Bedding Lord Ned

by Sally MacKenzie

  Reggie’s reflection appeared by her feet.

  “What do you think, Reggie? Do you recognize me?”

  Reggie stretched, looking as bored as only a cat can.

  Ellie laughed. “That’s put me in my place, hasn’t it? I’ll just slip on these lovely gloves and—oh.” She dropped one.

  Before she could even begin to bend down to get it, Reggie snatched it up in his mouth and darted out the door.

  She ran after him. “Reggie, blast it. Where are you—”

  He was going to Ned’s room, of course. She saw him disappear through Ned’s door.

  Damn.

  She looked at the one glove still in her hand. She couldn’t go downstairs with only one glove, and her old gloves would never do.

  She glanced up and down the corridor. Deserted. If she hurried, no one need know. But what if Ned came up?

  The duchess wasn’t even ready yet. Surely Ned would still be downstairs. It would only take her a moment to fetch her glove.

  She bit her lip. She had no choice. She had to get that glove.

  She dashed down the passageway and slipped through Ned’s door. There was no point in looking in the sitting room—she knew exactly where she’d find Reggie.

  He was waiting for her; she’d swear he was smiling around the glove still dangling in his jaws.

  “Reggie, give me that.”

  He didn’t, of course. He disappeared under the bed.

  She paused. She hated to disarrange her hair or get her beautiful new dress dusty, but once again, she had no choice. She would just have to go back to her room to try to repair the damage once she’d recovered her belonging.

  She carefully raised her skirt so she wasn’t kneeling on it and got down on the floor. “Reggie, I swear you’re going to pay for this.” She crawled partway under the bed.

  That was when she heard the door to the corridor close.

  Chapter 19

  Seduction is a skill anyone can learn.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Ned shut the door to his rooms and leaned against it for a moment. Zeus, he wished he could just stay here and skip dinner and the bloody ball. His head was pounding, and the brandy he’d just consumed with Ash in Ash’s study wasn’t helping as he’d hoped—it just made him muzzy-headed and morose.

  He jerked off his coat and waistcoat. He’d drunk more brandy during this blasted party than he had in the whole year previous. He’d swear off the damn stuff when he went home—alone—to Linden Hall.

  He ripped off his cravat and walked over to look out the window. The light was flat; dusk was coming on. The landscape looked colorless and cold.

  His stomach twisted when he saw a carriage, the first of many, roll slowly up the drive. The guests invited for dinner would come and then, later, those attending only the ball. Shortly the castle would be crawling with people.

  He looked longingly at his door again. If only he could lock it and barricade it, but if he didn’t appear in the drawing room when it was time to greet Mama’s guests, Mama would send someone up to haul him downstairs. He’d best just accept his fate and get ready.

  He sat down to wrestle off his boots—and wrestle with the question that had been bedeviling him since the damn billiards game.

  Was Jack right—was he a coward?

  He tugged off his socks and flung them at the settee. Blast it, there wasn’t much satisfaction in tossing something so light. They fluttered more than flew and landed limply and soundlessly. His boots now ... but that would skate perilously close to a temper tantrum. He had more control than that, he hoped.

  He stood and pulled his shirt over his head. At least Ash hadn’t tried to lecture him—he’d just passed the brandy bottle. Ash had far more experience than Jack with love and the pain it caused.

  But Jack had accused him of cowardice.

  He blew out a long, angry breath. All right, so he was a coward. He’d admit it. The thought of loving someone again, of suffering through all the worry and heartache once more, turned his blood to ice.

  He opened his fall and jerked down his pantaloons, kicking them off so he stood in only his drawers.

  But Jack was wrong about one thing: Ellie didn’t love him. Jack hadn’t been there to hear her when she’d rejected him and to see the brandy splash over his face and cravat.

  However, it was also true Ned didn’t love Miss Wharton.

  He sighed. It was a good thing his family had conspired to keep him from proposing to the woman today. That would not have been fair to her. He may have decided to avoid love, but she likely had not. She might not expect it; she might be willing to forgo it to avoid marrying the neighbor; but chances were she still hoped for it.

