Bedding Lord Ned (4 page)

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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

BOOK: Bedding Lord Ned
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“Mama probably only thought—if she thought about it at all—that Lady Juliet was the sort of female you fancied,” Jack said. “You know—small and, er, doll-like.”
Cicely had been a little like a porcelain doll, hadn't she?
No, how could he think that? Cicely had been perfect—though he was determined his next wife would be more robust, larger, better able to survive childbirth.
The hopelessness he always felt at this party descended on him like a thick fog. Even the snap of the logs in the fireplace suddenly sounded glum. And he'd thought this year would be different. “Oh, damn.”
“Exactly,” Jack said.
Ash passed the brandy decanter again, and they all filled their glasses.
“Mama must be slipping,” Ash said. “Dare we hope the Duchess of Love will retire?”
“No bloody chance of that,” Jack said. “Invitations to her monthly balls are as coveted as—perhaps more coveted than—vouchers to Almack's. The food is better and Mama serves spirits.” He rolled his eyes. “And from what I hear, her infernal
Love Notes
are as popular as ever.”
“Good Lord,” Ned said. “Have you ever seen a copy?”
Jack looked at him as though he'd just stepped out of Bedlam. “What do you take me for? I'd rather gouge my eyes out with my own thumbs. My friends know they risk meeting me at dawn if they show me even a corner of one page or quote a single word from its contents.”
“And they abide by your wishes?” Ash asked.
Jack raised his brows. “I'm accounted an excellent shot. They dare not put it to the test.”
“I wish there was as effective a way to persuade Mama to stop writing the thing,” Ned said. “And I especially wish she'd quit having this bloody house party.”
“Amen!” Ash lifted his glass and they all drank.
Jack slid deeper into his chair. “Just promise me you won't leave me alone with Miss Wharton.” He shuddered. “If I let my guard down for an instant, she'll wrestle me into the most compromising position she can devise.”
“Of course,” Ned said, “not that I think you'll need our assistance.”
Jack closed his eyes. An unfamiliar tightness marred his features. “I wish I were so confident. Miss Wharton is bloody persistent.”
“You know, I'm sure Ellie would help,” Ash said. “Being female, she can keep a closer eye on Miss Wharton than we can.”
Jack sat up, a relieved smile dispelling his uncharacteristic grimness. “Yes, that's it. Ellie's a good sport—I wager she will help.” He shot Ned an oddly bland look. “Assuming Mama ... or someone else ... doesn't need her.”
What the hell was Jack hinting at? He should ask, but he felt oddly hesitant to hear the answer. Planting his fist in Jack's face would be much more satisfying.
Ned kept his hands to himself. “I think I'll go get ready for dinner.”
Chapter 3
The meek may inherit the earth, but they don't marry well.
—Venus's Love Notes
 
 
Ellie stood in the shadows at one side of the blue drawing room. Her old evening dress was almost the exact shade as the draperies; if she was very, very still, perhaps no one would notice her.
She'd managed to slip into the room behind Miss Isabelle Wharton without attracting a single glance, though that was not so surprising. Miss Wharton was very striking, as the duchess's friend had said, but in a startling rather than beautiful way. The woman was Ellie's height and quite plump, with a mass of bouncing blond ringlets and a green dress so bedecked with bows and ribbons and furbelows that she closely resembled a large, mobile bush. She rustled through the room directly up to Jack where he stood by the fireplace with Ned, Ash, and a small, colorless woman Ellie had not yet met.
Jack was watching Miss Wharton approach as if she harbored a poisonous vine liable to twine its deadly growth around his neck. If he backed up one more step, his coattails would catch fire from the blaze on the hearth.
Ellie was too far away to hear what Miss Wharton said as she reached the group, but whatever Jack replied caused her to laugh. The three men cringed. She did sound remarkably like a drunken donkey, not that Ellie had ever actually heard such an inebriated animal.
Poor Jack. She should go over and join them. She could—
Oh, no, she couldn't. She couldn't go anywhere near Ned now that he knew the red silk drawers were hers.
Dear God, how was she ever going to survive this party?
She wasn't. Yes, she wanted a husband, but perhaps it would be wiser to feign the headache—or the ague or something—and retreat to the vicarage. There was always next year. Twenty-seven wasn't so very much older than twenty-six.
Oh,
why
hadn't she lied and said the dratted drawers weren't hers?
Because she was a terrible liar, that's why. She always blushed and gulped and stuttered. Ned wouldn't have been fooled for an instant. And whose could they be if not hers? None of the other guests had arrived when Ned found her in his room.
What must he think of her?
