The Irish Duchess (10 page)

“The Viscount Bennet, Miss Fiona MacDermot.” Neville made the introduction curtly. He’d considered seeking another mistress to relieve some of his physical frustration, but the necessity of providing an heir soon had been impressed upon him with that blow to his head. He couldn’t in all good conscience set up a mistress while courting Gwyneth.

“My lord, a pleasure to meet you.” The impish smile on Fiona’s tempting lips made Neville grit his teeth. He hadn’t even explained the necessity of twisting the viscount to their side in the upcoming vote, and she was still batting her eyelashes at him. He should never have reprimanded her for turning Morton off cold. She’d gone to the other extreme with every other man since.

Caught in his own thoughts, Neville lost track of the conversation until he discovered Fiona slipping her slender fingers around the viscount’s pudgy arm. He jerked back to alertness just in time to catch Bennet’s satisfied grin.

“Just saw the Lady Gwyneth arrive. You’ll be wanting to fix her interest, I suspect, so I’ll take this little charmer off your hands.”

Neville wanted to shout that the viscount couldn’t take Fiona any farther than Blanche, but the pair had already merged with the surging crowd.

Neville swerved his attention to the arriving guests and his goal for the evening. He’d concluded he didn’t have time to search for a more suitable heiress than Gwyneth. Gwyneth was accessible, she was rich, and she would make a good duchess. If she didn’t arouse his lust in the same manner as a wench like Fiona, that was all to the good. He didn’t have time for adolescent cravings. He simply needed an heir, and Gwyneth could give him that.

Neville worked his way through the crowd, shaking a hand here, exchanging a piece of political gossip there, never losing sight of his goal. She’d already slipped to the edge of the crowd behind a potted plant. The child would have to learn confidence, but that came with age.

The image of Fiona chatting and flirting without a hint of shyness flitted through his mind, but Neville dismissed it. Fiona was a born flirt. He preferred his women shy and retiring.

He detoured long enough to acquire a glass of punch before approaching Gwyneth’s hiding place.

“We cannot continue meeting like this,” Neville said with a gentle smile as he handed her the glass. Cosseting her seemed the best approach.

She gave a nervous start even though she had to have known he headed in her direction. She accepted the glass without meeting his eyes. “Your Grace is too kind.” she murmured.

“I don’t suppose you could see fit to call me Neville,” he asked wryly. “Miss MacDermot has mangled my title so many times that I’m not certain if I should respond to it any longer.”

That elicited a smile from the lady. “She’s quite spirited, isn’t she? I admire her confidence.”

Usually Gwyneth found a seat so she didn’t tower over the company, but she had apparently arrived too late to claim one. Neville found it a trifle strange looking up at her. Perhaps these weeks of Fiona’s company had twisted his perceptions. If he must compare, Gwyneth was actually the fairer of the two. Fiona’s features were far too angular for beauty. Gwyneth’s quiet demeanor simply didn’t demand the attention that Fiona’s vivacity attracted.

“Spirited is one word for Miss MacDermot,” he agreed dryly. “But I did not come here to speak of her. I’m sorry we did not have our opportunity for a ride through the park last month. Would you by any chance be interested in trying it again?”

She seemed uncommonly nervous about the suggestion, but as Neville suspected, she didn’t refuse.

“I would like that, thank you very much,” she whispered.

Well, there were some advantages to his title, Neville thought after he’d made the arrangements and left his retiring intended to her mother’s company. Marriageable females simply couldn’t say “no” to a duke of the realm. He didn’t like the notion that Gwyneth accepted his invitation simply because her family required it of her. Perhaps he should sound her out a little more when they were less closely watched.

Noting Blanche searching the crowded ballroom, Neville scowled and used his greater height to follow the path of her gaze. Fiona had the art of disappearing almost down to the same perfection as Michael, who wasn’t anywhere to be seen either.

Not seeing either the earl or Fiona, Neville pushed his way through the crowd to Blanche’s side. “Where’s Michael?” he demanded.

“Oh, the library here has a collection of ships in bottles and he’s studying how it’s done.” She flashed him a brief smile. “It’s the only reason he agreed to come tonight.”

Neville rolled his eyes in understanding. Michael’s eccentric propensities were well known both inside and outside his family. Anyone hoping to attract the Earl of Aberdare to their homes had to provide suitable entertainment, and a violin player didn’t count.

