Bedding Lord Ned (6 page)

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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

BOOK: Bedding Lord Ned
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“You aren't actually going to sled, are you, Ellie?” Ned asked as he took a cup of tea from her. He glanced back at Lady Juliet sitting with Percy and Ophelia, and his heart shifted.
She was so like Cicely. He knew—his head knew—she wasn't Cicely, but his heart apparently didn't care. And did it really matter? She made him feel strong and protective again.
Mama thought she was a good match for him, and Mama was the Duchess of Love. He should rely on her judgment, especially as he actually wanted to do so for once.
If only Lady Juliet weren't so small ... but the accoucheur had told him Cicely's death hadn't been caused by her size, that even large women sometimes died in childbirth. Perhaps—
“Yes, I am going to sled.”
“What?” His attention snapped back to Ellie. Her face had the closed, sulky expression he hadn't seen since childhood. “Don't be ridiculous.”
Ellie's brows snapped down to meet over her nose.
All right, perhaps he'd been rather blunt, but, blast it, she
was
being ridiculous.
Ellie's chin was up now. “I really don't see what concern it is of yours, Lord Edward.”
He struggled to hold onto his temper. “It's my concern because I care about you, Ellie. You must know I think of you as the sister I never had.”
Ellie's eyes widened. She looked as if she might cast up her accounts all over his shoes.
He stepped back slightly.
“I am
not
your sister.”
“Good God, don't shout.” What the hell was the matter with her? Ellie was at heart a reasonable person; she must just be in an odd pet this evening. Perhaps it was an unfortunate time of the month. Cicely had sometimes acted a touch irrational when her courses were coming on.
He glanced around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, except Mama who smiled and waggled her fingers at him. Did she want him to get back to Lady Juliet? He would in just a moment. He looked forward to it. Lady Juliet wouldn't rip up at him like a harridan.
“And I certainly do not consider you my brother.”
That hurt. He'd thought they were close, closer than just good friends. In these last hellish years, she'd been his one constant, his calm port in the storm of grief and guilt raging within him.
He must remember that soon he would have a wife to confide in instead. “Sledding is for children, and you are no longer a child.”
“I'm glad you noticed.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but also a slight tremble as if she was holding back some stronger emotion. “But I believe I saw you and Jack—and even Ash—sledding at Christmastime, and you are older than I.”
She had. Jack had been the instigator that time as well, assisted by one—or two or three—too many glasses of brandy. They'd been sitting in Ash's study, watching the last few flakes meander lazily through the air, when Jack had got the notion they should take out the sledges for a run or two before dark.
Ned had resisted at first, and he'd complained all the way to the sledding hill, but once he was flying down the slope, the wind snatching his breath, the cold stinging his cheeks, his bad humor had shattered and fallen away. He'd felt alive again, as if his heart had not died with Cicely, but had only been encased in ice. That was when he'd begun to hope he might find the will to wed again. “That's different.”
“I don't see how.”
His head was beginning to throb again, damn it. “You're a female. Your skirts could get caught in the runners.”
“And so I'll end up inelegantly sprawled in the cold, wet snow. I'm hearty. I'll survive.”
And why the hell did he have a sudden vision of those skirts flying up to reveal a pair of red silk drawers?
He rubbed his forehead and pressed his temple, but that didn't help. “You could break your leg—or your neck.”
“And I could trip and fall into the fire walking over to the hearth or”—she waved her teacup at him—“scald myself right here before your eyes.”
She was being purposely obtuse. “What of your reputation? Lady Heldon and Ophelia will spread the tale far and wide.”
Her lips twisted in disdain. “My reputation can survive one little sledding adventure. Remember I've just turned twenty-six; I'm hardly a girl. And how shocking can it be? Your mother plans to join me.”
“Father will never allow it.”
Ellie raised one brow. “I think the duchess will do exactly as she wishes.”
Ellie was probably right. “Even so, my mother is married. She doesn't have to worry about giving suitors a disgust of her. You do.”
Two spots of red bloomed on Ellie's cheeks. “Oh?”
The sharpness of her voice made him pause, but only briefly. “Yes. If you wish to attach a man's regard, you must behave in a more circumspect manner.” He frowned. “That is, in your normal manner.”