  There was no rush. He would talk to Mama and see if she planned to take Miss Wharton under her wing. Surely the Duchess of Love could find her a better match, but if not, he could propose to her once the Season was over. A few months wouldn’t make that much difference. He—

  He frowned. Had he heard a noise in his bedroom? Oh, God, not Reggie. That was all he needed. It would be infernally difficult to return the cat’s plunder with everyone getting ready for the ball and the new guests all over the castle.

  He strode into his bedroom. Just as he suspected, Reggie was sitting on his bed—on his pillow, no less—and he had something under him.

  “Damn it, Reggie, what have you got there?” He came closer. “At least it’s white—it can’t be Ellie’s drawers.”

  Did he hear an odd little whimper? He stared at Reggie who just blinked, catlike, back at him.

  It must have been his imagination. “So, are you going to give it to me easily, or will I need to fight you for it?”

  Reggie was willing to surrender his prize without a battle. He sat up and licked his paws, allowing Ned to pluck the object off the pillow. It was a long, white, lady’s glove. Even he could tell it was of very high quality. “Oh, damn, Reggie. I’ll wager one of Mama’s female guests is looking frantically for this right now.”

  Was that another whimper he heard? Reggie had now moved on to washing his flank; it seemed unlikely he would have made the sound.

  Ned rubbed his forehead. It was a good thing the house party was over tonight. Clearly, he was losing his precarious grip on reality. First thing in the morning, he’d leave for the blessed peace and quiet of Linden Hall. “Have you purloined anything else, Reggie?”

  Reggie abandoned his ablutions and grinned—not that cats could grin, of course, but it certainly looked like a grin to Ned. Then he jumped down and ran under the bed—only to come scooting back out, hissing.

  “What the hell do you have under there, Reggie?” Ned grabbed an unlit candlestick as a weapon and got down on his hands and knees to peer into the shadowy space. Two eyes peered back at him—eyes in a very familiar face. “Ellie? What are you doing under there?”

  “H-hiding.”

  “From whom?” The only person he could even begin to imagine threatening Ellie was Percy, but Percy wasn’t at the castle any longer.

  “From y-you.”

  “What? You’re hiding from me under my bed?” That made no sense at all. “Come out of there.”

  “No, that’s quite all right. I’ll just stay here until you leave.”

  Perhaps he wasn’t the only one headed to Bedlam. “Don’t be ridiculous; you can’t stay under my bed. Come along now.” He backed away to give Ellie room. Nothing happened. “I’ll drag you out, you know, if I have to.”

  He heard a small growl—he looked over his shoulder, but Reggie had gone, so the noise must have come from Ellie—and then he saw movement. A slim, elegant arm with a small, very red, puffed sleeve emerged followed by a lovely neck and back somewhat obscured by glossy, chestnut hair and a red skirt pulled tight to outline a narrow waist and flaring hips.

  “Ellie?” He’d never seen Ellie dressed this way. Where were the dull colors, long sleeves, and high necks?

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming. It’s not the easiest thing i
n the world, you know, to crawl out from under a bed with a ball gown on.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever tried it.” He would have laughed, but his mouth had suddenly gone dry. Now her skirt had ridden up to expose her shapely calf and ankle. He knew he shouldn’t stare, but his self-control had departed with Reggie.

  He stood as the last of her finally emerged. “Let me help you up,” he said, extending a hand.

  “Thank you.” She grasped his fingers and struggled to get up, tugging on her skirts to free her feet and then leaning heavily on the bed. When she was finally upright, she looked at him—

  “Eep!” Her free hand—the one in a long, white glove—flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes widened and her face flushed to match her dress.

  What the hell? He looked down ...

  Zeus, he’d forgotten he was almost naked. Worse, his drawers, the only scrap of fabric on his person, were completely insufficient to restrain his ardent admiration of Ellie’s new dress—they bulged alarmingly.

