There’s no time. Write me a nasty flaming letter excoriating the entire government if you will, but if I’m to reach London by dark, I must set off now.”

  “You’re taking riders with you this time?” she demanded.

  “I can’t afford to waste coins on nannies to watch over me. This isn’t Ireland. The roads are well-traveled. I blend in with the crowd. Now, will you promise me you’ll try to behave while I’m gone?”

  “I’m not a child, Neville,” she replied peevishly. “I’ll not execute any vicars or import the Pope, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, the Pope’s blessing might help, but his presence definitely would not. Take care of yourself. No more roof thatching.”

  With that last admonition, he swept out the side entrance to the horse waiting under the portico. Fiona watched him go with a wretchedness she could not endure. She had tried pretending that he was the irritating arrogant duke she once thought him, but she knew better. He’d ignored her barbs, calmly brushed aside her arguments, and though he spoke as if annoyed by their dallying in Ireland, he kissed her as if she were the trusted and beloved wife she wanted to be. She knew she wasn’t any such timid creature, and he’d discover it soon enough.

  Through the rain splattered windows, she watched Neville’s proud, upright form ride past the gate. The emptiness in her heart echoed as loud as the mansion’s cavernous banquet room. It was a terrible, dismaying feeling, knowing that Neville took a part of her soul with him when he left.

  Perhaps it was the child, Fiona thought as she turned away from the window. She wasn’t particularly frightened of the natural occurrences of pregnancy and childbirth. But perhaps that state required the extra reassurance of a husban
d’s presence. If so, how had poor Aileen endured it?

  If that poor woman could manage seven pregnancies without a husband in sight, then surely a duchess could manage while surrounded with wealth and comfort. Cursing herself for her weakness, Fiona sought refuge in the study with the estate books. If she couldn’t thatch roofs, what could she do to occupy the empty hours?

  She stared at pounds and shilling columns and doodled on a scrap of paper, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind drifted to Neville’s look of joy when he’d declared her pregnant. He’d announced it, the arrogant monster, but she couldn’t resent it for a minute. She’d never seen him so happy. It kind of ached inside her knowing she could produce that response. Usually, she provoked the opposite of happiness. She’d certainly been shouted at and cursed enough to know people’s opinions of her.

  But Neville hadn’t yelled—once he recovered from the scare of seeing her on the roof. He’d not even complained of the changes she’d made. In fact, once he’d come down off his high horse, he had actually approved the improvements.

  Fiona smiled at the memory of Neville’s terror when he’d seen her on the roof. Maybe he did care for her, just a little. He hadn’t known of the baby then. It was her well being that had concerned him. Or maybe he’d thought it beneath his dignity to lose a wife to roof thatching.

  Grimacing, Fiona chewed her quill and contemplated her neat rows of numbers again. She hadn’t had enough time to make a difference. Surely she could find more ways to check the extravagance of...

  A knock at the door distracted her. Heaven only knew, she was ready for any distraction. Calling, “Come in,” she crumpled her scrap of paper and looked up expectantly.

  Both the Widow Blackthorn and Colin stood in the doorway. The widow had made a surprisingly good ladies’ maid these last weeks. Fiona had come to rely on her good sense and Irish brogue to ease her homesickness. She had seen little enough of Colin, but he’d mentioned bringing his wife and new babe to stay now that he had a house. She’d thought maybe he’d matured somewhat these last months. Michael was a good judge of character.

  Their worried expressions roiled her stomach. The babe had never caused a minute’s unease, so she couldn’t blame her sudden nausea on anything but fear.

  “What is it?” she demanded. When they did not enter, Fiona scowled. “Come in. Close the door. Sit. Must I order everyone these days?”

  “You’ve done a fine enough job of that all these years,” Colin remarked with a hint of sarcasm as he partially obeyed her commands. He didn’t sit but closed the door as they entered. “Why stop now?”

  “Cut the blarney, Colin. The two of you haven’t come here together to announce you’re running away to the Americas and getting out of my hair. So what is it?”

  The widow squeezed Colin’s arm to restrain him. “She’s upset because the duke’s gone and left her behind again. Mind your manners. We’ve more important things to do than quarrel.”

  Colin rubbed his handsome head of curls and visibly struggled with his temper. “Your pardon, Your Grace,” he responded bitterly. “It’s a little difficult seeing the babe you grew up with wielding her wealth and power like a princess, but it’s what Fiona has always done, I suppose, just with less of the ready.”

  Fiona grimaced. “Go away with ye and your flattery, Colin.” Pointedly, she turned her attention to Mrs. Blackthorn. “What is it, Mrs. B.? Is there some news I should hear?” She couldn’t adopt the arrogance of calling her maid by her given name as a duchess would. The widow deserved the same respect she’d received before Fiona had come into her title.

  “There is, child,” the widow replied sadly, “though we’re neither of us sure it’s our place to tell ye. But the news came after His Grace had left, and we thought someone needed to hear it. I don’t know that there’s aught to be done now, though.”

  Fiona pressed her fingernails into her palms and tried to restrain her impatience. “What news? Spit it out quickly.”

