The Irish Duchess (12 page)

The man with the hairy ears wasn’t so insensible as not to recognize the insult. He spluttered in his drink while his skinny, bespectacled companion looked down his long nose at her as if he smelled something rotten. Fiona gave him a blazing smile and set him back a foot.

“I’m certain we’re talking at cross purposes, Miss MacDermot,” the bespectacled man said carefully. “Why, I consider the Earl of Aberdare one of my best friends, and he’s Irish, you know.”

A carillon of laughter escaped Fiona’s throat at this imbecility. She couldn’t help it, she really couldn’t. They’d be patting her on the head any minute now. Clasping her hand to her throat to catch her breath, she replied between gasps for air. “And so is your dog, I daresay, but that doesn’t mean you’d allow him a vote.” A giggle escaped her before she could stop it, but she continued remorselessly. “So if my cousin were Catholic instead of an eccentric, would you still allow him to sit in government?”

“Bloody ignorant papists have no business in British Parliament!” a third voice joined in. “They’re rabble who would have us all worshipping statues. The entire city of London would rise and overthrow us before that would happen!”

“Bloody ignorant people of any sort have no business in Parliament!” Fiona threw back at him. “And if you’re not careful, the entire country of England
will
rise and overthrow the lot of you!”

Gasps of outrage rose. Angry murmurs drew Fiona’s attention to the crowd they’d gathered. Realizing she’d become the center of their attention, her heart sank to her feet, but it was far too late to back down.

“That’s sedition!” someone yelled.

“That’s the truth,” a familiar calm voice said from behind her, before a hard hand gripped her elbow and yanked her backward. “But the lady should know better than to believe anyone would listen. Make your curtsies, Fiona.”

The duke said her name softly, but the softness didn’t fool her. She heard the anger behind it, felt his fingers gripping her arm as if he’d break it, and knew she was surely sunk this time. Throwing him a defiant glare over her shoulder, not heeding the warning in his icy eyes, Fiona dipped a quick curtsy. Then she lifted her chin and pulled away from the duke’s grip to march away from the crowd.

She did so blindly, having no idea of where she went. Her teeth all but chattered, and the moisture in her eyes warned of the necessity of escape. She’d ruined everything. She’d let her hasty tongue loose and stolen the future of the village, of Aileen’s orphans, of everything she’d hoped and schemed for. She knew she’d done it. The lashing of the duke’s scorn wasn’t necessary to complete her punishment.

But he wouldn’t leave her alone. Catching her elbow again, he all but threw her through a doorway she hadn’t seen as she made her escape. She blinked as the light of the glittering ballroom dimmed to the dancing firelight of a small study. The sturdy wood and books lining the walls returned some of her equilibrium. She’d give half her life for a room of books like these. Her uncle’s musty tomes of Irish history couldn’t compare.

Taking a deep breath, she swung around just as the duke slammed the door behind them. The firelight played off the gold in his thick eyebrows and glinted on the quizzing glass he still wore. She wanted to smack the damned thing from his face, but the coldness of his set features warned she’d best keep her distance.

Not liking the feeling of intimidation the duke’s icy calm invoked, Fiona took the offensive. “Your interference was neither warranted nor appreciated.”

“
Your
behavior wasn’t warranted or appreciated,” he responded, taking a step closer. “I warned you I would not have you embarrassing Blanche. How do you think this evening’s debacle will make her feel?”

She hadn’t thought. Fighting back tears of anger and regret, Fiona curled her fingers into fists and faced him with every shred of dignity she could summon. “I will apologize to her, but I cannot apologize to those pigheads out there. They are a disgrace to humankind. How can you let such ignorance go uneducated?”

“Apologies will not wipe away Blanche’s humiliation. What the devil do you use that head on your shoulders for? Or is it just there to attract bees like a pretty flower, with no sense behind it at all?”

He stood too close. Fiona could smell his shaving lotion and the lingering odor of cigars from whatever smoky room he’d been called from. Her eyes were on a level with his linen cravat. He wore a gold stickpin that blinked in the uncertain light and blended with the gold threads of his single-breasted white waistcoat. Unlike her, he was always elegantly tailored.

She did what any trapped animal would do. She raised her fist and aimed for his flat stomach.