“So Fiona has escaped her leash?” he asked without need of further explanation.

“I’m afraid so. She was with the Lord Bennet just moments ago. I’m certain she’s perfectly safe with him. But the round has ended, and he hasn’t returned her here. I’m afraid she may have found someone more interesting. She doesn’t quite understand the proprieties yet, I’m afraid.”

That was stating it mildly. Neville handed his almost empty glass to Blanche. “Stay here. I’ll find her. I need only look for a large throng of men.”

Oddly enough, he saw no such gathering except in the gaming room, and Fiona wasn’t there. Beginning to worry, Neville systematically searched all the adjacent chambers. He found her in the last place expected—the library with Michael.

Fiona looked up as Neville entered, wrinkled her nose, and returned to examining a large text spread out on the library table. Neville didn’t think Michael even knew she was there. The earl had apparently discovered the technique of collapsing the fragile wooden ships and had dismantled one and pulled it from its bottle. The pieces lay on the mantel before him.

“Blanche is looking for you.” Not wishing to disturb Michael lest he forget how to put the ship back together, Neville whispered the warning.

“I thought she was having a good time and didn’t want to disturb her.” She closed the text with a sigh. “I don’t suppose we could leave yet?”

Surprised, still wary of his reaction to her physical presence, Neville kept a safe distance. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself. Did Bennet say something to disturb you?”

“The viscount? Scarcely.”

She waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that drew his attention to her bosom. He thought he detected a small beauty mark just to one side... Catching himself, Neville shook off his reverie and applied his attention to her petulant expression. Most young misses marking such a triumphant debut as she had made tonight would be preening with happiness. Fiona appeared distinctly bored.

“You have captured the interest of half London’s eligible bachelors tonight. You should be ecstatic. Or do none of them suit your discriminating tastes?”

She gave him a wry look and gestured again, this time deliberately drawing his attention to her breasts. “They are not seeing me, Your Grace. They are seeing these. I do believe if you’d lend me the use of some jewels, their eyes would cross and they would trip over their tongues and fall flat on their faces. Then I could have a veritable carpet of suitors to walk upon.”

A choking noise from the mantel indicated Michael wasn’t quite so oblivious as he seemed. Neville scowled as the earl turned and gave him a beatific grin.

“Well, your noble lordship,” Aberdare said cheerfully into the silence left by Fiona’s declaration, “shall we find her some jewels and acquire a most unique carpet for our ballroom?”

Ten

“I understand you and His Grace are cousins of a sort,” Lady Gwyneth commented the next day. She and Fiona strolled down a grassy hill toward their companions, who watered their horses at a stream.

Fiona liked Lady Gwyneth, but she never felt quite comfortable being dwarfed by a woman. Some other undercurrent bothered her also. Mayhap it had to do with the lady’s interest in the duke.

Fiona scowled at that wayward thought and glanced toward Morton and the duke laughing over some jest. The late autumn light caught the gold in the duke’s hair and gave his pale features a sun-kissed color much more pleasing to the eye than Morton’s uninspired dark coloring. Fiona hoped they did not laugh over her, but she had the uneasy feeling that all London laughed behind her back. She imagined she and Gwyneth made a laughable picture when they strolled together. But Gwyneth was the only lady her own age who would condescend to speak more than two words to her, and they ended up in each other’s company more often than not.

“We’re cousins by marriage only,” Fiona answered. “I’m quite certain the duke would denounce the relationship entirely were it his choice.”

“He’s a proud man, and not a bad one, I think,” Gwyneth responded, halting before they reached the men.

Remembering Blanche’s hint that Neville courted this woman, Fiona sought placating words. “He means well,” she agreed. In truth, she knew little enough about the man other than that he forced her to face what she didn’t want to face.

Gwyneth smiled. “You mean he’s so conservative he makes you want to scream and knock his head against a wall. I’ve heard you too well on your theories of the British Parliament, and the duke is a staunch supporter of the forces controlling government now.”

Fiona had the grace to blush. She’d said entirely too much, but she had no more control over her tongue than the trees had over the wind. Politics were not an acceptable social conversation, particularly for women, but they were the only topic of particular interest to her. “He means well,” she repeated.