She closed her eyes in mortification, but that didn't help. Ned's image was burned into the back of her lids—his long legs, narrow hips, broad chest. The lock of chestnut hair that fell over his brow no matter what he did. His warm, brown eyes with their ridiculously long lashes—opening wide with shock as he stared down at her red silk drawers spilling over his fingers.
“Ohh.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth and glanced around. Thank God it seemed no one had heard her. She looked over at the group by the fire. Fortunately Ned had his back to her ... his strong back with his wide shoulders. . .
When she'd tripped over that stupid book and fallen into him, his arms had gone round her like two iron bands, pressing her against him from bosom to hips. There hadn't been an inch of space between them.
She shivered, and an odd thrill twisted in her stomach—or, rather, somewhat lower than her stomach. Her cheeks burned.
She'd never been embraced by a man like that. She snorted. She'd never been embraced by a man at all. She hadn't wished to be. Ned was the only man she'd ever wanted to touch her.
Well, that would have to change.
Damn Reggie. He'd best not cross her path any time soon or she
would
skin him and use his fur for a muff. At least she wouldn't have to worry about the blasted drawers making another embarrassing appearance. She'd stuffed them into the back of her clothes press and shut the door tight. As soon as she got home to the vicarage, she'd snip them into tiny little pieces and throw them down the privy hole.
“Ah, there you are.”
“Eek!” Ellie jumped and jerked her head to the left—the duchess was standing not two feet from her. “Oh, you startled me, your grace.”
“That's quite apparent. What are you doing over here—trying to hide in the curtains?”
“Ah.” That's exactly what she'd been trying to do, as Ned's mother must know, but Ellie would never admit it. “Er, no, I was just ...” What? Best change the subject. “Have the guests all arrived safely?”
“Yes, thank heavens. Lady Juliet was the last.” The duchess shook her head, sending the purple plume in her hair dancing—she'd better be sure to keep her feather away from Reggie. “I swear the snow was coming down horizontally when she struggled into the castle.”
“I must agree with her grace—”
Ellie just then noticed there was a man standing at the duchess's side—a small, mole-like fellow with tiny, watery eyes, thick spectacles, an enormous nose, slightly buck teeth, and no chin.
“—as I was out in it and I will tell you the weather is positively dreadful, perhaps the worst weather I've ever been in and I've been in a lot of weather. I hope it's not unmanly of me to admit that it gave me quite the scare. My horses slipped and slid the whole way from London so I was certain my coachman, who is exceedingly skilled with the ribbons or I would never keep him on, would end us in a ditch, but thankfully he didn't. Still just walking to the castle door soaked me through, my greatcoat was no protection, don't you know. So it will be a wonder if I don't catch my death.”
Ellie blinked. She'd swear the man hadn't taken but a breath or two during his entire speech.
The duchess laughed. “I hope you remain among the living, Mr. Humphrey.” She threw up her hands in mock distress. “And where have my manners gone, you may ask? I've completely neglected the introductions, which was my point in coming over. Ellie, this is Mr. Lionel Humphrey; Mr. Humphrey, Miss Eleanor Bowman, whom I must say I quite look upon as a daughter.”
The mole bowed. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bowman; her grace has told me such wonderful things about you, I almost feel as if I know you, but of course I don't, so I'm anxious to spend some time conversing with you, if I may.”
“Ah.” Was it possible to drown in a flood of words? “Yes. Of course. It's, ah, a pleasure to meet you, too, sir.” She swiveled her eyes to Ned's mother; the duchess smiled blandly, inclining her head toward the mole as if to say, go on, take advantage of this opportunity.
Ellie bit her lip.
This
was one of the men the duchess thought might be a good match for her?
Something odd twisted in her stomach, but it wasn't at all the same feeling she'd had when she'd been thinking of Ned. This sensation was more akin to revulsion.
She gave herself a mental shake. She had no time to be picky. She was twenty-six years old. Anything in breeches must be appealing. If her goal was to be a mother, the only qualification a gentleman need have was a working male organ.
Her stomach knotted at the thought of allowing Mr. Humphrey close enough to employ that organ. If only she'd encouraged Mr. Bridgeton last year ...
There was absolutely no point in entertaining such thoughts. Mr. Bridgeton was no longer available; Mr. Humphrey was, and he was here before her. She would try to look beyond his rather unappealing façade. He might have a heart of gold, after all. Certainly someone must find him worthy of their regard. His friends. His mother ...
“You two get to know each other.” The duchess beamed at them. “I'm afraid I must go—I see my dear Greycliffe has finally consented to join us.”
The duke was indeed standing in the doorway, scowling.