In one swift motion, Neville caught her fist, twisted her arm behind her back, and brought them altogether too close for comfort. Desperate, Fiona flung back her head and glared at him, not giving him the pleasure of a struggle. Immediately, she knew her mistake.

The Duke of Anglesey wasn’t watching her expression. The position he held her in pushed her nearly exposed breasts into his face. He raised his gaze from the expanse of flesh above her bodice, but the heat in his eyes blazed a path straight through her middle, rendering her helpless. She’d seen hunger in the looks of other men before. She’d never seen it in this man’s face.

And she hadn’t known until now how she craved it.

Twelve

Even the pounding at the back of his head didn’t excuse what he was doing. Neville knew this was Fiona, his own personal demon, in his arms. He knew he courted disaster. Had she fought him, he would have halted immediately. But she didn’t, and he didn’t, and thus he brought about his own downfall.

His palm burned where it rested at the hollow of her back. He wanted her breasts pressed against his coat. He urged her so close into him that only his arm supported her. He could easily lift her into the position his body demanded, but some lingering sense of survival kept him from obeying that particular command.

Instead, Neville focused on moist red lips parted with surprise and perhaps something a little more. Mayhap she knew more of this game than he’d surmised. Giving himself permission to test that theory, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his.

The power of her kiss exploded inside his brain. The thin thread holding him back dissolved. He yanked Fiona closer still, lifting her so she fit more comfortably against him, reveling in the pressure of those full breasts against the linen of his shirt. Neville cupped Fiona’s hips in his hands and drew more deeply from the nectar of her lips.

He recognized the inexperience of her first tentative response, but he was beyond caring. She kissed him with the ardency of an eager student. Nothing else mattered.

He’d never known anything like this in his life. His blood heated and his head spun as he probed deeper, demanding more, and she gave him everything he asked. Like a bud blossoming, her lips parted, and he tasted the sweet lemonade of her breath. Neville inhaled deeply, tested her tongue, exhilarated in her response as her lips pressed tighter and her tongue met his. Agony and ecstasy raced through him, warring over the next step, demanding the solace her reaction promised.

As his arm accidentally brushed her breast, Fiona quaked in his arms. Neville lost even a modicum of rationality.

***

From her position behind another potted palm, Gwyneth had watched Miss MacDermot’s altercation with the politicians with disapproval and disappointment. Miss MacDermot was a little too spirited for her purposes. One couldn’t think rationally while in a temper.

The arrival of the Duke of Anglesey to remove Miss MacDermot from the scene had been a relief, but the look in his eyes was puzzling.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, Gwyneth followed them. She raised her eyebrows as the duke hauled his cousin’s protégée into the darkened study. That wasn’t at all like His Grace. He’d always been the soul of propriety around her.

It was only when they lingered in the study that she recognized the impropriety. Gwyneth knew nothing of what happened between men and women, and she’d never thought of the dispassionate duke in those terms, but a firebrand like Fiona...

If she could put herself forward just a little, she might kill two birds with one stone. Tying the Tory to the Whigs would be an excellent piece of work. Gwyneth glanced around her. Several people had noticed the altercation, but she didn’t think anyone had noticed the couple’s departure. As was his habit, Fiona’s cousin, the earl, had disappeared. Lady Blanche had gone to the lady’s withdrawing room before the altercation began.

With satisfaction, Gwyneth noted the countess descending the stairs. Naturally, London’s biggest gossip was making a beeline in Lady Blanche’s direction to dramatize Fiona’s transgressions. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. If she had any luck at all, someone would have notified the earl by now, and he’d be heading this way also.

She had everything to gain and nothing to lose. Carefully skirting the edges of the crowd, Gwyneth started in Lady Blanche’s direction.

***

The duke’s mouth intoxicated Fiona to a fever that inflamed her brain and rendered her thoughtless. She coaxed her fingers through his thick hair, drank in the manly scent of his skin, fell victim to the stimulating intimacy of his tongue probing hers.

