The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  Fiona tried to shut out the conversation. Anglesey, the duke’s family seat. She didn’t want to remember when she’d first met Blanche. She’d been garbed in boy’s breeches and looked a grimy urchin. And Anglesey had been a palace. It had frightened her half to death at the time.

  “I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I couldn’t even be the scullery maid.”

  They ignored her. Plans for the wedding continued without her. Didn’t anyone understand? She’d grown up in a farmhouse, for heaven’s sake! A farmhouse with a muddy front yard and potatoes at every meal. She knew nothing of dukes and duchesses and palaces crawling with servants. What in the name of the devil would she do with herself?

  Carry the duke’s heirs. Heat crawled up her scalp, and Fiona buried her face in her hands. She’d sold her soul to become a brood mare.

  “Uh oh,” she heard the duke say. “We’re about to experience either a fit or a whirlwind. Blanche, I think you’d better take her upstairs. Michael and I will handle the rest.”

  A fit. She would throw a fit just as soon as she recovered enough strength to remember how. And then she would run away.

  Fiona looked up and caught the duke’s implacable gaze and knew she was well and truly trapped. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if she ran. The oh-so-proper duke would never allow their indiscretion to go uncorrected. Propriety required marriage, and he would keep his honor at the expense of all else. Devil bother it. Someone should teach him that propriety was meaningless.

  It seemed she would have to be the one to do so.

  ***

  “I saw the announcement in the paper,” a shy voice said.

  Lingering on the edge of the rout that she hadn’t wanted to attend, Fiona glanced around for the source of the voice.

  “I think the two of you will make a lovely couple.”

  Fiona pushed aside the leaves of a preposterous tree. Gwyneth sat sipping tea on a sofa hidden by the plant. Slipping through the foliage, Fiona took the space beside her, feeling dwarfed by the other woman now that they were on the same level.

  Vaguely remembering the hints that the duke had courted this woman, Fiona wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “You do? Why?”

  Gwyneth smiled shyly. “You’re so vivacious and spirited, you’ll add the part of him that’s missing. I think that’s the way the best marriages are founded.”

  Fiona contemplated the notion a moment, discovered the converse side, and would have laughed, if the topic didn’t make her so nervous. “And he’s so stolid and dependable, he’ll add the part of me that’s missing,” she supplied without insult. “I’m not at all certain it works that way.”

  She looked at Gwyneth quizzically. “You’re not sorry? I thought you and…”

  Gwyneth shook her head vigorously. “I’ll never marry. They only want me for my wealth, and I’d rather keep it for my own projects. Are you still interested in joining our Thursday afternoon gatherings?”

  Not if heaven opened up and shot a bolt of lightning down, Fiona vowed, but she hated to insult this awkwardly backward girl.

  “It’s not all silly speechifying,” Gwyneth hastily explained, as if understanding Fiona’s hesitation. “We do accomplish a great deal. We’ve set up a foundation for foundlings, you know, and there are those of us working for better living conditions in the tenement slums.”

  Fiona didn’t know if the wives of dukes involved themselves in such, but if she must stay in England, she would prefer saving orphans to having teas. She wasn’t convinced that marriage to the duke was inevitable, but until she discovered a means of escape, she would have to behave as if she were truly affianced. She wondered if she could persuade the loom out of Neville before she discovered a bolt hole.

  “I’d be interested in helping with worthwhile projects,” Fiona hedged. “But I cannot say how long I’ll be in London. My family is talking of retiring early to the country for the holidays.”

  “The duke, too?”

  Suspicious of the question but unable to find a way around it, Fiona nodded. “He wishes to show me Anglesey. We’re to be wed there.”

  Gwyneth almost seemed to sigh with relief. “Excellent,” she said, before recovering herself and continuing politely, “You must be looking forward to the wedding.”

  That was the last thing on earth she was looking forward to, but Fiona held her tongue for a change. A lady who casually discussed murder, if that’s what she’d overheard, was not someone she might confide in. “The duke is like family. I’m certain we’ll rub along well enough.”

