The Irish Duchess

The Irish Duchess

Regency Nobles #4

Patricia Rice

www.bookviewcafe.com

Book View Café Edition
November 6, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-204-4
Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice

One

August, 1822

“Confound it, Your Grace, a bloody damn duke should act like a bloody damn duke, not hold hands with these puling malcontents who would save the world at our expense!” Lord Townsend paced the ducal study, shaking the papers in his fists.

Golden brown head bent over the bill under discussion, His Grace, Neville Perceval, the Duke of Anglesey, ignored the hostilities raging around him as he impassively scribbled notes in the margins of the bill.

The forbidding third man in the room, the Marquess of Effingham, threw the silent duke a look of exasperation and retaliated to Townsend’s diatribe. “You’ve been living at the expense of the commons for centuries, my lord. It’s damned well time you pay them back!”

As the argument died to an expectant silence, the duke raised his head. Their quietness had gained his audience the attention their earlier shouts had not. Arching a shaggy eyebrow in an expression that delineated anything from derision to surprise, he halted the scratching of his pen and raised his quizzing glass. Realizing both combatants glared at him, he waited for an explanation. Some days, he never had to use his voice at all.

“Devil take it, Your Grace, you’re a duke of the realm! You cannot support Effingham’s bill for Catholic emancipation. The king will have an apoplexy! Your grandfather would spin in his grave if he heard this sedition. If Castlereagh had some inkling of this, it’s no wonder he killed himself. The mobs will tear London apart if we acknowledge papists. Imagine what will happen in Ireland should Catholics take office! Act like the duke you are and tell this bloody American to get the hell back where he belongs!”

The dark eyebrow remained quizzically lifted as the duke raised his ornate walking stick and slammed the gold knob on the table. The room’s dignified occupants jumped several inches in startlement.

“I’ve already agreed to support the bill, Townsend, so sit down and listen or depart,” he said impassively. “Was that ducal enough for you?”

The tall marquess grinned as much as his scarred features allowed.

Townsend, on the other hand, grumbled. “Liverpool won’t appreciate your defection. You won’t have the support of any but a few closet Whigs and Irish scoundrels. You’ll regret this, Your Grace.”

“What will you do? Take away my title?” In blatant dismissal, the duke picked up the pages before him, leaving the older politician to continue blustering or depart, as he so chose.

Glaring at the marquess, Lord Townsend grabbed his leather-bound files from the table and stalked out.

“You’ve made a dangerous enemy there, Neville,” Effingham stated bluntly as the door closed.

The duke didn’t even lift his head. “I repeat, what can he do? Have me thrown from the Lords? Strip me of my estates? Have the archbishop excommunicate me? You do realize, if it were not for all those disreputable blights upon the face of the earth that we call princes, I could conceivably be in line for the throne? If Edward hadn’t married and finally legitimized one of his progeny, King Georgie truly would have had an apoplexy.”

The Marquess of Effingham offered a decidedly unaristocratic snort. “So that’s what’s frustrating Townsend. No matter what your politics, men will still court your influence. You’d best watch your back then. Heirs to royalty often have short lives.”

Unperturbed, the duke flipped another page. “If that were true in this day and age, the government would have been relieved of the considerable burden of Farmer George’s repulsive offspring by now. Instead, they romp around the country, polluting blood lines with their bastards, driving us to financial ruin, and giving the scandal sheets more material than they can reasonably print. It continues to amaze me that they haven’t killed each other yet—a certain sign that they aren’t true royalty.”

“Gad, you’re a cynical bastard.” The marquess pulled out a chair as the duke raised his speaking eyebrow again. “I know, you wouldn’t be duke if you were a bastard.” He took a seat but didn’t pick up the papers before him. “You know, you’re becoming a little too like Castlereagh—stiff, uncompromising, concerned only with having your own way, completely out of touch with the feelings of the people around you. It’s not healthy, Neville. You see what happened to Castlereagh.”

The duke replaced his quizzing glass and returned to his papers. “I’m in no danger of cutting my own throat, I assure you.”

“I think I liked you better as a young pup who still believed the world was made of black and white,” the marquess said.

“Pardon my straying from the straight and narrow,” the duke replied dryly. “But I believe you and that dratted brother of yours might have had some influence in the matter of recognizing shades of gray.”

“Don’t lay the blame on me and Michael,” Effingham protested. “It’s your cousin Blanche who sits serenely in her country nest, pulling all our strings.”

Neville frowned at that. “Money talks,” he agreed bluntly. “But Michael has a way of twisting arms. He’s even made me believe the only way out of an Irish revolution is to pass this bill. I don’t give a damn whether Catholics hold office or jump in the ocean and swim the sea. The country simply cannot afford a revolution.”

Before Effingham could comment on the cynicism of this declaration, the door burst open, letting in a whirlwind of silk and blazing fury.

“You monster! This is the last time I allow you to make a fool of me! I care not if you are the king of all countries, you will never pass through my door again!”

A parasol smashed onto the table, fracturing several delicate ribs. As the beautiful virago beat it against the backs of two empty chairs in a fit of frustration, it fragmented entirely. The duke raised his head with what would pass as a flicker of astonishment. When a reticule whizzed by his left ear, his expression went blank again.

“Take back your petty gifts! I will have naught to remind me of your faithlessness.” A glove box dented the table, sliding off one side and falling to the floor in a splinter of carved rosewood. “No more will you make this place your mistress and me your rug to walk upon!” Apparently dispossessed of any further gifts to heave, she reached for an inkstand and flung it instead. “Never will you leave me waiting again! I am gone.”

With a dramatic twirl, she stalked out, leaving a heavy trail of perfume.

