The Irish Duchess (30 page)

This time, the marquess did laugh out loud.

Neville restlessly rearranged his inkpots and pens. “I’m glad you find it so damned humorous. I’ll probably be stoned next time I set foot upon my own land.”

Shaking his head, Effingham controlled his laughter. “I’m totally delighted you’re the one who ended up responsible for her. After spending one summer chasing her through the slums of London when she wasn’t teaching the children how to play ‘banshees,’ I figured Michael would have to export her to Australia. I didn’t think even the Americans could handle her.” He shrugged. “And your tenants and staff won’t stone you. They’ll adore you. It’s your aristocratic neighbors who will want your hide nailed to the wall.”

Neville muttered a pithy curse describing what the neighbors could do with themselves. “It will get worse if Townsend has his way. He already has half of Parliament demanding an investigation into Fiona’s ‘traitorous’ activities. If the other half gets wind of her reformist notions, they’ll start screaming bloody murder too. She’s my
wife
, dammit. What the devil do they think she can do? Tear down the Tower with her bare hands?”

The marquess’s expression sobered. “That’s why I’m here. Townsend is determined to have that cabinet vacancy, and he’ll accomplish it at any cost. You’re his only obvious competition. If he can bring you down, he’ll not only have the position, but he’ll destroy any chance we might have of eventually passing the emancipation and crime reform bills. We can’t allow that, Neville. Michael and I can stomp out the rumor mill, but you have to keep Fiona in line. As an American born and raised, I truly despise saying this, but she’ll antagonize the entire Lords if she continues heedlessly thumbing her nose at time-hallowed tradition.”

“I’ll talk with her,” he agreed with a sigh. “I’ll clear my schedule for the next few days and ride out to Anglesey. Fiona can be made to see reason. I’m just not entirely certain that I can. If she wants to hire Jews and Methodists, that’s her concern. She’s the one living out there.”

Effingham stood up. “Were it any other woman, I’d say bring her to London and let her fritter her time shopping. I’d bite off my tongue before suggesting that of Fiona. Are you sure your brain wasn’t cracked when you agreed to this marriage?”

Neville stood up and pointed at the door. “Friendship goes only so far, Gavin. Out.”

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.