Bedding Lord Ned

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Yes. I, ah ...” Her eyes flew wide, as if she’d suddenly realized she was pasted on him like wallpaper, and she lurched backward. Her voice turned harsh, almost accusatory. “Your mother said you weren’t here yet.”

  He frowned. What was she blaming him for? She was the one in his bedroom—with the red silk drawers he was still holding.

  He rubbed the smooth cloth between his thumb and forefinger. Were they hers? Did she have a pair on now? His eyes dropped to consider her—

  He jerked his gaze back to her face. “I just arrived.”

  “Oh.” She pushed her hair off her forehead. “Of course.” She smiled her normal, placid smile and somehow rearranged her expression so she looked like her calm drawing-room self. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

  This was the same conversation he’d had with Dalton.

  He shrugged. “It was cold, but bearable.” Truthfully, the raw weather had matched his mood, though now he was feeling distinctly warmer—inappropriately so, given the current location and company, but perhaps not a bad thing if he were indeed determined to carry through with his matrimonial resolution.

  The drawers probably weren’t Ellie’s—though whose could they be? Mama’s?

  Oh, God, no! How had that thought crept into his brainbox? He’d have to dunk his head in ice water to freeze the notion out.

  “Mrs. Dalton thinks it will snow,” Ellie was saying, “and her joints are very accurate.”

  Yes, far better to think of Mrs. Dalton’s rheumatism than Mama’s—than anything else. “That’s what Dalton said.”

  Ellie nodded. “We can quite plan our day by her aches.” She pushed her hair back again, and her composed expression wavered slightly. “I seem to have lost my cap and pins.”

  He grinned, remembering the scene that had greeted him. “They are probably under my bed.”

  “Ah.” She turned bright red. “Perhaps they are.”

  He shouldn’t tease her, but he couldn’t resist. “Do you want me to help you look for them?”

  “No!” She swallowed. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have others. You can return them—well, the cap—to me later perhaps.”

  She was rather attractively mussed, really, more like she’d been as a girl when she and Cicely used to tag along after Percy and Jess and Ash and Jack and him. Cicely had been the quiet, cautious one, very feminine even then, but Ellie had climbed trees and caught fish and tried to do everything Jess and the boys did. More often than not she’d go home with her skirts torn and her hair hanging down her back.

  “Here, you have a smut on your face.” He reached to rub the spot on her forehead, but she dodged his fingers.

  “I imagine I’ve collected more than one. The space under your b-bed”—she flushed—“is sadly dusty.” She picked up the fallen book and put it back on the table; then she started to edge around him. “I’ll just go back to my room and put myself to rights.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you downstairs later?”

  “Yes, of course. In the blue drawing room before dinner. I imagine everyone will have arrived by then.”

  Damn. Whom had Mama invited for him? He—

  No, he would try to like at least one of Mama’s choices. He’d decided. He clenched his hands.

  He was still holding the red silk drawers, and Ellie was on the verge of escaping. “Ellie?”

  She paused, her weight on the balls of her feet, leaning toward the corridor and freedom. Clearly she wanted to be elsewhere. “Yes?” Even the tone of her voice, short and tight, said she wanted to leave.

  Wasn’t she at all happy to see him?

  He was being ridiculous now, like Mama. He’d seen Ellie at Twelfth Night, though now that he thought of it, he’d hardly spoken to her. She seemed to prefer Ash’s company.

  She hadn’t always. When she was a girl, she’d shadowed him—at least that’s what Ash and Jack always said. And she’d been such a good friend to him after Cicely and the baby died. God, he didn’t know what he would have done without her calm compassion. But for the past year or two, they’d hardly spoken.

  “Did you have a question, Lord Edward?”

  He hated it when she called him that. He held up the red silk. “Are these yours?”

  “Hiding from Mama and her guests?” Jack asked as Ned stepped into Ash’s study. Jack was sprawled in one of the big leather chairs, his leg thrown over its arm, a brandy glass clasped loosely in his fingers. A sling made of cloth to match his waistcoat was abandoned on his chest.

  “No more than you are. When did you get in?”

  “Just after you, apparently.”

  Ned frowned as he closed the door behind him. “At least you beat the snow—and shouldn’t you be wearing that sling?” It was just like Jack to be so careless.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “No, Lord Worry. The sawbones said I was good as new.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Jack had teased him with the dratted nickname since they were boys. “Your collarbone can’t be healed yet—you broke it just a fortnight ago, didn’t you, racing your damn curricle on the ice?”

  “Ah, but it turns out it wasn’t broken,” Ash said from his seat behind his desk, its surface littered with sketches as always. He reached for the decanter. “Brandy?”

  “Thanks.” Ned’s stomach was starting to twist again. He’d taken Breen’s powders and lain down, but it hadn’t helped. He’d kept thinking about Ellie and those red silk drawers.

  Ellie was so ... well, ordinary. Not in a bad way, of course. She was solid and respectable—not at all the kind of woman to wear red silk drawers.

  Except apparently she was.

  The thought was damn unsettling. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d pictured her with that red garment. Not wearing it, of course—that was beyond his imagination. Just holding it. But still, he hadn’t been able to get the notion out of his head. It was like seeing a hedgehog with a waistcoat—preposterous.

  Perhaps a little distilled medicine would settle his nerves. He glanced at the sketches on Ash’s desk as he took the proffered glass. “What’s this? Are you planning to build a castle?”