And she meant it. From what little bits she’d skimmed from dinner discussions, she understood the duke’s position. She just didn’t agree with it. Reform was needed now, not in some distant future.

“It’s all right. I understand. He’s a good man, but it’s only natural to protect one’s own interests first. Until Parliament consists of men who represent all the population instead of just the wealthy landowners, we’ll never have fair legislation. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining a small group of mine who share similar interests in changing the way things are?”

Fiona immediately went on the alert. Seamus had once belonged to a group of men who wanted to change things, but their means had been violent, and he’d almost hanged for his flapping tongue. She saw no peaceful means of accomplishing change, and she threw the lady beside her a wary look. “By what means?” she asked bluntly.

Gwyneth waved a placating hand. “Oh, peaceful ones, to be certain. We’re just women, after all.”

“Does the duke know you belong to such a group?” Fiona sent an anxious look to the two men waiting for them. She’d rather they didn’t hear this exchange.

As if reading her thoughts, Gwyneth resumed their stroll. “Oh, he thinks we’re a bluestocking group who have scholarly speakers and literary interests. That’s what they all think. They don’t expect women to have minds.”

“And that’s for certain,” Fiona muttered as they came within hearing of the men. Unable to respond elsewise, she threw Mr. Morton a smile that left his jaw hanging open. She knew from her mirror that she wasn’t particularly pretty, not in the vapid flower petal way of most of society’s acclaimed beauties. Her forehead was too high, her hair too red, her chin too small. The list was endless. But she need only stick out her chest and smile, and men stumbled over their feet and fell.

She knew the duke favored Morton as a suitable husband for her. The man had money enough, she supposed, and they had a common interest in horses, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that would persuade him to support an Irish village. No, she needed a doddering old man who didn’t care about anything except pleasing her. The Viscount Bennet seemed best suited to that cause.

Neville watched the two women saunter down the path, their contrasting appearances capturing all the afternoon’s light. He tried focusing on Gwyneth with her gleaming blond hair capped by an enormously expensive hat adorned with an egret feather. She walked with studied grace, carrying her height with ease now that she had an audience of only two. Yet his gaze persisted in drifting to the smaller figure beside her.

Fiona had actually acquiesced to wearing a suitable riding habit and using a sidesaddle, but her defiance crept out in small ways. She didn’t wear feminine velvet in pretty colors and adorned with frills. Her habit had been cut to resemble a man’s tailored riding coat. She’d even used the bottle green kerseymere that was so popular in men’s fashion. Only the full skirt that she constantly kicked out of her way gave the gown a feminine touch. And she’d topped it all off with a high-crowned hat resembling a man’s beaver. She ought to look ridiculous. Instead, she looked fetchingly dainty, like a sugary confection.

Gad! He had taken leave of his senses again. If there was any woman less dainty and sugary than Fiona MacDermot, he didn’t know who it was. Her tart tongue could curdle milk. Neville glared at her, and she turned her haughty little nose up in the air and took Morton’s arm as if he were the only man in the world for her.

Neville forced a smile and offered his arm to Gwyneth. She gave him a considering look. He didn’t have the time nor the pretty words to turn a woman’s head. Gwyneth would just have to accept him for what he was, a duke and naught else.

“I’ve asked Miss MacDermot to join my Thursday gatherings,” Gwyneth said shyly, taking his arm. “You don’t object, do you?”

Neville sighed in relief and patted her hand. “Of course not. I’m certain she’ll enjoy the company.” If nothing else, it would give the little hothead a safe place to apply her sharp mind and even sharper tongue. He’d much rather Fiona applied them to Gwyneth’s literary afternoons and nothing more dangerous.

***

“If women could vote, we’d not have poverty. That would end the crime problem and open the doors for better education, which would relieve the suffering of those poor unfortunate laborers in the factories. It’s all related.”

Fiona listened to Mr. Bolingbrooke’s speech with amazement, not just at the topic of women’s suffrage, but at his raving raw naiveté. She wanted to stand up and scream that three-quarters of the men couldn’t vote, and even if they could, they’d never agree on the means of ending poverty, but new to this group, she bit her lip and kept quiet. Lady Gwyneth’s literary afternoon hadn’t been quite what she’d expected.