Her teacup clinked into its saucer, and he flinched. “Careful. I believe Mama is rather fond of that pattern.”
She ignored him. “I wouldn't say my ‘normal' behavior has been very successful. In case it has slipped your notice, I'm still a spinster.”
He tried to rein in his temper, but he wasn't completely successful. “From what Mama has hinted to me, you could have been married several times over if you'd stopped hiding with Ash and encouraged the men she's invited to these blood—blasted parties for you.”
Her cheeks turned an even deeper red, almost as red as those red silk drawers ...
Was she wearing them now?
His gaze dropped to the relevant area of her person. But why would she wear such a scandalous bit of fabric under such a formless, matronly dress?
He snapped his eyes back up to her face. That was not his concern—and thinking about it made his head ache more.
“Then I suppose I'd best go further my acquaintance with Mr. Cox or Mr. Humphrey,” she said. “Please excuse me.”
She moved to step past him, but he touched her arm to stop her. “What's the matter, Ellie? You really aren't yourself this evening.”
She bit her lip, and then shook her head and looked away. “Or perhaps I finally am.”
She stepped around him. She didn't go over to Cox or Humphrey, but instead stopped to study the portrait of the first Duke of Greycliffe—a painting she'd seen countless times before.
What the blazes was wrong with her? Ned rubbed his forehead again. He felt all topsy-turvy, as if he'd landed in Bedlam.
He glanced over at Lady Juliet; she met his eye and smiled. At least some female was happy to spend time with him.
He would let Mama worry about Ellie.
Chapter 5
A pinch of jealousy thickens the broth.
—Venus's Love Notes
 
 
Could her situation get any worse? She'd vowed this year to accept the fact that Ned considered her merely a friend and not hope for more, but deep in her heart, no matter how much she tried to deny it, she
had
hoped. And now ...
Dear God, he thought of her as a
sister
.
Ellie's stomach tightened into a hard knot, and she felt lightheaded, as if she might swoon. She tried to take a deep breath. She needed to appear calm, placid—as Ned had said, she needed to behave in her normal manner, her mask firmly in place, especially after just having spoken with him. The duchess, for one, was certain to guess exactly what had overset her, and Ellie did not care to reveal her feelings any more than she already had.
She took another breath. She would be fine. She—
“Miss Bowman?”
“Eep!” She jumped. Mr. Cox was standing right beside her.
“Forgive me for startling you.” Mr. Cox's voice was grave, but his eyes twinkled. He inclined his head toward the painting. “Were you transfixed by this fellow's sartorial splendor?”
“What?” She looked at the portrait. The first Duke of Greycliffe—attired in an enormous lace ruff, a garish doublet, ballooning breeches, white clocked stockings, and high-heeled shoes with enormous pom-poms—glowered down at her. “N-no. I confess I wasn't looking at the painting at all.”
“That's good then. I was afraid you admired his elegance.” Mr. Cox grinned. “I can't say I'd care to have to rig myself out in such finery—especially the shoes.”
Ellie smiled back at him. He was the image of male perfection; any sensible woman would fall immediately in love with him.
Many sensible women had—though not, it would seem, Lady Juliet. And not, unfortunately, Ellie. No matter how attractive Mr. Cox was, her heart refused to beat faster at his attentions. He was not Ned.
Ned who was so unimpressed with her feeble charms that he viewed her as a sister, blast it.
“The shoes
are
remarkable.” Perhaps she just needed to try a little harder to find Mr. Cox appealing. “As you can see, the first duke was very fond of fashion. He reputedly cut a wide swath among the ladies of his time, leaving behind many broken hearts.”
Mr. Cox shook his head. “Amazing. He looks the veriest popinjay, doesn't he? But I confess we've got a similarly attired peer or two hanging on the walls at home.” He chuckled. “I imagine they would be equally horrified at my plain garb.”
He spread out his arms slightly as if asking Ellie to survey his attire, so she did—not that she hadn't already noted how well his coat and breeches fitted him. Unfortunately, her admiration was mostly academic.
Still, she did feel
some
admiration. He was certainly much more appealing than Mr. Humphrey. And if there was something keeping him and Lady Juliet apart, then he and Ellie might be able to rub along tolerably well—well enough to produce a few children.
