Bedding Lord Ned

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Frankly, I hope to see you and Ned married this summer.”

  Ellie choked—and made the unpleasant discovery that it was possible to snort tea out one’s nose.

  “Oh, dear.” The duchess leapt up and slapped her on the back. “Are you all right?”

  Ellie, gasping, fished her handkerchief out of her pocket and waved her hand, trying to get the duchess to stop pounding on her. She would be fine if she could just catch her breath.

  Of course Ned’s mother hadn’t meant she hoped to see Ellie married to Ned, only that she hoped both their nuptials would happen this summer.

  The duchess pounded harder.

  “Please,” Ellie gasped, “don’t—”

  Through watery eyes, she watched Reggie abandon his ablutions and head toward ...

  “Ah, ah, ah.”

  “What are you trying to say, dear?” The duchess paused in her pummeling. If she happened to glance in the direction Ellie’s horrified eyes were staring, she’d see Reggie sniffing a pair of red silk drawers.

  Ellie sprang to her feet. Panic miraculously cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she croaked. “Wonderful. Fit as a fiddle.” She glanced over her shoulder. Now Reggie was batting at the drawers with one paw.

  She shifted her position to block the duchess’s view.

  “I shouldn’t tease you, I know,” her grace said. Her eyes dimmed and she sighed, shoulders drooping. She suddenly looked every one of her fifty years. “I’ve certainly learned harping on a subject doesn’t get results. If it did, my boys would all be happily married.”

  “I’m sure they will be, your grace.” Ellie impulsively laid her hand on the duchess’s arm. She hated to see her so blue-deviled. “Just give them time.”

  “Time.” The duchess bit her lip as if she’d like to say more on that head. She let out a short, sharp breath and shrugged, smiling a little. “It’s only ... well, I’m so happy with the duke. Is it wrong to want that happiness for my sons?”

  “Of course not, your grace, but your situation is rather extraordinary.” The duke and duchess had fallen in love at first sight when they were both very young. Even more unusual, they’d been happily married for over thirty years and, by all accounts, completely faithful to each other. There was probably not another couple like them in all the English nobility.

  Ellie glanced at Reggie again. Damn it. Now the drawers were over his head. If he got caught in them ...

  “I know,” her grace said. “When I look around the ton, I see so many unpleasant unions.” She shook her head. “Well, just consider Ash and Jess. They’ve been separated for eight years now.”

  Ellie wrenched her gaze away from Reggie’s activities. “I’m certain they will reconcile eventually.”

  “But when?” The duchess’s voice was tight with frustration. “Ash will be the duke; the duchy needs an heir, and neither he nor Jess is getting any younger.” She frowned. “And I want a grandchild or two before I’m completely in my dotage.”

  Damnation. Reggie was now coming their way, the silk drawers in his mouth. Ellie took the duchess’s arm and started to walk toward the door with her.

  “Ash—and Ned and Jack—can manage their own lives, your grace. You must know you’ve raised them well.”

  The duchess sighed. “And there’s nothing I can do about it anyway, is there?” She paused and glanced around. “Where has Reggie got to?”

  “Likely he finished his cream and left,” Ellie said. The blasted cat had just passed behind the duchess’s skirts and out the door. Where the hell was he going? Certainly not ... last year he had ... but he wouldn’t this year, would he? “Has Ned”—Ellie caught herself—“and Jack arrived yet?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t expect them for a while.”

  Ellie almost collapsed with relief. If Reggie was taking her undergarment to Ned’s room, she’d have time to get it back before anyone—especially Ned—found it. “I hope they reach the castle before the storm. Mrs. Dalton was just saying her rheumatism is acting up.”

  “Oh, dear. Mrs. Dalton’s rheumatism never lies.” The duchess stopped on the threshold and smiled, her good spirits returning. “Just think! You young people can go on sleigh rides.”

  “I’m hardly young.” At the moment she just wanted to chase down one misbehaving cat.

