The Irish Duchess (9 page)

“She does have a way with children,” Blanche admitted. “She’s taught Mary to jump up and down on the beds, and of course, Nicholas must do so too. It’s excellent exercise for Mary’s leg, and if she falls, it’s all part of the game. I really can’t ask Nicholas not to do what Mary does.”

Neville gestured in triumph. “See? What did I tell you? It will be anarchy within weeks. You’d think she was eleven instead of one and twenty.”

Fiona hesitated just outside the doorway to the salon, a flush staining her cheeks. She didn’t know why the humiliation stung now when she’d never cared about anyone’s opinion before. That’s what she got for eavesdropping.

She hadn’t realized how childish a grown woman teaching children to jump on beds must seem. She’d always unleashed her exuberance as she liked because no one had ever told her she couldn’t. It had seemed simple enough when growing up. She had a mind of her own, and though it lacked the education she would have liked, it worked fairly well in her opinion. But the duke’s acid declaration that she behaved like a child shamed her.

Cheeks burning, Fiona checked the gauzy neckerchief she could never keep tucked neatly in her bodice. Straightening it and refastening her brooch, she shook out her skirt, hoping the wrinkles would disappear. They didn’t. She gave them a frown, took a deep breath to screw up her courage, and entered the salon. She wasn’t one for hiding.

The duke’s features remained impassive. Fiona decided if he raised his quizzing glass to inspect her any closer, she’d spit in his other eye. There briefly she’d thought him almost human, but the journey to London had returned his frosty self. And since he merely sipped from his cup without greeting her, she didn’t bother curtsying for him.

Pretending he didn’t exist, Fiona smiled at her hostess and settled on the settee. “I’m sorry I’m late. Mary insisted on a story before her nap, and I forgot the time.”

“You will spoil the child. She’s perfectly capable of reading every one of her storybooks on her own. I think she has them memorized. Do not let her take advantage of you. Just because her one leg does not work so well does not mean she’s not a little demon like any other child.”

The laughter in Blanche’s voice indicated she thought otherwise, and Fiona didn’t take her comments as criticism. Blanche loved her adopted daughter as much as she loved her son, as she would probably love any child. Fiona admired the countess and wished she could be a little more like her. But she was cursed with a cynical mind and sharp tongue and could not be content with babies and nesting, not when there were so many starving children and unhappy people in the world.

“They’re beautiful children,” she replied, but her mind traveled to Aileen’s orphans. They didn’t have beds for romping on, or storybooks for reading. She knew Blanche would shower them with gifts should she ask, but she couldn’t ask. It was charity enough that the earl and countess took her into their home.

That bitter thought turned Fiona’s head in the duke’s direction. He was studying her as if she were some curious insect he’d never seen before. With a defiant tilt of her chin, Fiona allowed his inspection. “Well, sir duke, does this attire meet with your approval?”

His thin lips quirked upward for just a moment before he sipped his tea again. That she might possibly have amused him caused an unexpected tightening in her midsection. Back there in that tavern, when they’d fought side by side, she’d almost admired him.

The duke set the china back in its saucer. “At least it’s a gown and not breeches,” he replied. “And you’re sitting in a chair and not a top mast. I’d have to say that’s an improvement. How long does it last?”

Ignoring the deliberately baiting question, she turned to Blanche. “Must a lady always be polite when provoked?” she asked.

Blanche shook her golden curls. “Not with family. Neville’s family. You may shoot him down any way you wish. He needs it. All the bootlicking goes to his head elsewise.”

Fiona grinned, sank back in the chair, and flung the duke a triumphant grin. “So, my lord duke, when do you mean to introduce me to swarms of eligible men so you might marry me off and pry me out of your hair?”

The duke’s magnificent eyebrows drew together in a warning frown that should have shaken her to her toes, but Fiona knew perfectly well she had nothing to fear from Neville. He towered over her by a foot and probably carried twice her weight, but he was a gentleman born and bred. She need only fear his caustic tongue, and she had ample shield against that.

“I’ve purchased boxes at the opera,” he replied, fixing her with his implacable glare. “You’ll attend with Blanche and myself this evening. If I hear anything more than ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ or ‘No, Your Grace,’ out of you, I’ll throw you over the rail and into the pit.”