  He dropped her hand, lunged for his banyan hanging on the hook behind the door, and thrust his arms into its sleeves. He fumbled to close the clasps down the front—she was still staring at him.

  Well, he could return the favor; in fact, he felt quite unable to take his eyes off her.

  “Why are you in my room?” Damn, that sounded harsh, but he couldn’t help it. His mouth was still infernally dry.

  “Ah.” She was staring at his throat as if she’d never seen a man’s neck before. She probably hadn’t. Men’s necks were generally wrapped in cravats.

  He’d never seen her neck, either, since she chose to hide it with her dresses. He moistened his lips as his eyes traced the delicate line of her throat and collarbone. Was her skin as soft as it looked?

  “I-I, er ...” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—which made her bodice rise delightfully.

  He would never have guessed Ellie had such a slim but well-rounded figure. He’d very much like to see it in far more detail.

  No. He would not allow lust to cloud his mind. He searched for some self-control.

  Unfortunately, his body was too busy wallowing in desire after so many years of drought to care about self-control.

  “I mean,” Ellie said, her eyes still closed, “isn’t it obvious? Reggie stole my glove, and I came to get it back.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you were lurking under my bed.” The damn lust made him sound accusatory, even though that was the farthest thought from his mind.

  Hell, the only thought in his poor brain box was to lay Ellie down on his bed so conveniently situated behind her and make mad, passionate love to her.

  Please God, he had to keep his wits about him. He’d forsworn love, remember? Loving Ellie would bring him too much pain.

  And she didn’t love him.

  His eyes slid over her hair and neck and breasts. Had she actually said that in so many words? Ash and Jack both insisted she did love him.

  It made little difference. His body had cut all connection to his better judgment. Apparently standing virtually naked with a painfully aroused cock in a bedroom with a beautiful woman—with Ellie—did that to him. Try as he might, he could not douse the fire consuming him—only one action would accomplish that.

  Not that he had any intention of doing that tonight, of course. Much as he felt like an animal at the moment, he wasn’t truly a beast.

  Ellie opened her eyes to glare at him. “What, do you think I was planning on leaping out and ravishing you?”

  His cock jumped, and he thought he was going to explode. Could she see the need in his eyes? No, probably not. The light was behind him; his face was in shadow.

  Her eyes widened when she realized what she’d said, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Pity. He would like to be ravished by this new, very alluring Ellie.

  Her face was redder than her dress. “I-I was just startled when I heard your d-door close. I didn’t think, I just ...” She swallowed; he watched her throat flex. “It didn’t seem like it would be a good idea to be found in your room, though of course no one who knows us would think anything of it.” Her voice took on a slightly sharp, sad edge. “I mean I’m only Ellie, after all.”

  “Only Ellie?” He could hear the need in his voice.

  He should check the corridor to be certain no one was watching and then send her scurrying back to her room. Surely that was what a gentleman would do. He could talk to her later when they were both—well, when he—was properly dressed.

  “Yes.” She turned to snatch her glove off his bed. “And since I’ve now recovered what I came for, I will go back to my room to tidy up. My hair is falling down, and I’m sure I have covered this lovely new dress in dust.”

  Her hair was falling down; he wanted to pluck out her remaining pins and see how long it was. He wanted to run his fingers through it and bury his face in it.

  She stepped toward him, but he didn’t move.

  “You are blocking the door, Lord Edward.”

  He wouldn’t touch her, not yet. He was afraid if he did, he would lose the slim—very slim—hold he still had on his animal instincts. “Did you mean what you said in the library yesterday?”

  Panic flashed across her face, and then her chin tilted up. “About what?”

  “About not marrying me even if I were the last man on earth.”

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “I may have overstated the case somewhat.” She looked down at the glove in her hands—she was running it through her fingers over and over. “And I did mean to beg your pardon for”—she cleared her throat again—“for throwing brandy in your face. That was not well done at all. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I suspect you were furious at the coxcomb who’d made such a mull of his marriage proposal.” He shook his head. Even he couldn’t believe now how inept and, yes, insulting he’d been. “I should be the one begging pardon.”