She smiled, trying her best to flirt. “I think I could make some pom-poms for your shoes, if you like.”
“No, thank you.” He offered her his arm. “Will you take a turn around the room with me instead?”
In past years, she would have declined and hurried off to hide in conversation with Ash. She glanced over to where Ash stood with Jack, Miss Wharton, and Lady Heldon. He—and Jack as well—looked as if they would eagerly welcome her if she tried to join them. She should—
She should walk with Mr. Cox. As Ned had pointed out, she might be married now if she'd only cooperated with the duchess's past efforts. Married, and perhaps already a mother.
She wouldn't waste another minute. She placed her hand on Mr. Cox's sleeve. “I would be delighted to do so, sir. It is too bad it is so snowy out; the Greycliffe gardens are very pleasant, even in winter.”
And if they could stroll outside, she could get away from the duchess's far too interested gaze. Ned's mother was sitting with the duke, Miss Mosely—the mousy woman who'd been standing by Ash before dinner—and Mr. Humphrey, but she was smiling and nodding at Ellie, completely ignoring whatever Mr. Humphrey was holding forth about. In point of fact, Miss Mosely was the only one listening to the man—the duke was busy consulting his pocket watch, likely calculating how much longer he had to endure before the duchess would let him escape.
“I believe her grace mentioned your father is the vicar,” Mr. Cox said as they passed the scowling portrait of the second duke. “Did you grow up here?”
“Yes. This has been Papa's only living—he was one of the duke's school friends and came here as soon as he was ordained.”
This was her home—Greycliffe and the vicarage—the only home she'd ever known. If she married—
when
she married—she'd have to leave it all behind. She might never again see the duke, the duchess, Ash, Jack, Ned—
She wouldn't think of that. She forced herself to smile. “You will undoubtedly consider me the greatest rustic, sir, for I've never traveled beyond the parish boundaries.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not even to London?”
She shook her head. “No. Papa couldn't afford a Season, especially with four daughters to launch. The duchess offered to sponsor me, but I didn't want to be so beholden to her.”
That hadn't been her real reason. She hadn't cared to go husband hunting in London because the husband she'd wanted was here at Greycliffe—or Linden Hall once Ned attained his majority and the duke gave him that unentailed property.
She'd always wanted to see Linden Hall, but there'd been no reason to do so. If Cicely had lived, she could have visited ...
Perhaps that would not have been a good notion.
Mr. Cox's right eyebrow rose higher. “That was exceedingly generous of her.”
It had been, but the duke and duchess
were
generous. “Why are you surprised? Papa and the duke are friends—Mama and the duchess as well.”
They paused under the gloomy gaze of the third duke. She looked up at the man's pursed lips and flaring nostrils— she'd often teased Ned about how dyspeptic his ancestors appeared.
“I'm just not used to peers thinking of anyone but themselves,” Mr. Cox said.
“Oh?” Ellie looked back at him; his attention had wandered to Lady Juliet who was sitting with Percy, Ophelia, and Ned—though it looked as if all
her
attention was on Ned. She laughed very prettily at something he said, and it felt like a knife twisted in Ellie's gut. She wrenched her eyes back to Mr. Cox—he was still observing Lady Juliet.
“The duke and duchess are the only peers I know,” she said, “and the duke didn't expect to inherit—the title was thrust on him when he was thirteen—so I suppose he might have a different attitude than someone born and raised to his position.”
Ned must be serious about Lady Juliet if he was willing to subject himself to Percy's company a moment more than absolutely necessary. And his expression when he looked at her—intent yet tender—was exactly the one he'd always had when he'd looked at Cicely.
Ellie's stomach sank so low she risked tripping on it.
“Peers, in my experience, can be quite unreasonable.” Mr. Cox managed to return his attention to Ellie. “The title tends to go to their head. But I shouldn't be surprised the duke and duchess are different. It was clear at dinner that they consider you almost a daughter.”
“Yes.” Ellie had always been happy about that—she'd equated daughter with daughter-in-law in her private thoughts—but now that she knew Ned looked on her as a sister, the idea was far less appealing. “I was often underfoot. As you must have gathered, we all played together as children.”
