The Irish Duchess (35 page)

Fiona shook her head, not seeing the flattering cut of her pale green gown in the mirror, recognizing only the anxiety gnawing at her.

“Neville’s father was the youngest of my grandfather’s three sons. He never had any hope of acquiring the title. From what little I can tell, his father was a narrow-minded, despicable little man whose one goal in life was to live like the duke he’d never be. Neville is an only child, and his father’s nasty temper prevented his ever having much to do with the rest of us his family.”

Fiona didn’t meet Blanche’s eyes in the mirror as she touched a drop of lilac water to her wrist. She didn’t like invading Neville’s privacy like this, but she didn’t want to live in an armed camp either. She had seen his joy once. She would have it again if she could.

“Anyway, Neville’s father taught him his parsimonious ways. They lived in a fashionable part of town because his father bought up the deed from a man who gambled and needed cash. They furnished it with trappings bought at bankruptcy auctions. Neville was taught from the day he was born that he must earn his own way in the world, that his wealthy grandfather would never provide for him. I suppose his mother must have shown him some affection when he was young, but she died of a stomach ailment while he was still in school. I doubt that he ever knew anything but his studies and his father’s instructions after that.”

Blanche glanced reflectively at the door leading to the glittering ballroom below. “I suppose his father was right. Our grandfather left all the wealth to me and a penniless entailment to Neville. He’s never known a moment of childhood or pleasure, really. He inherited Anglesey while he was still at Oxford and has carried the burden well. I’ve seldom heard him complain. I’ve done what I could, but his pride won’t allow more.”

Fiona’s heart ached at the tale. She’d known poverty, but she’d never suffered from a lack of joy or love or any of the other human passions. She’d never known a hunger of the soul.

She didn’t know how to deal with Neville’s detachment now. She had wanted to go directly to Ireland and save Sean and the village. Neville had insisted they stay in London until his legislation passed. She thought she might explode with impatience. And Neville’s aloofness wasn’t helping matters any.

“He needs you,” Blanche murmured as Fiona rose from the chair and fidgeted with the spray of tiny orchids pinned to her sash.

Feeling naked in the fashionable gown with the minuscule sleeves and narrow bodice, Fiona clutched her arms at her waist and tried to comprehend what Blanche was telling her.

There had been times before the abduction that Neville had held her as if she mattered, laughed with her and at her. And even when she’d been foolish, he’d rode frantically in pursuit of her. Those weren’t the actions of an uncaring man. Neville cared. He simply didn’t
like
caring. Fiona smiled at that realization.

She annoyed the devil out of the mighty Duke of Anglesey, and she would continue to do so for a lifetime.

“Let’s go down then, shall we?” she suggested, taking Blanche’s arm. “If I’m to be a prisoner in me own home, then ’tis a gay prisoner I’ll be.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Blanche scolded as they strolled out the door. “Our husbands are just excessively nervous. You must admit, they have some right to be.”

Fiona shrugged. “I do not see it, myself. I escaped, did I not? The bill comes to a vote tomorrow. What can anyone do at this late date? Either they have the votes or they don’t. I just can’t imagine any of those pompous old goats caring enough to stir themselves. No, ’twas McGonigle’s men behind it all, I’d wager.”

“Those ‘pompous old goats’ steer the country, Fiona. I’m not fond of them, either, but this bill is important to our husbands. Reform must come some day, and if they can carry this off, then it will be easier for them next time. Neville stands to take a position in the cabinet if this is successful.”

The cabinet. Fiona shuddered. He would need a wife who could stand by him and shake hands, smile dutifully and speak intelligently. He must have been out of his mind to marry her.

Pasting a smile across her face, she entered the foyer under the scrutiny of three pairs of male eyes. Only the one pair mattered.

***

Desire heated Neville’s blood as Fiona drifted into the room on a cloud of soft green lace resembling the new spring leaves on the branches outside. She’d tucked the tiny white orchids he’d sent her here and there about her person, enhancing the impression of a goddess of springtime. The fiery mound of her curls above a porcelain cream complexion warmed the heart as well as the eyes. He wanted nothing more than to carry her up to the bed they hadn’t shared in days. Instead, he remained where he was, hands frozen behind his back as Aberdare and Effingham exclaimed over the women.

