The Irish Duchess by Patricia Rice Page B

mirror that she wasn’t particularly pretty, not in the vapid flower petal way of most of society’s acclaimed beauties. Her forehead was too high, her hair too red, her chin too small. The list was endless. But she need only stick out her chest and smile, and men stumbled over their feet and fell.
    She knew the duke favored Morton as a suitable husband for her. The man had money enough, she supposed, and they had a common interest in horses, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that would persuade him to support an Irish village. No, she needed a doddering old man who didn’t care about anything except pleasing her. The Viscount Bennet seemed best suited to that cause.
    Neville watched the two women saunter down the path, their contrasting appearances capturing all the afternoon’s light. He tried focusing on Gwyneth with her gleaming blond hair capped by an enormously expensive hat adorned with an egret feather. She walked with studied grace, carrying her height with ease now that she had an audience of only two. Yet his gaze persisted in drifting to the smaller figure beside her.
    Fiona had actually acquiesced to wearing a suitable riding habit and using a sidesaddle, but her defiance crept out in small ways. She didn’t wear feminine velvet in pretty colors and adorned with frills. Her habit had been cut to resemble a man’s tailored riding coat. She’d even used the bottle green kerseymere that was so popular in men’s fashion. Only the full skirt that she constantly kicked out of her way gave the gown a feminine touch. And she’d topped it all off with a high-crowned hat resembling a man’s beaver. She ought to look ridiculous. Instead, she looked fetchingly dainty, like a sugary confection.
    Gad! He had taken leave of his senses again. If there was any woman less dainty and sugary than Fiona MacDermot, he didn’t know who it was. Her tart tongue could curdle milk. Neville glared at her, and she turned her haughty little nose up in the air and took Morton’s arm as if he were the only man in the world for her.
    Neville forced a smile and offered his arm to Gwyneth. She gave him a considering look. He didn’t have the time nor the pretty words to turn a woman’s head. Gwyneth would just have to accept him for what he was, a duke and naught else.
    “I’ve asked Miss MacDermot to join my Thursday gatherings,” Gwyneth said shyly, taking his arm. “You don’t object, do you?”
    Neville sighed in relief and patted her hand. “Of course not. I’m certain she’ll enjoy the company.” If nothing else, it would give the little hothead a safe place to apply her sharp mind and even sharper tongue. He’d much rather Fiona applied them to Gwyneth’s literary afternoons and nothing more dangerous.
    ***
    “If women could vote, we’d not have poverty. That would end the crime problem and open the doors for better education, which would relieve the suffering of those poor unfortunate laborers in the factories. It’s all related.”
    Fiona listened to Mr. Bolingbrooke’s speech with amazement, not just at the topic of women’s suffrage, but at his raving raw naiveté. She wanted to stand up and scream that three-quarters of the men couldn’t vote, and even if they could, they’d never agree on the means of ending poverty, but new to this group, she bit her lip and kept quiet. Lady Gwyneth’s literary afternoon hadn’t been quite what she’d expected.
    Glancing around at the expensive silk gowns, the hair coifed by personal maids, the jewels provided by wealthy husbands and fathers, Fiona could tell these women knew nothing at all about poverty. She could explain it to them, but they wouldn’t listen. They liked talking to show their humanity, but they didn’t much like listening or doing.
    If they really wanted to help, they could sell their jewels and fancy carriages and give the funds to orphanages. They could persuade their stiff-rumped husbands to pass bills for decent wages and working