He lowered them onto a sofa and seated her on his powerful thighs. The new position only made it easier for her to caress the fascinating whiskers on his jaw. She reveled in the strong arms holding her tight and the ability to explore the heady sensations he instigated. She supposed she should put a halt to this insidious temptation, but at the moment, she couldn’t rightly remember why. She’d never known a man’s caresses before, had never realized what so simple a thing as a touch and a kiss could do. She wasn’t one to reject a lesson for the sake of propriety, particularly not a lesson as compelling as this one.

The gentleness of the duke’s strength surprised her. The brush of his fingers against the side of her breast stole the breath from her lungs. The probe of his kiss created a longing for more, much more. She didn’t recognize the sound of the door opening, nor hear the gasps that followed.

She did, however, hear Michael’s roar of outrage.

“Fey-onah MacDermot, get your foolish self over here this instant!”

Neville practically dropped her. Hastening to right herself, Fiona landed on her feet before she’d gathered her lost wits. Amazed that her skirt had risen so high, she adjusted it, not looking up until the silence grew so thick that it could have broken if dropped.

Her head spinning too rapidly to think clearly, she noted the furious clenching of Michael’s jaw, Blanche’s worried expression, and the malicious twinkle of eyes she didn’t recognize. Michael slammed the door on any further audience, but Fiona had a sense of more people outside the door. She gulped and stepped away from the man behind her. She couldn’t look at the duke right now.

It didn’t matter. He and Michael addressed each other as if she were no longer present.

“I’ll expect your call in the morning,” Michael said coldly, over Fiona’s head.

“Expect me at eleven.” The stiffness wasn’t just in the duke’s voice, but in his whole stance. He didn’t touch her, didn’t acknowledge her, gave no indication of what they had just done together.

Crumbling a little inside, feeling a cold wind blowing through the cracks of her soul, Fiona stumbled across the carpet in sympathetic Blanche’s direction. If she didn’t think about it, she could imagine this wasn’t happening. She just wanted to go home, away from all the staring eyes.

Someone threw a cloak around her. Someone else led her out a side door, away from the audience hovering in the main hall.

Fiona never looked at Neville. But she saw him just the same, standing proud and aloof, waiting for the door to close and the world to leave him alone.

***

His noble gut roiled in protest at the humiliation, but Neville presented himself at the appointed time and place the next day. He stared beyond Michael’s shoulder rather than acknowledge the earl’s quizzical look.

“I never saw myself playing the part of furious father,” Michael said uncomfortably. He stood beside the mantel, juggling two brass candlesticks and a delicate figurine. “But she’s the only female relation I have. I have to look after her. Gossip is flying.”

Neville winced as the expensive china figurine barely missed landing on the tile hearth. Michael hadn’t fully recovered his talents after damaging his hands in a fire, but the earl never let that stop him. Michael might seem absent-minded and eccentric to the world at large, but he had a formidable mind and a tenacity that could kill any ordinary man. Neville knew better than to fall victim to the earl’s ire.

“I understand. I’m fully at fault. With your permission, I’ll have the announcement placed in the papers today.”

Nonchalantly swinging his walking stick, Neville examined a drawing one of the children had tacked to a bookshelf, but his gut twisted tighter. He loathed impropriety and had little experience at mortification. He wanted to hide in shame, flog himself for stupidity, and curse the heavens for not allowing him this one small mistake. But beneath the shame—anticipation raised its insidious head.

He was out of his mind. He’d had an entire night to toss and turn and recognize his madness. But if he was losing his mind, he was gaining senses he’d never known he’d possessed. At the moment, insanity seemed a fair trade for more of Fiona’s kisses. He might have spent half the night castigating himself, but with dawn’s arrival, lust had won the argument.

A noise too much like a chuckle jerked Neville’s attention to the earl. He glared at Michael, who now innocently balanced the candlesticks and figurines in a swaying tower.

“I’d wait on that announcement until you speak with Fiona. In case that blow to your head robbed you of all brains, I’ll remind you she’s a mind of her own. I’m depending on you to turn her mind in the right direction, but I’m not believin’ it will be easy.”

When the earl slipped into his Irish act, it was time to leave. Bowing coldly, Neville walked out, grimacing at the sound of a tinkling crash behind him. The figurine had been nearly a hundred years old, a mere infant compared to the other antiquities in this mausoleum. He would have preferred throwing the porcelain against the wall if it had to be broken, but even that wouldn’t sufficiently express his sentiments.