The Irish Duchess Page 10
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 o
ther 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.
Neville sent a footman in search of Fiona and idled his time in the front parlor, admiring the colors of the trees in the park across the street. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d admired the color of trees. An image of Fiona in her tight-fitting green habit, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she raced her mare beneath those trees, rose in his mind’s eye and so captivated him that he barely heard her enter the room.
“You sent for me?” Fiona asked coldly, forcing Neville to swing around and greet his mental vision in the cold light of day.
She exceeded even his wildest dreams. Apparently prepared for this visit, she wore her copper curls in a tight knot at the back of her head, but wisps still escaped about her face, softening the severe image she meant to present. Nothing could disguise the long-lashed wide eyes glaring at him from behind rose-tinted cheekbones, or the determined jut of her little chin. A ribbon of amusement curled through him as he realized she had prepared her defense before he’d said a word.
In the interest of scientific experiment, Neville dropped his gaze to the high-necked bodice of her woolen gown. Even the ghastly brown and the loose design couldn’t disguise the magnificence of her feminine curves. He’d had women of all shapes and sizes, yet had never much noted their differences before now. It was Fiona who held his fascination, but she wouldn’t understand that. So he ogled her blatantly and waited for her temper to strike.
As predictable as the sun rising in the morn, her hand swung up to slap him, and he had her. Capturing those long, slender fingers, Neville brought them to his lips and kissed them.
Startled, she froze.
He had little knowledge of the gallantries that wooed and won women, but he instinctively understood Fiona. He had to stay one step ahead of her at all times, know her responses, and keep her off balance. That didn’t mean he would come out ahead, but it at least gave him a fair chance.
“I’ve come to apologize for embarrassing you,” he murmured, keeping her hand in his, relying on their proximity to have the same effect as it had last night. He was almost ten years older than Fiona and gave himself credit for a little more experience. He didn’t think he’d mistaken her passionate response. If he had, now was the time to discover it. They had naught else in common but this physical attraction and must build a marriage from some foundation. “I shan’t apologize for what I did,” he added tauntingly.
Some women might have wide green pools for eyes, but Fiona’s leapt with flames that would consume him. Neville wanted to pull her into his arms again, but his hastiness had led to disaster last night.
Dark lashes fell, and she looked away, attempting to shake his hand in an effort to escape. “I understand. It’s quite all right.”
Neville couldn’t recall ever seeing her embarrassed before. “Was it? Quite all right, I mean.” Amused, he couldn’t resist asking.
She sent him an uncertain, vaguely rebellious look. “Was what quite all right?”
“My kisses,” he persisted. “How did they compare to those of others?”
He relaxed as he saw her uncertainty begin to fade. He didn’t want her uncertain. He wanted his fiery fairy with him in the room.
“It’s not quite the same compared with stolen kisses from grimy little boys behind the hedgerows, my lord duke,” she protested.
Pleased that she was as inexperienced as he’d thought, Neville goaded her further. “Might I presume my kisses were better?”
She curled her fingers into fists and stamped her foot. “Quit playing cat and mouse with me, sir. If you have some reason for this game, spit it out and have done with it. It wasn’t my fault that you were humiliated last night, so you needn’t torture me to get even.”
“No, I’d not torture you.” He ran his finger across her cheek, finding it as soft as the orchids he raised, yet blooming in a more magnificent color. He wasn’t one for complaining about his plight. She would have made a marvelous mistress. She would make a terrible wife. Still, he’d spent all his life accepting responsibility. He’d live with what he’d done. “Or perhaps, I will, just a little. Marriage to a dry stick like me will not be so interesting as racing about the Irish countryside, but will surely be better than marriage to an old man like Bennet, won’t it?”
Neville thought she stopped breathing. With interest, he lowered his gaze to see if her bosom continued rising and falling. He wanted to unbutton all those damned tiny jet buttons and explore more thoroughly, but that could wait. Not for long, perhaps, given his body’s response to his mental images, but for a while.
“I’m not a piece of legislation you may examine and take apart and do with as you will,” Fiona said coldly.