  Ash swept the drawings into a pile. “No, I was just keeping busy, waiting for Mama to drag me out to play host, though I’m fervently hoping Father returns in time to do the honors.”

  “I think you should build the thing,” Jack said. “It would make a splendid folly”—he shot Ash a look and then returned to contemplating his brandy—“or playhouse. Remember when we used to pretend to be King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable? This would make a perfect Camelot. You should put it on the island in the lake at Blackweith.”

  Damn. Blackweith was the estate where Jess lived. Was Jack trying to stir up a hornet’s nest?

  Apparently.

  “And speaking of Blackweith,” Jack said, “how’s Jess doing?”

  “Well,” Ash said, his face as impenetrable as the fortress he’d drawn, “according to Walker.”

  Ah, so Ash and his wife were still communicating only through the estate manager. Ned wasn’t surprised. As far as he knew, Ash hadn’t spoken one word to Jess since he’d left Blackweith on their wedding night.

  “You’ll have to do something about her soon, you know,” Jack said.

  “Jack!” Ned scowled at his younger brother.

  Jack shrugged. “It’s true. Neither of you is ever in London, so you don’t get all the questions—and those are from the more polite members of the ton. The rest just whisper among themselves, coming up with the most outrageous tales they can imagine—and they have very lurid imaginations.”

  “Bloody hell,” Ash muttered, his jaw flexing.

  Jack’s gaze held Ash’s. “Your odd marital arrangement has been the topic of gossip for years, Ash, but with you turning thirty, it’s literally taken over the betting books. Best odds are you’ll start some sort of formal separation proceedings in the next few months, but wagers are evenly split as to whether you’ll seek an annulment
or a divorce. The supposed grounds run the gamut from insanity to adultery to impotence and, er, worse.”

  Ash’s face had turned red during Jack’s speech. He looked very much like he wanted to hit someone. “Damn it all, my marriage is no one’s business but mine and Jess’s.”

  Ned hated to pile on, but Jack was right. Ash had to face facts. “You are the heir to a dukedom.”

  Jack nodded. “People are curious, especially since no one has seen you or Jess in Town for ages. And of course all the idiots that come to this annual festivity are quick to report there’s never any sign of your wife.” He jiggled his foot. “A number of ambitious London mamas have dared be so bold as to ask me if Jess died and no one thought to announce the fact.” He shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised Mama and Father haven’t been more ... emphatic about the situation.”

  Ash ran his hands through his hair. “Mama bites her tongue most of the time, though she’s taken to throwing me more of those sad, worried looks of hers. Father, however, is becoming more and more pointed in his comments. It’s not been pleasant here of late.” Ash let out a long breath. “And if what you say is true ...” He rubbed his face, suddenly looking years older. “You’re both right. It’s time to resolve the situation. Once this blasted party is over, I’ll go to Blackweith.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help,” Ned said, “you need only say the word.”

  Jack nodded. “You can count on me as well, I hope you know.”

  “Yes, thank you, but there’s nothing anyone else can do.”

  It was on the tip of Ned’s tongue to ask what exactly the problem was, but he swallowed the question—as, he was happy to see, did Jack. It was none of their business, after all. If Ash wanted them to know, he would tell them.

  “Hell, I need more brandy,” Ash said, filling his glass. “Anyone else?”

  They passed around the bottle. Getting drunk before meeting Mama’s guests would not be a good plan, but one more glass would only make Ned more ... relaxed. He took a long swallow and then gestured at Jack. “So if your collarbone isn’t broken, why bother with the sling?”

  “It saves me from having to caper around ballrooms with feather-headed chits.” Jack grimaced. “I expect to make good use of it this visit. Mama’s invited Miss Isabelle Wharton.”

  Ned raised his brows. “Should I know the name?”

  “Jack tells me she’s notorious in Town,” Ash said, sounding much relieved to no longer be the conversation’s focus.

  “At least among the men,” Jack said. “She is twenty-four and desperate. Her two younger sisters have already preceded her to the altar. I’ve been dodging her for months, and now Mama brings her here.” He dropped his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I’m doomed.”

  Jack had always been somewhat dramatic.

  Ned took another swallow of brandy and steeled his nerves. “And who has Mama invited for me, do you know?”

  Jack turned his head to look at him and then looked back at the ceiling. “Ask Ash.”

  Ned glanced at Ash; he was staring into his brandy as if he’d never seen the amber liquid before.

  “That bad, eh?”

  Ash coughed and looked at Jack. Neither said a word.

  “Come on, out with it.”

  Ash cleared his throat. “I believe Mama has Lady Juliet Ramsbottom in mind for you.”

  “Yes?” Ned waited; more silence. His stomach, which the brandy had pleasantly warmed, knotted again. “I am as unacquainted with Lady Juliet as I am with Miss Wharton. Is she dreadful, too?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Jack took a sip of his brandy. “I’ve heard a rumor or two that she has a temper, but she’s always very well mannered—almost meek—at society events.”

  “And ... ?” He’d decided to keep an open mind about Mama’s choice this year, but if Jack and Ash had reservations. . . “Is she walleyed or hunchbacked? Brainless or brash? Does she look like—”

  “She looks like Cicely,” Jack said, his voice flat.

  “Ah.” Oh, God. Ned’s stomach heaved, but he clenched his teeth and ignored it. “What was Mama thinking?”

  “I’m sure she wasn’t thinking to replace Cicely,” Ash said quickly. “We all know no one can do that.”

  “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 w
oman 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.