He stopped in front of a sketch of the castle with the gardens in bloom—it was one of Ash's—and pulled out his quizzing glass to examine it. “So you know Lord Ashton, Lord Edward, and Lord Jack well.”
“I suppose so”—
like brothers, damn it
—“though Ash is the only one who lives here now. Lord Jack is mostly in London, and Lord Edward has his own estate.”
Mr. Cox nodded and put his quizzing glass back in his pocket. “Ashton and Lord Edward never come to Town, do they?”
“No, neither of them cares for London.”
“Perhaps they went more frequently when they were married?”
Ellie frowned at Mr. Cox. “Ash
is
married.”
“Yes, well, I meant when they were with their wives—did they make a practice of taking their ladies to Town?”
Why was Mr. Cox interested in this topic? Ash and Jess had separated the day they wed, but if Mr. Cox didn't know that, Ellie wasn't about to tell him. And Cicely had been with child by the time she and Ned came home from their honeymoon. “No, but I don't believe Jess or Cicely cared about going to London. They never talked about wanting to visit Town when we were growing up.”
“They didn't dream about their Seasons?”
“I think they were quite content to be here in the country.” Which is exactly where she wouldn't be once she wed. Well, she might be in the country, but not this part of it. She would have to leave to go to her husband's house and live among strangers. A whisper of panic brushed down her spine.
But there would be children—her children. She must focus on that.
“Tell me about your home, sir.” If she knew a few details, perhaps she could persuade herself that moving would be an adventure.
“I don't really have a home, Miss Bowman. I have bachelor's lodgings in Town, but as the fifth son I am very much on my own.”
“The duchess said you were to enter the Church.”
Mr. Cox smiled, but his eyes were decidedly bleak. “That's certainly what my mother wishes. I wanted to enlist in the army, but my father refused to buy me my colors, and now that Boney's no longer a threat ...” He shrugged. “Perhaps I
will
join the clergy.”
“You shouldn't do so if you can't like the idea.” It was not her place to say anything, of course, but Ellie had listened too many times to Papa complain about disinterested clergymen to keep silent.
“I have to do something, Miss Bowman. I'm not a wealthy man.” He hesitated, and then said, his voice a bit harsh, “I'll confess to you that I am very interested in steam locomotives, but some people feel any involvement in such enterprises stinks of trade.” He looked at Lady Juliet again—
Good heavens, Lady Juliet was glaring at
her
. And Ned was frowning at her as well. What on earth was the matter with them? She hadn't exchanged two words with Lady Juliet, and she'd been doing exactly what Ned had suggested, behaving in a perfectly unobjectionable manner with a possible suitor. She frowned back at Ned. “Many things are changing in today's world, Mr. Cox.”
“May I have your attention, please?” the duchess said, clapping her hands. She'd joined the group with Ash and Jack, leaving the duke, trying unsuccessfully to hide his yawns, with Mr. Humphrey and Miss Mosely. “Miss Wharton has offered to sing for us, and as I'm sure there must be others of you who are willing to do so as well, we are going to adjourn to the music room.”
The duke leapt to his feet to escort his wife—and escape Mr. Humphrey and Miss Mosely.
Ellie would prefer to adjourn to her bedchamber and pull the coverlet over her head, but it was too early for that, and, much as she wished otherwise, she had a potential husband to charm. She smiled and let Mr. Cox lead her into the music room. Hopefully, Miss Wharton's singing voice was better than her speaking voice.
 
 
Ned sat next to Jack and watched Miss Wharton ready herself to perform. She'd tried to get Jack to accompany her on the pianoforte, but he'd hidden behind his sling—and then grabbed Ash and Ned to guard his flanks the moment she went to the front of the room. The woman would have to sit elsewhere when she finished.
He switched his attention to Cox, also up in the front of the room. The man was too damn pretty and polished, and he was sitting far too close to Ellie, just about whispering in her ear. He'd been paying her marked attention in the drawing room as well, taking her apart from the others. What was he up to?
He'd best not be trifling with Ellie's affections. If Cox thought no one here was looking out for her interests, he was very much mistaken. Ned's fingers curled into fists. How he'd like to feel his knuckles collide with Cox's nose, crunching bone and flesh, sending blood dripping over the reprobate's snowy white cravat ...
Jack elbowed him in his side. “Stop growling.”

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