  She bit her lip and glanced up at him. “Yes, well, let’s agree to forgive each other, shall we? Then we can return to our comfortable, old friendship.” She started to edge to one side as if she planned to dart around him.

  He couldn’t let her go now, not with so much left unresolved. He was to leave Greycliffe in the morning; he had to know if he had any chance with her. He put his hand out to touch her arm.

  She froze, eyes widening. She looked a bit like a frightened rabbit, but she didn’t try to pull away or shake off his hold—not that he was holding her. His fingers just lay lightly on her gloveless forearm, on her smooth, soft, warm skin.

  He couldn’t help himself. His fingers moved of their own volition up and down, never straying higher than her elbow—and then finally clasping her hand and bringing it to his lips. Desire burned in him like a fever. “I don’t want to go back to our old, comfortable friendship, Ellie,” he said before brushing her knuckles with his mouth.

  Ellie couldn’t breathe. The glove she’d been holding dropped from her fingers. She’d felt so many things in such a short time: panic, mortification, shock, and something else. Something dark and confusing.

  She’d meant to dash back to the safety of her room, but now ... The touch of Ned’s lips flashed like lightning down her arm to lodge in her heart—and an organ somewhat lower in her body. Heat radiated from both locations. She couldn’t move. “Y-you don’t?”

  “No.” His eyes, hot and intent, held hers.

  When she’d seen him look at Cicely back before they’d wed, she’d thought she’d seen yearning or even worship in his eyes, and she’d dreamt that one day he’d look at her that way. But this ... this was far more carnal. It made her uncomfortable, as if her skin was too tight and sensitive.

  Was this the way a man looked who was bent on seduction?

  She swallowed. “What do you want?”

  “You.” His eyes widened briefly as if the answer surprised him as much as it did her, and then his lips slid into a slow smile.

>   Definitely seduction. She could think of only one cause for this sudden change in attitude. “Because of my new dress?”

  Mama had said on more than one occasion that men were far more influenced by their senses than women. Ellie hadn’t believed her, but perhaps she should have.

  If she’d worn that other red dress to Ned’s and Cicely’s betrothal ball, would Ned have chosen her instead?

  No. There’d been far more to Ned’s love for Cicely than just physical attraction.

  Could there be more between her and Ned as well?

  “The dress is certainly very nice,” Ned was saying as he traced the line of her bodice, making her nipples tighten into shockingly hard peaks. “But it’s not the dress that I want.”

  But if she couldn’t have more—if she couldn’t have marriage and happily ever after—would she take seduction?

  Of course not! It was wrong. Sinful. Scandalous. Well-bred young ladies—or even old spinsters—didn’t participate in such, er, activities ... whatever they were.

  But she’d seen Ned’s broad chest and shoulders, his muscular arms. She knew they were there under his banyan. And she felt this hot, throbbing need.

  She’d just resigned herself to being a maiden aunt, so why not a maiden with some experience? No one need know besides Ned; surely he would keep her secret. And while there was a chance their encounter might result in a child—fear and yearning twisted into a tight knot in her heart—one time would not be so dangerous. It had taken her sisters many tries to become enceinte with their first children.

  This was Ned, the only man she’d ever loved. Shocking as it was to admit it, she wanted him so badly she was prepared to do anything to have him even just once.

  She’d spent years being a quiet, proper woman, and she had years ahead of her playing that same role. This was her one chance to be wildly improper and let her body rule her mind.

  Ned bent his head to whisper by her ear. “No, it’s not the dress I want, it’s the woman in the dress.”

  Her need exploded, and the odd, damp place between her legs throbbed to the beat of her heart. The room suddenly felt too warm. Ridiculous! It was February in Greycliffe Castle, for God’s sake. She’d wanted her shawl earlier when she’d been hiding under Ned’s bed, but now she wanted to shed her lovely dress and her stays and her chemise to be completely, wonderfully naked.