The Irish Duchess
Page 33
McGonigle lowered the boy into the arms of his wife, who hugged him so hard, Sean could do no less than cling to her neck and bury his head against her pillowy breast and weep.
Neville choked back his weakness at the sight. He was a duke. Dukes didn’t need soft shoulders and welcoming arms, even when they’d saved a child from hanging. He’d only done his duty. He didn’t need a mob to tell him so. He needed only one slight woman.
He’d left Effingham and Aberdare behind in Dublin to deal with Townsend, Durham, and the law. If the noble pair had any say-so, they wouldn’t have opposition from Townsend or anyone in the madman’s family for a long time to come. Neville’s position in the cabinet would be affirmed. But that didn’t matter to him at the moment.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Fiona, but they’d needed his authority in Dublin to release Sean, and Fiona had wanted to stay with her people at Aberdare while they patched their lives together again. He’d promised to pay for repairing the looms. Perhaps she was with the men who worked on them.
From the ground, Eamon muttered in disgruntlement. “She’s up there, your noble lordship.”
Ignoring the man’s rudeness, Neville cast a glance upward, where a movement on the castle ramparts caught his eye. The heart he would have sworn he didn’t own leapt at the sight of a billowing cloak disappearing through the tower door. Fiona. Fiona had been watching from the ramparts for his return.
He hadn’t heard her repeat the words he’d whispered to her in her sleep, but then, in all probability, she hadn’t heard him say them either. They’d simply made love that night and fallen into exhausted slumber. And in the morning, there had been ten dozen other tasks and people awaiting them. There hadn’t been time.
He would have to make time. He wanted her to know what she meant to him, but he didn’t know how to go about saying it. As it was, he felt as if he’d slit his chest and exposed his insides for all to see. Even the crowd of excited, congratulatory villagers bustling in the courtyard had sense enough to step out of his way as he dismounted and hurried toward the castle entrance. They knew how he felt. Why couldn’t Fiona?
Neville strode briskly into the dim interior. He would inspect the looms in the Great Hall. Fiona would know to find him there.
“Neville! Neville!”
He halted in the gloom of the foyer and glanced up the high stone stairs at the slender figure racing down, cloak billowing behind her. As she hit the first landing, the faint rays of sunlight through the leaded glass windows played red and gold in the auburn of her hair. Did he imagine it, or was that excitement alighting his wife’s face as she hurried down, her eyes sparkling and her lovely lips parting with dancing laughter? Was all that light and love for him?
Gulping, he glanced over his shoulder, certain Aberdare or some other had entered. But the door was closed and no one else occupied the hall. She had called his name.
Blood pounding, Neville took another stride forward. No one had ever greeted him like this. Surely it was just his own desires that read more into her greeting than was there. This was Fiona, the brat who had run from him, taunted him, loved him, and left him. He could never know for certain.
“Neville, you’re home!” Without further warning, she flew from the last step and into his arms and smothered his face in kisses.
Had he not needed to protect her from a tumble, he would have fallen backward in surprise. Instead, Neville braced himself, squeezed her waist so hard it should have broken, and swung her in circles of pure delight, his heart near to bursting.
“I love you,” he whispered against her wayward hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Her lips descended on his without the least shyness. There was nothing shy about his Fiona, and that knowledge filled his heart to overflowing.
“You are an arrogant, impossible man, my noble duke,” she murmured against his mouth, “but I love you into eternity and beyond. Thank you for Sean. Thank you for the looms. Thank you for being arrogant and impossible.”
Fiona’s laughter warmed Neville more than the sun on the hottest day of June. She was a wicked spoiled woman, but she was his wicked spoiled woman. He nibbled at her ear and held her off the floor. “I’ll thank you for the nearest bed, my lovely wanton wife. It’s been too long already.”
Her laughter trilled through the castle air, tinkling even the iron chandeliers. Sweeping her up in his arms, Neville took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t think he’d ever known joy before. He knew he’d never known love. He didn’t know if the two were related, but he was about to burst from an excess of both. He recognized only one way to release these reckless tides.
From the upper library, a sturdy figure limped out, an ancient leather volume in his hands.
“Fiona, Your Grace!” Fiona’s Uncle William waved the book in excitement. “Look at this.” Fiona buried her face against Neville’s neck and groaned. “Not now, Uncle, please. I’m welcoming Neville home.”
Rapt in his own world, William paid no heed as he hurried toward them, still waving the open book. “I’ve been looking into your father’s antecedents, Fiona, just for the fun of it, you understand. I can trace his family back...”
Halting before the young couple, he looked momentarily puzzled at the sight of Fiona in the duke’s arms. Finally understanding that perhaps he should hurry his tale, he pointed at the open page. “It says right here, your father’s family produces at least one set of twins in every other generation. Your mother didn’t have twins, Fiona.”
He said this last with such excitement that his audience stared at him with momentary incomprehension.
And then it sank in.
Their eyes met. Neville grinned wickedly as understanding dawned on Fiona’s face. “A herd of heirs, my dear,” he whispered before she could even open her mouth, “lots and lots of little heirs.”
Indignantly, she tossed her head. “And heiresses, I’ll remind you. I’m probably carrying two right now, I’ve grown so fat already.”
“Shall I measure how fat you’ve grown, my lady?” He headed down the hall in the direction of the bedroom he remembered so well.
“Oh, much too fat for what you’re thinking,” she answered tauntingly.