  “Oh, don’t be such a wet rag; you’ll freeze stiff in this weather.” The duchess laughed. “You can make snow angels, and I’m sure the men will get into a snowball battle.”

  “Everyone will be cold and wet.” Ellie did not want to play in the snow. Such activities were for children.

  “And there are ever so many games and things we can do inside.” Her grace clapped her hands. “You know, I have the greatest hope this will be a wonderful party.”

  “Er, yes.” Just wonderful, though perhaps snow would be better than rain or general February dreariness.

  The duchess patted her arm. “And I have great hopes for you as well, dear.” She stepped into the corridor. “I’ll expect you downstairs in the blue drawing room before dinner. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t.”

  Ellie watched the duchess walk down the passage—and the moment she turned the corner, she bolted for Ned’s room.

  Chapter 2

  A little dissembling is a good thing.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Damn, he was tired, and the blasted house party hadn’t even started. Lord Edward Valentine dropped his portmanteau in the entry to Greycliffe Castle and removed his hat.

  “Did you have a pleasant trip, my lord?” Dalton, the butler, asked as he shut the front door.

  “Tolerable. It looks like snow.” And he was getting a headache. He unwound his muffler.

  “That’s what Mrs. Dalton said this morning, my lord, when she woke with her rheumatism bothering her something fierce. Mark my words, she says, we are going to have a storm. I just hope all the guests arrive before the roads get bad.”

  “Er, yes. I do hope Mrs. Dalton is feeling more the thing.” Ned pulled off his gloves. He’d be delighted if a blizzard kept everyone away.

  Why Mama needed to turn their birthday into such a bloody event was beyond him. Wasn’t it enough of a curse that the Valentines had all been born on Valentine’s Day? And while Mama couldn’t do much about her given name—her papa, a man of the cloth, no less, had saddled her with Venus—she didn’t have to embrace the ton’s ridiculous nickname for her. But no, the Duchess of Love she was, hostess of monthly Love Balls during the Season and author of a damn scandal sheet, Venus’s Love Notes. The family was a blasted joke, dredged up whenever things got dull in the gentlemen’s clubs.

  There was a reason he rarely went to Town.

  “Oh, never fear, my lord,” Dalton said in a disgustingly cheerful tone. “A twinge of rheumatism and a threat of snow aren’t enough to keep my Mrs. Dalton down. No, indeed. She was up with the larks, bustling about and seeing that all is in readiness.”

  Damn it all, Ned’s head was beginning to pound in earnest. He’d go upstairs directly and take some of the powders his man, Breen, had packed before he’d rushed off to attend his ailing mother in Bath.

  “Ned!”

  Oh, God, speaking of mothers ... He looked up to see his mama at the top of the stairs, her smile almost blinding. She would want to talk. He did not feel like chatting when he had a headache coming on. “Hallo, Mama.”

  She hurried down the steps and threw her arms around him so enthusiastically he was forced to take a step back to save his balance. “Ned! I’m so glad you got here safely.”

  He returned her hug, not that he had any choice. Did she have to be so blasted demonstrative? “Of course I got here safely. Linden Hall is not so far away.”

  “No, but I am sure it is going to snow, and the roads will be treacherous.” She studied his face. “It is so good to see you.”

  “You just saw me at Twelfth Night.” He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Dalton. “Less than a month ago. I’ve not c
hanged.”

  She continued to examine him, a small frown forming between her brows. He forced himself not to look away. Was she searching for the boy he’d been? She must know that part of him had died with Cicely.

  “You need to smile more,” she said at last, linking her arm through his.

  He grunted. He’d nothing to smile about.

  “Will you have one of the footmen bring Lord Edward’s things up to his room, Mr. Dalton?” Mama asked.

  “Of course, your grace.”

  “Mama ...” Ned stopped Dalton with a look. He’d prefer to take his things up himself.

  “I’d offer you tea”—Mama started to lead him away from the entry—“but I’m sure you’d rather have brandy.”

  “Mama ...” The ache had spread across his forehead. Brandy was not what he needed at the moment.