Nine

“McGonigle is undoubtedly leading one of the Whiteboy factions in your district, but much as I would like to pin the crime on him, it does not seem likely.” In the foyer of the Earl of Aberdare’s townhouse, Neville watched the earl absent-mindedly juggle coins. Michael’s odd habits had ceased annoying Neville long ago. His impatience now had more to do with Blanche and Fiona dallying upstairs, while he waited to escort Fiona to her first social event.

“Someone needs to steer all that rebellious anger into more productive channels,” Michael responded, not entirely off the subject but far enough for Neville to take several seconds to follow. For a moment, he almost thought the earl spoke of Fiona.

“You’re a fair landlord, more so than any I’ve seen,” Neville replied. “Your tenants have no reason for complaint. The man who murdered Burke is a common thief. I doubt that he has any connection to anything so organized as a band of ruffians.”

Michael dropped the coins into his pockets as voices sounded on the landing above. “William isn’t much good at anything but following orders. I’ll have to find someone who can use his head a little more. No matter how bad the times are, there’s no excuse for murder.”

Neville scarcely heard him. He fastened his gaze on the staircase where the two women slowly descended. He had grown up with Blanche, and though she was a beautiful woman in her own way, he barely noticed her blond fairness beside Fiona’s vivid coloring.

A tumble of auburn curls crowned their guest’s high forehead and whispered around a slim white throat. Flashing green eyes dared comment. That she actually met his gaze without a hint of coyness caught his breath, but her defiance stirred something considerably lower.

Striving for his usual cool demeanor, Neville let his gaze drift from Fiona’s face to the gown Blanche had chosen for her. The sight of full white curves rising above the flimsy gold bodice nearly undid him. A swift glance assured him that all her curves were equally spectacular, and his mind slipped from its lofty plateau straight into the gutter.

The vicious pounding in his head returned, and Neville dragged his gaze from the chit in her low-cut gown and back to the earl. “You’re not letting her out looking like that, are you?”

Michael only grinned.

***

“By Jove, Duke, you’ve acquired a diamond of the first water there. Why haven’t you snatched her up before half of London’s slavering beasts descend upon her?”

Since Morton was close to slavering as he spoke, Neville seriously considered dropping his friend over the railing as he had threatened to do to Fiona. Morton’s gaze scarcely wavered from the bosom rising above that blasted gold bodice. Rationally, Neville supposed the ladies in the other boxes wore gowns much lower, but he did not think they had quite so much to display as Fiona.

“Her dowry is modest,” Neville responded curtly. “As is her lineage. She has need of a man with more wealth than I can provide her.”

Morton gave him a shrewd look. “Then it’s Gwyneth you’ve set your sights on. I warn you, old man, she’s not what she seems. She’ll give you a run for your money.”

Neville could have told him the same about Fiona, but he refrained. To his surprise, the brat was actually living up to their agreement and behaving the perfect lady—for the moment. He’d have to aid her search for a wealthy husband. Morton didn’t have a title, but he had funds enough. He had horses on the brains, Neville supposed, but that shouldn’t matter for the minx’s purpose. She could do far worse.

Fiona smiled a polite greeting as Neville introduced her. He resisted yanking Morton up by the cravat as his friend’s gaze continued wandering downward. Neville wished Fiona would smile with a little more welcome and a little less coldness, but he couldn’t very well correct her behavior.

Weren’t women supposed to know these things? She possessed a smile that could shame the blazing sun. A smile like that could make a man her slave forever. Foolish chit, not using all her artillery up front. Disgruntled and not fully understanding why, Neville leaned against the back of the box and watched the couple with cynicism.

When the recess ended and Morton reluctantly departed, Neville returned to his chair beside Fiona. She kept her gaze fixed on the caterwauling soprano on the stage, but he knew from the way she fingered her fan that she wasn’t paying attention.

“Why the devil did you freeze Morton out like that?” he whispered peevishly, blaming his irritation on his pounding headache. “He’s got wealth and a pretty face and he drooled all over you. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“He drooled all over me,” she whispered with distaste, still staring at the stage. “How charming. And I thought you were introducing me to civilized society.”