  Gwyneth smiled knowingly. “I’m certain. And speaking of family, here he comes now.”

  Through the leaves of the plant, Fiona glanced up to see the duke approaching, nothing more than polite interest on his face. She didn’t know how he could possibly know their hiding place, but she’d learned enough about the set of his jaw to realize he sought her. He could spend the rest of his life looking for her, she thought idly. She’d never been much good at staying where she was put.

  “Good evening, Lady Gwyneth.” The duke bowed as he pushed aside the branches. “I thought I might find you here. And Fiona. I’m glad you’ve chosen to continue the friendship. Lady Gwyneth will make an excellent guide.”

  Fiona wrinkled up her nose. “Shall I tip her two shillings, do you think? One doesn’t know precisely how these things are done in the city.”

  Beside her, Gwyneth giggled. Satisfied she’d set the pompous duke back a step, Fiona rose to leave the lady to her hiding place. Neville captured her arm and steered her toward the crowded room.

  “Hiding won’t do either of us any good,” he remonstrated as heads turned in their direction. “We must smile and make all the world think we’re delighted with this match.”

  Fiona flashed a smile at the first curious gaze she met. “And are we?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Of course we are,” the duke replied, nodding his head to an acquaintance while removing her from his path. “If we don’t kill each other in the first six months, we should do just fine.”

  “Because by that time I should be plump with your heir and unable to do anything but sit and brood,” Fiona answered with unexpected bitterness.

  He shot her a look of surprise. “That’s the very last thing I expect you to do.”

  He seemed sincere. Startled at the realization that she knew nothing at all about this man, Fiona studied him, but she saw only the polite facade of the politician as he accepted someone’s congratulations and shook hands all around.

  She couldn’t reconcile the civilized gentleman of society with the hungry man who nearly devoured her behind closed doors. Or now that she thought about it, with the furious animal who could lay flat half a dozen attackers all on his own.

  And she intended to marry an enigma like that?

  ***

  “I want you to be comfortable here,” the duke said as they traversed the magnificent front hallway of Anglesey, with Michael and Blanche following behind. The rest of their retinue—children and nursemaids, valets and maids—had all been dispersed throughout the mansion some hours earlier. The servants who had lined up on the front steps to greet the duke’s intended had scattered about their various duties, leaving the family party alone to explore the wonders of this rambling, palatial residence. Fiona was too terrified to see any of it clearly.

  Comfortable? She glanced around at towering cabinets packed with china and crystal dating back centuries, polished silver tureens casually used as vases, windows so high she couldn’t imagine cleaning them, and wondered how anyone could be comfortable in all this wealth and magnificence. Soft carpets padded their steps over stones that had been traversed by dukes and nobility since the sixteenth century, maybe even longer. She’d not paid much attention to the duke’s history lessons.

  And he wanted her to live here? Unable to quell the panic that lived with her every minute of the day now, Fiona glanced up at the duke—Neville, he’d said she should call him. He walked
these halls with the serenity and confidence of one who belonged in such surroundings. And she could see that he did. He was every inch a duke, exuding authority, assurance, and the knowledge that his roots grew deep in English nobility. How would she survive without being crushed beneath the weight of it all?

  Her panic must have surfaced sufficiently for Neville to notice. Clasping her fingers against his coat sleeve, he turned to their chaperones. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and make yourselves comfortable? I want to show Fiona the conservatory.”

  They weren’t married yet. It was highly improper for them to wander off alone. Not that being among a houseful of servants could be called “alone,” but they wouldn’t intrude. Yet Michael and Blanche didn’t hesitate, and even Fiona felt no wariness. Everyone knew the Duke of Anglesey obeyed all the rules of society and would never harm a lady under his protection.

  “If you turn any paler, I’ll have to set you out in the sun in a manure patch as I do my plants,” Neville said as he opened the door to the conservatory.