Ellie resisted the urge to grab the duchess's sleeve. “Then you'd best catch him before he decides to take a tray in his room.”
The duchess laughed. “You know him too well, my dear.”
She did. She knew and liked both Ned's parents and his brothers—
She could not let her thoughts travel that direction.
The mole—no,
Mr. Humphrey
—was bowing. “Do not tarry a moment longer, your grace; you can leave Miss Bowman safely in my charge. I will take the greatest care of her.”
Ellie bit back a spurt of exasperation and willed her eyes not to roll. What in the world did Mr. Humphrey imagine could happen to her in the duke's drawing room? She should tell him exactly—
No, no, she should not. She swallowed and forced herself to smile. She wanted a baby, so she needed a husband. She must try to like this mol—this
unmarried
,
available
man.
“Have you been to Greycliffe Castle before, Mr. Humphrey?” she asked as her grace went off to greet the duke. A stupid question. If he'd ever been here, she'd know it. No one visited the castle without the news flying through the village, and since the duke did not like to entertain, there weren't that many guests to gossip about.
Mr. Humphrey's nose twitched. “No, but I must say it is very impressive. The house, the grounds—well, I wish I could see the grounds, but with the snow and wind it is quite impossible; still I am sure they must be very pleasant in better weather.”
He leaned forward a little which put his nose on level with her bodice—fortunately all her dresses had very high necks—and raised his eyebrows significantly. “I don't know if her grace mentioned it, but I've just come into a substantial inheritance. My poor old great aunt went aloft a few months ago, and, being without children of her own, left the whole to me. A tidy property in Devon—nothing as grandiose as Greycliffe Castle, of course, but quite snug and rather beautiful if I say so myself.” He cleared his throat and waggled his eyebrows. “I'm on the lookout for a wife, don't you know, to manage the house and give me”—his eyebrows almost jumped off his forehead—“my heir and spare.”
His nose twitched again; it must be some sort of nervous tic, not that he appeared the least bit discomposed.
“I hope you don't mind my speaking plainly, Miss Bowman, but I assume a woman of your advanced years would be awake on every suit. No need to beat around the bush as if you were some young shrinking violet.”
“Ah.” Her first urge—to reply using her knee to great advantage—would not be appropriate for the duchess's drawing room. And if the man should somehow redeem himself, she didn't want to injure the one part of him that was of the most use to her. “How nice that you've come into some property, sir, but you must regret the manner in which you received it. Please allow me to express my condolences. I'm so sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?” Mr. Humphrey blinked at her, his small mouth agape.
“Your great aunt, sir. I'm sorry for her death.” Especially since it was the poor woman's departure from the world that had caused Mr. Humphrey to be invited to this party.
“Oh.” He nodded, but failed to look at all sorrowful. “Yes, it was very sad, but she was quite old. She had over eighty years in her dish; everyone said it was just a matter of time.” He leaned close again; Ellie kept from leaning away only by the most determined exercise of will.
“Many thought my cousin Theo would get her estate, since it was widely believed Aunt Theodora favored his mother over mine—Aunt Winifred even named Theo Theodore to curry favor—but all Theo got was a collection of china cats. I believe—and Mama agrees with me—that old Aunt Theodora finally got sick of Winifred toadying to her and hit on me because she hadn't seen me or Mama in years, though of course if I'd known I'd have a chance at her estate I would have visited, but perhaps it all turned out for the best, don't you think?”
“Er, yes.” For Mr. Humphrey; not for poor cousin Theo.
Perhaps Mr. Cox would appear in the drawing room soon; even a noble sprig would be better than this wretched weed.
No, no, no! She could not rule out Mr. Humphrey so quickly. He might merely be an acquired taste. The house party was just beginning. She would reserve judgment—or at least try to.
Mr. Humphrey tugged on his waistcoat. It was hard to imagine the man was only twenty-five; he was already going to fat. “So of course when the Duchess of Love extended this invitation, I accepted immediately. Her grace is such a successful matchmaker, you know, and it will be so much more efficient to obtain a wife now without having to waste time and money on a Season.” His nose twitched again, this time clearly in distaste. “Young girls can be so silly, having their heads turned with balls and fancy clothing, when their real duties in life are to bear children, keep their households running smoothly, and see that their husband is well cared for, don't you agree?”
“Er, yes.” Sadly, she did agree.
Mr. Humphrey pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “Splendid. I could tell you were a sensible woman the moment I saw you, Miss Bowman, and while I know it's too early to speak—”
Good God, the man wasn't going to propose now, was he? It was one thing to admit to practicality, but quite another to dispense with even the slightest whiff of romance.

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