“Morton is civilized,” Neville protested. “He’s a scion of two earls and a marquess; his family dates back to Elizabeth’s reign. He has bottomless pockets. You had only to smile, and he would have fallen at your feet.”

She shot him a venomous glare. “You want me to marry a carpet?”

A carpet. Neville covered his eyes and sank back in his chair. A carpet. A descendant of nobility, a Corinthian to the bone, a member of every fashionable club in St. James, and she calls him a “carpet.” What did he have to do, present her with a lion on a leash?

A man couldn’t argue with the illogical meanderings of the female mind. He would simply produce every wealthy man in all of London and let her choose as she saw fit. It made no difference to him whom she chose so much as how quickly she chose.

The dreadful performance finally ended, and they escaped into the cool air. Fiona watched with irritation as the duke stalked off with scarcely a fare-thee-well. Did the ridiculous man think she was a piece of meat he need only display for some golden-coined buyer to snap her up?

Not hearing Blanche’s concerned question, Fiona lifted the dratted tight skirt and stepped into the waiting carriage. She felt exposed, shamed, and furious all at the same time. Is this what she had bargained for when she agreed to come to London?

“Fiona? Is something wrong? Didn’t you like the performance? I’ll admit, I don’t understand the Italian very well, but the music was quite good, don’t you think?”

Fiona sighed and collapsed against the carriage squabs. She couldn’t hurt Blanche’s feelings. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she gave the easy answer. “I have a small megrim, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

Blanche laughed. “Enjoy a good night’s sleep while you can. After tonight, you’ll be on every invitation we receive. We’ll only give a small ball for your come-out since there’s so few in town this time of year, but you needn’t worry. Morton will have your name on every man’s tongue by morning.”

Oh, charming
. She couldn’t wait to parade before an entire room full of panting animals. Why didn’t they just auction her off to the highest bidder?

For the first time, Fiona doubted the wisdom of her plan. Maybe she should have accepted Eamon’s offer after all. She would never feel comfortable in glittering society. How could she possibly marry some old man who simply wanted to show her off? Why had she thought she could do this?

Perhaps because—until tonight—she hadn’t realized how men looked at her.

Skin crawling, Fiona wished for her boy’s clothes back. She should never have been born female. She didn’t have the right sort of mind. She’d hated the way Morton had kept staring at her bosom. What on earth did he see that every woman in the room didn’t possess and probably displayed more elegantly?

Still, remembering the duke’s stunned reaction as she had walked down the steps, Fiona knew a niggle of satisfaction. For that moment, she had known a woman’s power. If she must continue on this ghastly path, she could at least amuse herself by practicing her wiles on the arrogant, inscrutable duke. It would warm her soul to see him panting as Morton had tonight.

***

“Didn’t expect to see you here, old boy.” Lord Bennet stopped beside Neville to study the ballroom. “Thought the session would last into the night. Slipped out early, myself. Couldn’t see any point in staying. The Catholic Emancipation bill hasn’t a chance. Don’t know why you even bothered introducing it.”

Neville scowled at the older man’s comment. “I introduced it because we’ll have a revolution in Ireland if something isn’t done. The conditions there are deplorable.”

His companion laughed. “The Irish have been threatening revolution for centuries. It’s all they’re good for. That and fine horseflesh,” he amended. “And maybe I should have taken a longer look at their women when I was younger.” He chuckled, and his gaze drifted toward the auburn tresses proceeding toward them. “Aberdare’s young cousin is a fine piece of womanhood. If it weren’t for the crowd of suitors around her, I might just consider getting myself leg-shackled again.”

Since the speaker was nigh on sixty and rotund as he was tall, Neville didn’t think his chances exceedingly high, but he had the distinct feeling that the old lecher expected an introduction. With cynicism, Neville gestured at Fiona as she emerged from the crowd. Mayhap the chit could put her charm to good use and sway the old man on the Catholic bill.

“Your Grace.” Fiona curtsied and actually used the proper title, but Neville caught a distinct gleam behind lowered lashes. She even made a mockery out of politeness.