  A blast of moist, warm air hit her as they entered the glass-enclosed room. Fiona inhaled the aroma of greenery and soil and realized how much she’d missed the countryside. Whirling around in delight, she threw her head back to admire the exotic jungle of blooms climbing to the vaulted glass ceiling.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s heaven! How do you keep it like this? Look at those ferns! And the flowers! What kind of flowers are they that bloom this time of year?”

  “Orchids.” The duke crossed his arms and leaned against the door.

  Fiona gently touched the brilliant purple lower lip of a huge blossom. “I’ve never seen the like,” she repeated. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale. Could I paint them sometime?”

  “You paint?” His mobile eyebrows lifted in what was definitely surprise.

  Fiona sent him a mischievous look. “A little. Among other things. Are you certain you have any notion at all of what you’re getting into?”

  Neville’s stare took on new meaning as he looked her up and down, making her entirely too aware of the way her fashionable gown clung in all the wrong places. Or right ones.

  “A very good notion, actually,” he replied with the dryness that she recognized as humor. “You seem to believe that I’m blind.”

  Fiona hid behind a giant banana tree where the duke’s knowing eyes couldn’t strip her naked. “You are blind, Your Grace, when you see only what you want to see. This won’t work, you know. I’m more than a pair of breasts.”

  Her bold statement obviously startled him into silence. Good. Let him really realize that she was no shy Lady Gwyneth.

  Fiona gasped as bold hands slid around her waist from behind. Strong thumbs drew wickedly up and down her abdomen, creating shocking sensations in the lower part of her body.

  “Granted, you’re a good deal more than a pair of breasts,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ve a naughty tongue, wicked lips, and long legs that could wrap around a man and hold him forever. And if I do not mistake, you’ve a creative mind that knows how to apply all that you possess. We may not know each other well in some ways, Fiona, my love, but in others, we’re well matched.”

  Shocked to the core that the stiffly proper duke could say such things, Fiona did no more than gasp as his hand circled her breast.

  “Let’s put an end to your uncertainty, shall we?” he murmured, as his fingers did unspeakably wicked, magical things that melted her bones. “You seemed to enjoy this the other night, until we were so rudely interrupted.”

  Fiona didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. Neville turned her around so their eyes met and the knowledge of his intentions pierced her with the force of an arrow bolt. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  But his head bent and his mouth covered hers, and somehow, any protest spiraled out of sight in the maelstrom of his kiss.

  Fourteen

  Neville had never seduced a woman in his life. All his liaisons had been with experienced women who’d offered their favors. But Fiona was a fascinating combination of innocence and boldness, a sexual creature who knew nothing of her sexuality. With her, he could be the leader.

  Briefly, Neville debated the wisdom of what he did, but he’d argued the point long and hard for days. He wouldn’t change his mind now that he had Fiona exactly where he’d imagined her. The fragrance of her skin tantalized, the moist heat of her tongue intoxicated, and the lithe pressure of her body fueled his intent.

  He would have her here, now, before she could panic and pull one of the disappearing tricks for which she was so famous. Once she learned how good it could be between them, she would accept the inevitable.

  Lifting her, he carried her to a chaise longue beneath the bower of orchids. Fear flickered in her eyes as her head fell back against the pillows, but he kissed it away.

  She responded to his touch so easily, he felt as if he could do anything—move mountains, swim seas, reach the stars. Her breast swelled into his palm as he touched her there.

  “I would have our wedding day be joyous,” he whispered, caressing her breast and silently cursing the myriad hooks protecting her from his invasion.

  Fiona’s hand hovered, not quite touching his jaw. Smiling, Neville caught and pressed her palm against his skin. She explored his whiskered jaw with interest.

  “I don’t want your fear of our wedding night to mar the occasion,” he continued, returning to the hooks of her bodice.

  “Michael will kill us,” she whispered.

  Just her voice created vibrations that spurred his hunger. He wanted to do this carefully, to make her want this mating as much as he did. If this was all they had between them, he wanted to nurture her passion. If he couldn’t provide Anglesey with wealth, he could provide the heirs that would return its magnificence in time. A woman like Fiona in his bed was almost worth giving up dreams of restoring his heritage.