Effingham’s wife had taken on the task of overseeing the party. Blanche and Fiona had no business here at all, given their delicate conditions. Neville didn’t know how he’d been persuaded to agree to this public charade. They should have locked all three women in the rooms above and posted bodyguards around them night and day.

Steadying his shaking nerves, Neville offered his arm. Fiona took it with fingers that lacked the strength to so much as tweak his nose. He couldn’t protect
himself
from Townsend’s thugs. How in the world could he protect a delicate creature like this, one with the additional impediment of the child she carried?

“I shall persuade your guests that the reform bill will set terrible criminals free in our midst and create chaos in our streets if you do not speak to me, your worship,” Fiona said dryly.

So much for the illusion of fragility. Neville glared down at her. “I’ll nail your tongue to the roof of your mouth if you try.”

Her smile nearly blinded him. “Perhaps I should cling to your arm and insult you before all your friends, then,” she continued. “Or command the musicians to play a jig and dance for them.”

She didn’t need strength in her fingers to tweak his nose. She had it in her cursed tongue. Neville almost smiled at the idea. Almost. “I can still chain you to the tower walls.”

Fiona shrugged. “And drop your heir on its head when its time comes? I think not.”

Aberdare interceded before Neville could voice his outrage. Catching Fiona’s arm, the earl pulled his cousin from Neville’s protective grasp. “Our son escaped his nanny the first day he learned to crawl,” he told Neville. “You might consider bouncing your firstborn on his head as a precaution against the MacDermot wandering ways. Come along, cuz. I’ll try to keep you out of trouble for the evening.”

Neville fought the overwhelming urge to commit violence on both the MacDermot cousins as they disappeared into the ballroom. Beside him, Blanche watched with amusement.

“It’s not easy, I know,” the countess agreed without his saying a word.

Neville glared at her. “It’s all your fault, you realize. You should never have encouraged the bastard.”

Her trill of laughter didn’t ease his confusion in the least. Irritated and not knowing why, he dragged Blanche in the wake of their unconventional spouses. He still didn’t know how he’d got himself into this predicament. Obviously, brains went begging when lust came into play.

***

As was expected of him, Neville led Fiona into the opening quadrille, but she thought he’d rather be almost anywhere else. Aside from cavorting in the bedchamber on their wedding night, she’d never danced with him.

She studied his grim demeanor as they executed the steps of the dance. Her husband honestly didn’t understand that this was supposed to be fun, that they could dance and flirt and laugh and tease with these light steps. She fluttered her eyelashes and focused a blinding smile on him until he blinked in surprise.

Blanche’s revelations had her heart aching for the lonely boy he’d been. That wouldn’t prevent her from tweaking him a time or two, or even exploding with fury if he pushed too far. But right now, right this minute, she wanted to make him happy.

“Smile,” she whispered as the pattern of the dance brought them together. He looked startled and didn’t comply as he moved on to his next partner. “I shall flirt with Townsend if you don’t smile,” Fiona warned when next they came together.

“What the devil do I have to smile about?” he asked warily.

“Oh, that did it your royal majesty,” she warned, pinching his fingers where he held her too tight. “If achieving your goals makes you happier than dancing with your new wife, then I shall assure that you are very, very happy.”

“Fiona, I have too damned many...” The dance carried him away before he could finish.

She knew what he would say anyway. She should be hurt by his actions, but she’d never known rejection and wouldn’t accept it now. She would force him to admit some feeling for her.

For the remainder of the dance, she threw her smile at every man who looked in her direction and reserved her frown for her husband. He was a hard man to teach, was her duke, but he would learn. After all, she’d been assured he wasn’t stupid. Just single-minded.

At the end of the dance, he led her toward Blanche, who sat sedately with the other matrons in a corner of the room. “You’ll be safe here,” he informed her. “I’ve several people I must talk to before the vote tomorrow. I’ll try to return for the supper dance.”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about me,” Fiona said with a dismissive wave. “I’m quite capable of entertaining myself. You just go ahead and twist a few arms.”