“And I’m not blind, deaf, or stupid, either,” Neville said without ire. “I know you’re a hoyden who will turn me gray before my time, but we must be practical about this, and admit that neither of us would disappoint Michael or Blanche. We could do far worse than each other.”
That stopped her tongue, and he chalked a point in his favor. Maybe several points. He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone stop Fiona’s tongue before. “I’m not a rich man, but I know where I can find a loom at a decent price. I cannot think your orphans will fare well with only an elderly grandmother to look after them, but if you can find someone willing to take them, I’ll see that they’re fed and clothed. I cannot promise more than that, but that’s more than you would have out of any other husband you found.”
“And what do you expect of me in return?” Fiona asked with the uncertainty he’d heard in her voice earlier.
“Heirs,” Neville said bluntly. “I want heirs aplenty, and a wife in my bed whenever I want.”
He knew he would have shocked any other woman, but not Fiona. He read the blaze of interest in her eyes, knew the devious workings of her mind, and bent them to his own purposes. He rather liked being in control of the situation for once. He more than liked not having to wield foolish romantic phrases to get what he wanted.
Without waiting for an answer, Neville pulled Fiona into his arms as he’d wanted to do from the moment she’d walked into the room. Instead of the finality of a parson’s trap, the sweet bliss of freedom wrapped around him with the slide of her arms around his shoulders and the return of his kiss with the same reckless hunger that rocked him.
Just for once in his life, Neville damned duty to hell and took his pleasure where he could.
The sensation of freedom swept through Neville as he cupped Fiona’s breast in his palm. He nearly came undone when she rewarded him with her moan of pleasure. He might have taken her there and then, putting the seal of certainty on their union, had a knock on the door not jarred him to his senses.
Michael’s wry expression when he came upon them tumbled and breathing hard sealed their promise just as certainly.
“Dare I suggest a short betrothal?”
Catching Fiona’s hand before she could twist away, Neville agreed with alacrity. “I’ll have the license in the morning. Name the date.”
Beside him, Fiona moaned and covered her mouth with her hand. Neville would have her well shackled before she realized what she did. He wouldn’t give her time to regret her decision. He’d waited years to choose a wife. Now that the choice was made for him, he wouldn’t wait a day longer than necessary.
He’d found his duchess. She wasn’t an heiress, but she was the woman he wanted. For the first time in a long time, his duty took him down a path that matched his desires.
Thirteen
Now that some distance separated her from the duke, Fiona almost wished she were back in his arms again, blinded with lust so she needn’t think about what they’d just done. What in the name of the Holy Mother was she thinking? She despised Englishmen. She despised this particular Englishman. She despised his arrogance, his title, everything for which he stood.
Neville sent her another one of his blasted amused looks that melted her knees. She’d heard other people accuse him of being a dry stick, but they obviously didn’t understand his warped sense of humor. He was laughing at them all right now, laughing at the whole humiliating situation, laughing as he stuck his head through the noose. Damn the man and his laughing eyes to hell.
“I...I thought a Christmas wedding would be nicer,” Fiona said tentatively into a momentary pause in the conversation. She’d never said anything tentatively in her life. Already he was sapping her will and independence.
Blanche looked interested, but Michael and Neville grinned and shook their heads.
“She’s panicking already,” Neville said, catching Fiona’s hand and drawing her closer. “We must do the deed quickly, before she realizes what she’s done.”
Fiona tried to jerk her hand away, but Neville’s fingers simply tightened their hold. Under other circumstances, she might have found his strength reassuring. Right now, panic held her in thrall. She’d barely even considered marriage. She’d certainly never considered marriage to a duke. A duke! A bloody duke! She’d be a duchess.
The unholy incongruity spun Fiona’s head. As if recognizing her sudden weakness, Neville led her to a nearby chair—a gold silk chair with delicately carved arms sitting in a pool of sunlight on a beautiful blue and gold woven carpet of exquisite design, all of which belonged to the duke. He owned this house where Blanche and Michael lived. She pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t take her to Anglesey until after the wedding,” Neville was saying with amusement still lacing his voice.
“Oh, she’s already seen it,” Blanche replied blithely. “Michael brought her there when we first met.”