The Irish Duchess by Patricia Rice

clutches. I’d have her for wife, which is more than you can say.”
    The hard slap of Fiona’s hand across O’Connor’s long jaw echoed in the empty chamber. Neville stared in astonishment. O’Connor merely rubbed the sore place and regarded her without expression.
    “You’d not have done that had you not already thought the same yourself,” Eamon responded with the first hint of anger. “You’ll do whatever you must to feed your orphans. I know you that well, Fiona MacDermot, so you needn’t deny it. I’m here to stop you from making that mistake.”
    “You’re a great, lumbering jackass, Eamon O’Connor, and I want you out of here this instant!” Furious, she spun around to confront the damned duke, and caught a moment’s unguarded anger in his expression. She didn’t know whether it was at the insult to her or to himself and she was past caring.
    “To hell and damnation with the lot of ye!” Throwing up her hands, Fiona walked out.
    “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Eamon shouted after her.
    Warn her—of what? Of falling for the duke’s cold charms? She’d as likely fall for a viper in her sewing basket. Since she didn’t own a sewing basket and had no taste for snakes, the likelihood was nil. Fiona snarled at the stupidities of the male of the species. Wave a female in their faces, and they transformed into lust-crazed jackasses.
    The bloody boring Duke of Anglesey would never do something so common as fight over a woman’s honor. He’d probably pass a piece of legislation making it illegal for a man to insult a woman—or more likely, a duke—and assign the death penalty. That’s all the damned English Parliament was good for anyway.
    Despite her scorn, Fiona thought twice before taking the action Eamon’s news demanded she take. She would disappoint Lady Blanche, and she truly would hate doing that. Blanche was the only woman Fiona had ever known who fit the description of ladies in the old folk tales. One simply didn’t disappoint legends without good reason.
    Ignoring the maid buckling trunks, Fiona changed into her boy’s breeches and shirt. For a moment she felt a spurt of regret that she would not have the opportunity to snare a rich husband and make life easier for everyone, but nothing had ever come easily in her life.
    She slipped down the back stairs, through the nearly empty kitchen, and into the straggling walled garden. She’d thought to make the garden a thing of beauty as well as practicality, but she’d never had time to do more than plant a few herbs and a rose sucker someone had given her. The cook had planted potatoes, but the vines had died back at the end of summer. They’d need digging soon.
    She peered around the wall to the stables, prepared to avoid the duke if he blocked her way again. But she saw no sign of him. She didn’t think either he or Eamon cared enough to fight over her now that she’d left their presence. She supposed Eamon would crawl back into whatever hole he’d crawled out of, and the duke would be in the drive overseeing the loading of the carriage. He learned quickly, she must admit. The castle had few servants and those were untrained. If a person wanted something done, they’d best do it themselves.
    Slipping past the wall, Fiona hurried across the stable yard. She didn’t need a saddle to ride Maeve. She could be gone before anyone missed her.
    The horse nickered and took the carrot Fiona had snatched from the garden. After the drafty castle, the stable seemed almost cozy. Fiona felt more at home here than anywhere else. Giving the mare a hug, she used a crate as a mounting block and climbed on. Even if the duke should see her leave, he couldn’t catch up with her.
    She didn’t count on finding him waiting for her as she rode out of the barn.
    He grabbed the bridle before she could kick Maeve and fly past him. “You’re becoming predictable, Fiona,” he said coolly, holding the dancing animal without a hint of strain.
    “So