  “McGonigle sent one of his men,” Colin interrupted. “He says he’s not to blame, it’s some other faction. They’ve destroyed the looms, lass. Not only that, the army came in and arrested everyone in sight. They took the boy, Fiona. They’ve locked him away in Dublin gaol, accused of theft. McGonigle swears Sean didn’t do it, but it’s his word against an officer in the damned army. He’ll hang, Fiona. That’s what the damned redcoats do to thieves, regardless of age.”

  Fiona blanched. Not Sean. Aileen’s orphan was as honest and hard-working as any man she knew. And with McGonigle to provide, he’d no need of stealing. And the looms! They’d cost a bloody fortune. Neville had used her dowry and bought the best he could afford. There hadn’t been time to earn even the smallest profit to replace them. Who would do such a thing?

  She was on her feet and aiming for the door before she gave it any thought. “Have the carriage readied. Send a rider ahead to prepare the yacht. Pack us some warm clothes, Mrs. B. You’d best go with me. Colin, will you ride with the driver?”

  “What about the duke, Fiona? Should you not notify him first?” Colin asked anxiously, following in her wake.

  She hesitated, considering the idea. “He needs to know where I’m going, but he’s terribly busy. Let’s not drag him away unless we cannot do this ourselves.”

  “You cannot do this yourself!” Colin argued. “We need your husband and the earl!”

  “A body would think you’re with the Tories who want the duke drawn from the crime bill.” She cut off his argument with disdain. “Should I think this all a sham to draw the duke away from London—again—when he’s most needed? I can handle it.” Arrogantly, she swept up the stairs, head high, though her heart pounded with terror. Neville would kill her for this, of a certainty. Yet he should have known what kind of woman he married. Parliament was his burden to bear. The tenants were hers.

  It was far more important that Neville pass the bill that would save boys like Sean from being hung than to argue with a band of drunken louts. She’d send him a note so he knew she had not run away. Once she assessed the situation, she could let him know if they needed to bribe some official to free Sean.

  There was naught either of them could do about the looms.

  Her growing sense of unease did not fade as the carriage rolled down the drive with the Widow Blackthorn and Colin as her servants.

  ***

  The Prime Minister pushed back the winged chair in front of Neville’s desk and scrubbed his hand over the gray pallor of his face. “I don’t like it, Neville. You know demmed well I don’t. But if this is what the country wants, I’ll have to accept it. I’ll admit, transporting the beggars has a certain appeal, but how long can we afford that?”

  “The times are changing, sir,” Neville said, tapping his finger on the documents he’d presented. “Someone must face the facts, and you’re the man to do it. I don’t know how you’ll convince His Majesty. He’s as set in his ways as his father ever was. But we’re not a nation of rural villages anymore. We must look to the future.”

  The PM glared at him. “It’s not done yet, you young pup. I can’t believe you and your radical friends can sway all those old squires to anything. I’m just saying, if you do, I’ll consider your case.” His expression grew thoughtful. “We need strong leaders, Your Grace. Much as I hate admitting it, we’ve buried our heads too long, pretending nothing will change. But you have to win first, my boy. Otherwise, I’ll never have the support to give you the position.”

  As Liverpool departed, Neville consulted his pocket watch and breathed a sigh of relief. He had a few minutes before the session began. Fiona had never sent him a letter before, and he’d saved the note until he’d had time to savor it. He wondered if it would contain flames and vitriol.

  It amazed him that he could actually look forward to opening a letter full of Fiona’s angry diatribes. That blow to his head had definitely addled his brains. But Fiona’s temper usually dissipated as quickly as it appeared, leaving ephemerally lovely j
oy in its wake. He couldn’t describe the feeling any better than that. He just knew he felt it when he woke in the morning to find her tousled curls on his shoulder, her sleeping features peaceful as a child’s. Or when she came into his arms all hot kisses and explosive passion.

  Neville pried off the wax and unfolded the note. He’d seen Fiona’s heavy, slanting scrawls in the estate books and recognized it now. Her penmanship reflected her personality: strong, blunt, and slightly quirky. He grinned at the thought. He stopped grinning as he read her words.

  Ireland!

  He slammed his fist against the desk, flung the paper down, and stalked to the filthy window of his office. Ireland. She’d said nothing of being homesick when he’d left. She’d talked only of the improvements she’d wished to make at Anglesey. He’d thought she’d safely transferred her loyalty from Michael’s estate to his, as a loyal wife should do.

  She could have come to London if she was lonely. He would welcome the distraction of her presence right now. The pressure of passing this bill and what it would mean should he succeed weighed heavy on his shoulders. He needed her sensible outlook.

  He didn’t need to know she was taking a reckless journey to Ireland in uncertain winter weather. Anything could happen. Who had she taken with her? Anyone?

  He grabbed up the letter again and re-read it. She didn’t say, damn her.

  “My cousin, the grasshopper, has struck again, has she?” a voice asked lazily from the doorway.

  Neville glared at the intruder. “Does she never stay in one place?”

  Aberdare strolled in rolling several wooden balls between his fingers. “Not within my memory. She didn’t happen to say she was returning to Ireland, did she?”

  The earl tossed the balls between his hands as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but Neville knew him better. Fear shivered down his spine as he laid the letter down and examined his friend’s bland expression. “What is happening at Aberdare?”