The ensuing silence was broken by the duke’s wry words. “I notice she did not throw back the enormously expensive bracelet for which I still owe an ungodly sum.”

The marquess laughed. “I take it back, Your Grace. Perhaps you’re not the dusty stick you seem.”

Recovering, Effingham returned the front legs of his chair to the floor. Ignoring the trail of ink across the table, he shoved his chair back. “But it wasn’t necessary to stay so late when you had a beautiful woman waiting. You cannot love duty more than a female like that.”

The duke flicked a spot of ink from the pages he’d managed to save from the whirlwind. “To tell the truth, I would prefer listening to Townsend than argue with a woman. I cannot fathom why I fell in with her in the first place.”

“Because she’s free and easy and you’re a man, despite all evidence to the contrary,” Effingham replied bitingly. “Come along. We’ve done enough for the evening. My wife’s holding a small soiree and the company will be delighted with your presence. Besides, there’s food. You can cut a swathe through the swooning ladies and make it easier for us to reach the buffet table.”

Neville balked at the idea of confronting a Whig party, but Effingham’s greater stature and his own hunger steered him into the chilly autumn evening.

Realizing the night was yet young, the duke resigned himself to socializing. Effingham had sufficient brains to prevent boredom, but his young wife’s sense of humor frequently tipped her entertainments to the wrong side of propriety. And if Effingham’s stepbrother, the Irish Earl of Aberdare, attended, the evening could disintegrate into a nightmare of practical jokes. Neville wasn’t certain he would ever forgive his cousin Blanche for marrying a madman.

Fortunately, the crowd assembled at Effingham’s townhouse was a respectable one. Despite the marquess’s predictions, no ladies swooned, giving easy access to the food. Rather, they congregated in the duke’s path, making forward movement practically impossible.

Scowling as a grinning Effingham blithely left him to the vultures, Neville escaped behind a mask of boredom. At a particularly foolish comment upon his appearance in a Whig stronghold, he raised his quizzing glass, and lifted an eyebrow, cowing his opponent into backing away. With practiced ease, he took the opening provided and located a quiet alcove away from the babbling horde.

That he found the alcove already occupied came as no surprise. Signaling a servant to bring a plate, Neville took a seat beside a quiet young woman doing her best to disappear into the woodwork. Since she towered an inch or two above him, she attempted the impossible.

“Good evening, Lady Gwyneth. We meet again, it seems. I assume you have a chaperone hovering nearby to keep away the worst of the sharks?”

A shy smile tilted her pale lips. Although her statuesque size kept many suitors away, she possessed a fair face and considerable intelligence, in Neville’s opinion. Her much-heralded wealth added all the impetus he needed to forward their acquaintance. He despised the necessity of such a mercenary relationship, but as Effingham’s brother despicably said,
needs must when the devil drives
.

“My mother is in that chair by the palm,” she said in tones barely above a whisper.

Reassured that the proprieties were upheld, and he was in no danger of binding himself irrevocably before he’d made the decision to do so, Neville nodded. He’d encountered the lady before whenever he forced himself from the halls of government in his reluctant pursuit of wife, wealth, and heir. He knew his duty. He must marry. But ever since his wealthy cousin Blanche had thrown him over for an irrepressible Irishman, he hadn’t had the interest to pursue anyone else.

After the scene with his raging mistress earlier, Neville heartily wished for the serenity of hearth and home and a quiet wife so he need not seek comfort elsewhere ever again. Certainly, Lady Gwyneth could provide serenity. He just wished she could stir something a little more. Her height made it difficult not to admire her statuesque bosom, but Neville sensed her tension and corrected his impropriety by watching the milling crowd.

He was the Duke of Anglesey. His rank alone placed him beyond common human conditions such as lust or love. His responsibilities allowed no room for indulgence.

Gwyneth would make an excellent duchess. She would overcome her shyness in time. A duchess couldn’t lurk in corners, obviously. Neville supposed breeding heirs on a reluctant wife would be a formidable task, but challenges didn’t disturb him.

What did disturb him was the vague notion that he could not honor his vows for long with a woman who might not enjoy the duties of the marital bed. He didn’t like breaking vows, but he knew himself too well to believe he could settle for weekly conjugal visits. Perhaps these annoying urges dissipated with age.

His food arrived without Gwyneth intruding upon his reverie. He should be delighted with such a quiet woman. No more violent emotional scenes and flying inkpots. But a little conversation added spice to a meal, so he sought a suitable topic.

“Do you ride, my lady?” Neville inquired.

The first sign of life stirred in her face. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Whenever I can.”

Of course. He should have known. A bruising rider who would follow the fox if she could. Oh well, that was acceptable behavior for a duchess, he supposed. “I find myself neglecting my stable of late. I don’t suppose you would be interested in an unfashionably early jaunt about the park, would you?”

She seemed torn between two desires, but knowing duty as well as himself, she forced a nod. “I’d like that very much, Your Grace. I am an early riser.”

“Good. Is tomorrow too soon?”

“That would be perfect, Your Grace.”

He knew she could speak with intelligence when she wanted. He’d heard her do so. He supposed his title awed her and the prospect of his courtship daunted her. “Have you tasted the apricot fritters? They’re quite good.” He held out the delicacy on his napkin for her perusal.

Instead of accepting it, she shook her head. “I cannot, but thank you very much. They look delightful.”

Neville sighed. Another young lovely wasting away in pursuit of a trim figure. He could tell her she could eat all the fritters she liked and it made no difference to him, but she wouldn’t believe him.

He had the rather cynical notion that once married—if he made it clear that heaviness repulsed him—she would dig into every plate set before her. He suspected that was what his mother had done. His loving, very large mother had never carried another child after him.