Behind them, William cried out, still consulting his books, “Your grandfather produced two sets of twins and one set might possibly have been triplets!”
Uproarious laughter greeted that genealogical news report.
Scratching his head, William retired to the library and his books again. The younger generation simply didn’t have the proper respect for their ancestry.
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Copyright & Credits
The Irish Duchess
Regency Nobles #4
Patricia Rice
Book View Café Edition November 6, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-204-4
Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice
Cover design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
v20121020vnm
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About Patricia Rice
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
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Sample Chapter: The Marquess
Chapter One
May 1817
Flames shot through the lower windows and licked at the eaves. Smoke billowed in thick black clouds blending with the night sky. Women garbed only in cotton nightclothes hugged each other in horror and screamed hysterically from the lawn as a beam crashed in the interior.
All eyes turned with despair and helplessness to the slender female materializing in the upper-story window. Fire ate at the old wood just below her. Smoke nearly concealed her as she lowered another bundle of valued possessions to the ground.
“The woman’s mad as a hatter,” an auburn-haired footman exclaimed in disbelief as the servants dived to sort through the rescued valuables.
Dillian ignored the new servant’s comment as the falling blanket gave her an idea. Even as someone handed her the rescued bag of coins representing all her worldly goods—outside her father’s useless papers—her mind returned to the blanket.
Blanche played the role of martyred heroine well, but Dillian had no intention of allowing her best friend, cousin, and employer to die a heroine’s death. She had no intention of allowing her to die at all.
“Grab a corner of that blanket!” she yelled to the footman and the burly butler. “Hold it out flat so Lady Blanche can jump!”
A wail of joy replaced cries of distress as people grasped Dillian’s idea. When the lady next appeared in the upper-story window, they had the sturdy blanket spread between the fingers of a dozen servants yelling, “Jump!”
Dillian’s stomach knotted in fear as Lady Blanche hesitated. Fire had already destroyed the old wooden stairs, trapping Blanche in the upper stories. Flames had charred all the downstairs windows and worked its way through the centuries-old floorboards.
Only Blanche’s quickness had seen the household roused and sent to safety, but she hadn’t been quick enough to save herself. Blanche had always been too good for this world, seeing to others before she saw to herself. Selfishness was not a concept Blanche understood. Sometimes, it made Dillian want to scream. Right now she could scale that wall and wring her cousin’s neck.
“Jump, Blanche! Now!” she shouted over the roar of fire and hysteria.
For a brief instant through the swirl of smoke, Dillian saw Blanche turn despairing eyes in her direction. Then the wind caught the flame and sent it flying upward.
Screams pierced the night air as the figure in long blond tresses disappeared behind the inferno.
The blazing figure leaping from the upper window was barely recognizable when it finally soared in the direction of the blanket. Shaking hands lowered the net to the ground.
Tears rolled down the cheeks of the liveried footman as he smothered flaming night-clothes with the blanket. Auburn hair gleaming like the fire behind him, he lifted Blanche gently, and a path opened through the crowd.
Hysterical shrieks died to quiet sobs.
Refusing to resign herself to the inevitable, Dillian fought her way through the crowd to follow him.
Blanche couldn’t die. Dillian would slit her own throat and stake herself in a lion’s den before she would let Blanche die.
And if Dillian discovered Neville had been responsible for that fire, she would throw the grand and glorious young duke into the lion’s mouth ahead of her.
* * *
Clinging to the rear postilion of the gleaming black barouche in which the footman was stealing Blanche from the physician’s care, Dillian shivered in equal parts fear and cold. The vehicle swayed through the darkness concealing a rutted, overgrown drive.
Was the footman in the duke’s employ? Where was he taking Blanche? She had hoped to a better physician, but that dream crashed with their race into the empty countryside.
Taking a curve at a reckless rate, the carriage tilted, and she grasped the rail in white-knuckled terror, not seeing the edifice looming ahead until the vehicle rumbled straight for it.
She widened her eyes in disbelief at the gothic monstrosity silhouetted against the starlit sky, like some fable from a storybook. Nothing else was visible. Not a single light glowed in the whole of that black sprawling monolith. Where in the devil was the madman taking them?
Already so terrified she could scarcely unbend her fingers from the rail, Dillian felt the carriage roll to a stop at this unwelcoming edifice. As the driver leapt down and pounded on a massive oak door, she glanced around for a hiding place.
She found no lack of concealment in the rambling thorns and untrimmed shrubbery at the base of the mansion. She had only to concern herself with keeping her gown from being torn from her back.
The gown was the least of her worries as she pried her fingers free and darted into the bushes. The worst of her fear centered on the helpless occupant of the carriage. She need only focus on Blanche and all else seemed trivial.
The insistent shouts and knocks of the carriage driver on the massive doors of the manor brought a creaking groan of aging wood. Beyond terror now, Dillian watched in astonishment as a tall lean figure materialized in the opening, the folds of his cloak flapping in the cold spring wind as he listened to the driver’s hushed arguments. Not until this grim specter loped down the stone stairs to remove Blanche from the carriage did Dillian realize her peril.
As the black creature carried Blanche through the gaping maw of the gothic cavern, Dillian realized she would have to enter after him.
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Copyright & Credits
About Patricia Rice
About Book View Café
Sample Chapter: The Marquess
Chapter One
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Ninetee
n
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Copyright & Credits
About Patricia Rice
About Book View Café
Sample Chapter: The Marquess
Chapter One