The Irish Duchess Read Online Free PDF

of one good reason why his cousin insisted on inflicting this Irish banshee on London society, except that Blanche had always possessed a fiendish sense of humor.
    Unfortunately, he’d been condemned for having no humor at all, and he certainly saw none in his current situation. “What could be of more importance to a female than packing her fancies for a trip to London?” Neville asked with as much pleasantness as he could muster.
    “How about a house full of orphans, a starving village, and the opportunity for providing a way out of poverty?” She tossed her long braid over her shoulder.
    Neville stared at the tendrils of auburn escaping about her face. Everything about the brat screamed rebellion. She represented everything Irish he’d ever despised: disrespect for authority, hot tempered passion, illogical behavior, and a careless disregard for everything civilized. They still worshipped statues, for pity’s sake.
    “You’re going to do all that in one morning?” Neville inquired. “Perhaps you’ll rearrange the moon and the stars this evening for our entertainment?”
    “Devil take you! Get out of my way, your royal arse. I have people waiting for me.”
    Her creative variations on his title amused rather than irritated him, though Neville had no intention of letting her know that. He’d acquired years of experience since the dukedom had so unexpectedly descended on his shoulders. They had taught him that dour authority worked far better than kindness. He didn’t have the time for mincing words and twisting arms, and with his upbringing, charm had never been his strong point.
    “Fine, then I’ll accompany you. I’m certain Blanche meant to clothe you in something a trifle more respectable in London, anyway. It’s a fine morning for a ride, don’t you think?” Neville swung open the stable door and with a mocking bow, gestured for her to enter first.
    He briefly considered closing the door after her and throwing the bolt, but then he really would have to consider tying her up and carrying her in a sack to the ship on the morrow. He would try more civilized methods first.
    She gave him a glare intended to reduce him to sawdust. With a face and figure like that, she’d probably reduced most of the men around here to blithering idiots. But surrounded by the fawning attentions of every beautiful woman in all of England since he’d come into his title, Neville let the glare bounce right off him. Women had one purpose only, and this female scarcely registered in that category.
    His duchess could be ugly as sin for all he cared, but she would have manners and deportment and more money than Croesus. Anyone lacking those commodities couldn’t hold his interest.
    Well, he’d take that back, Neville amended a moment later as Fiona threw a bridle on her horse, stepped on the mounting block, and leaped on the animal’s back with the lithe grace of a cat. He couldn’t help noticing the sway of her hips or the bounce of her breasts. The little she-devil wore no undergarments.
    Swearing at the surge of unfamiliar lust resulting from that discovery, Neville decided she’d hold his interest as a mistress—if not for her unfortunate kinship to the earl.
    Hastily mounting his own unsaddled horse, he followed her across an open meadow still glistening with dew. The sun hadn’t broken through the mist, and dampness clung with diamond brilliance to Fiona’s hair. In linen shirtsleeves, she spurred her mount into a gallop.
    Suddenly enjoying the exhilaration of the morning and the straining horse beneath him, Neville gave his gelding its head. In his student days, he’d enjoyed the pleasures of a morning ride. He’d missed the wind whipping through his hair and the invigorating rush of his blood as his horse cleared a fence. His larger mount could easily out-stride Fiona’s, but he kept the horse reined in to stay abreast of her. She laughed as she glanced in his direction.
    His pulse raced faster, but Neville