Some emotion battled for expression on Neville’s implacable features, but his stubbornness won out. Nodding curtly, he delivered her to Blanche and stalked off.

He looked every inch the arrogant aristocrat in his finely tailored black trousers and frock coat, Fiona thought as she watched him walk away. Her noble duke was light-boned and of average height, but she knew all too well the coiled strength disguised beneath his formal evening clothes.

“You might tell your noble cousin sometime,” Fiona suggested as she took the seat beside Blanche, “that if the only way I can get his attention is by running away, he’ll not find me on his doorstep very often.”

Blanche didn’t look particularly perturbed. “One of Neville’s most interesting qualities is his ability to focus his mind completely on one task at a time. The task tonight is passing the reform bill. Tomorrow night, after the vote, it will be an entirely different story.”

Fiona smiled. “I know. And I have decided I shall help him accomplish that so we’ll both be very, very happy tomorrow night.”

Before Blanche could question or protest, Fiona caught the attention of one of her former suitors and without a word of farewell, departed the staid matron’s corner of the room for the frivolous swirl of the dancers.

Thirty-four

“How festive you look, my lady.” Viscount Bennet bent his balding head over Fiona’s hand before escorting her into the dance. “I’m pleased to see the duke has finally allowed you to visit London.”

“Allowed me?” Fiona laughed, fluttering her fan and her lashes at her former suitor. “You make it sound as if I’m a prisoner in my own home. I’m a country girl at heart, sir. I’ve merely come to town to celebrate my husband’s triumph when he wins his legislation on the morrow.”

The viscount clucked his tongue in smiling disapproval. “Now, now, dear, there is no certainty of any such thing, and it’s scarcely a topic for young ladies.”

Fiona would gleefully have pulled out the remainder of the viscount’s graying hair, but a proper duchess had other methods of whipping her teams into line. Her smile never faltered. “Nonsense, sir, celebrating is always a topic for ladies. I wish to have an exclusive soiree and invite all my husband’s friends after his bill passes. I do hope we can count you among our friends. I have in mind the most perfect young lady I would like you to meet. She’s so charming, I know you’ll love her.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And her father is a nabob.”

The viscount practically blushed pink in eagerness.

She had few female friends in London, so the promise of wealthy daughters would not work for everyone. She suspected a party would not lure the type of men who preferred hiding in their clubs, but behind every successful man lurked a nagging woman. She could be quite as single-minded as Neville when she chose. For her next victim, she picked Neville’s old friend, Morton.

She located him as the dance ended, and with a welcoming smile, she had him bowing over her hand before Bennet could return her to Blanche.

“Mr. Morton! I’m delighted to see you again. I have something I want to tell you.” Making her farewells to the viscount, she latched on to Morton’s arm and steered him in the direction of the refreshment table where the men not playing cards congregated. “I crave a sip of lemonade, if you do not mind.”

“I’m honored to be of service, Your Grace. I suppose that ramshackle husband of yours has deserted you for some smoke-filled chamber where he’s jawing about politics?”

“Of course, and he’s very good at it, too. I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” She halted beside a lady she recognized as the wife of one of Townsend’s cronies, near the lords at the table, but not among them. “I will wait here, if you do not mind, Mr. Morton. I would not intrude upon the gentlemen’s discussions.”

“I’m sure they would be delighted to have their dull talk interrupted by a lovely lady such as yourself.” Morton said politely, concealing his relief that she did not expect to be introduced to arguing politicians.

Fiona bestowed a smile on the dour-faced woman beside her as Morton strode off. “It is so very warm in here tonight, is it not? The gentlemen really should not monopolize the refreshment table.”

The woman creaked a slight curtsey in Fiona’s direction as her escort returned carrying the requisite cup of punch. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Fiona loved it. Hot coals wouldn’t have persuaded those words out of the woman’s mouth had Fiona been a plain Miss MacDermot, nobody cousin of an Irish earl. But as a duchess of Anglesey...

This could be fun. “I believe we met last fall, Lady Whitton. How is your husband faring these days? I believe he was a trifle under the weather the last I heard.”