  “It’s only a week to the wedding. There’s none to know if we anticipate our vows by a few days. Michael would be the first to understand.” Finally releasing the bodice flap, Neville slid his hand inside and stroked her nipple through the silk of her chemise.

  Fiona rewarded him with a gasp of surprise. “Neville, we can’t do this. We really can’t,” she whispered, the wonderment in her voice belying her protest as he lay down beside her.

  “It’s quite simple, Fiona, my love. Let me show you.” Smiling, he kissed her as she clung to his shoulders as if he were all that stood between her and hell.

  He took her mouth more hungrily, preventing any immediate protest. Parting the ties of her chemise, Neville cupped her bare breast with his palm, and pressed his thigh between her legs.

  Fiona drowned in sensation as her nipple puckered against his palm and an ache opened at the brush of his leg against a sensitive junction.

  Neville’s mouth suckled her breast through the thin silk, and Fiona cried out with the exquisite torment. Any form of intelligent protest died in the floodtide of passion. She’d never experienced the like before and had no defenses against it.

  Neville’s tongue bathed her flesh. The rough skin of his palm slid down her side as he pushed away her bodice. He cupped her hip and pulled her closer to the hard heat of him searing her through layers of clothing. Her hips lifted into his in unconscious response. With a will of their own, her fingers captured his hair. She cried out in protest as Neville lifted his head, then cried out again in wanton pleasure as he took her other breast into his mouth. So that’s what they were there for, she mused idiotically as heat fueled a fire in the place where his thigh rubbed.

  It was but the work of moments actually. Had they explored the entire conservatory, it would not have taken longer. She’d waited twenty-one years for someone to ignite the needs inside her, and she couldn’t stop the wildfire once it began.

  The warm, moist air of the conservatory lavished Fiona’s skin as Neville slid her skirts upward. Golden pollen from the blossoms dangling over her head dusted her face as hi
s fingers probed gently, releasing the pent-up moisture that would ease his entrance. Fiona opened her eyes in panic as Neville covered her with his heavy length. She saw the heat turn his eyes to molten silver, admired and feared the intensity in the set of his jaw. She loved the way his golden hair fell across his brow while the orchids danced in a sultry breeze above his head. She would remember this moment always.

  Panic subsiding, she smiled her acceptance, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him down for one last kiss.

  She had no idea at what point he unfastened his trousers, had no thought of such an occurrence. Her head spun deliciously with his kisses and the wicked play of his fingers. It felt too right to be wrong—until the urgency built inside her. Not understanding why, she frantically pumped against him, demanding something she knew he denied her.

  That’s when she discovered—too late—how far they had gone.

  Pain seared through Fiona’s pleasure as the hard thickness of Neville’s male equipment pushed inside her. She hadn’t known...

  They didn’t fit. She couldn’t accommodate him. She couldn’t...

  Fiona cried out at the thick heat invading her body. Neville swallowed her cry in a hungry kiss as he braced his weight above her. Through her pain, Fiona sensed the strength of will holding him back, but even his kiss couldn’t disguise the frightening intrusion of his maleness. She knew that was how flowers made seeds, but she hadn’t know it would hurt, she thought insensibly as Neville pushed past all barriers and embedded himself deeper. She would swell up and give birth just as the flowers did, all because this man put a part of himself inside her. This man. The duke.

  It didn’t seem quite real. The thick fog of lust had parted with that first piercing pain. Fiona knew what she did now. And still, she couldn’t stop. Her muscles contracted around his hardness, arousing an irritating tension that needed relief.

  The pain transformed into a sensation she couldn’t define as her hips rose to accept his driving thrust. She bit his frock coat to muffle her cry as his thickness slid deep beneath her belly. Her body seemed to require an attention only Neville could give. He hadn’t even undressed. They were almost fully clothed. And still, their bodies grew moist with the accelerated heat of their mating.