  “Your father’s out visiting tenants—some problem with a drainage ditch, I believe. Ash would have gone, but Greycliffe insisted he needed to attend to the matter himself.” Mama snorted. “He wanted to avoid the guests as long as possible, of course. They should be arriving shortly, especially if the weather is turning bad. The only person here so far is Ellie Bowman, though being a neighbor and almost family, she hardly counts.” Mama smiled broadly as if something amused her. “Ash is hiding in his study.”

  “Mama.” Ned dug in his heels. “Thank you, but I wish to go up to my room now.”

  She stopped and looked at him again. Her expression of mild annoyance turned quickly to concern. “Oh, you have one of your headaches, don’t you?”

  Zeus, he hated to be fussed over. “I’m sure I’ll be better shortly.” He held out his hand for his portmanteau, and Dalton gave it to him. The butler had better sense than to argue with him.

  Mama patted his arm. “Then you must go to your room to rest”—did a vaguely cunning look flit over her features?—“immediately.”

  Devil take it, what plot did she have afoot now?

  “If Sir Reginald’s there,” Mama said, almost pushing him toward the stairs, “just shoo him out.”

  “Reggie? Why would he—oh, don’t tell me he’s up to his old tricks again. But you said the guests hadn’t arrived yet.” Ned frowned. “Has he started taking things from the servants?”

  Mama shrugged. “I have no idea what Reggie’s about. He may not even be in your room, though you are his favorite. I just thought I saw him—from the corner of my eye, you understand—head in that direction when I was upstairs a moment ago. Now go on.” She made a little motion with her hands as if she were shooing him.

  Wonderful. He was loved by a thieving cat. “If I find any purloined items, I’ll bring them to you. And from now on I intend to keep my door firmly closed.”

  “You know that won’t keep Sir Reginald out.”

  That was unfortunately all too true. Closed doors, closed drawers, closed cabinets—if Reggie wanted something, he was going to get it. “I think the servants help him.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” Mama patted his arm again. “Go rest and we’ll see you in the blue drawing room before dinner. If you feel better sooner, I’m sure Ash would welcome you in his study.”

  “When does Jack get in?”

  “Who knows?” Mama sighed. “Jack will come when he feels like it, though I do hope he arrives before the snow.”

  “I’m sure he will. Jack may be careless, but he’s not stupid.” He hoped.

  Ned started up the stairs. He could hardly wait to get to the solitude of his room. If only he could spend the entire house party there ...

  But he couldn’t. He’d vowed this year not to let anger and pain rule him any longer. Cicely and the baby had been gone four years. It was time to cooperate with Mama and find a new wife.

  He paused on the steps, waiting for the familiar sense of loss to steal his breath.

  It didn’t.

  Damn. He gripped the banister more tightly and squeezed his eyes shut. His head throbbed. He was losing even the memory of Cicely. Some days he actually had to look at the miniature of her he kept in his pocket to recall her features. Even that terrible moment when her life had drained from her face, their son wax-colored on the bed next to her, strangled by the umbilical cord, had lost its clarity.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  His head jerked up. And how in blazes could he forget Mama had eyes and ears everywhere? He glanced over his shoulder. She was no longer in the entry hall, thank God, and Dalton was gone as well. There were no servants in sight. He was safe for the moment.

  He started back up the steps. Perhaps he should be thankful his memories were dimming. Life went on, so he must, too. He still needed an heir—ergo, he needed a wife. It was simple logic, a procreative fact. Love wasn’t a required part of the equation.

  He’d been lucky to have found love once. Many men—especially men of the ton—never found it.

  He blew out a long breath. So this year he’d marry one of the women Mama had invited for him. She was the damn Duchess of Love after all; she’d been making matches for years, even back before she’d married Father, if Aunt Aphrodite was to be believed. One of the females at this gathering must be tolerable.

  And once he had a wife, if he put his mind—and another organ—to it, he could have an heir on the way before year’s end.

  He reached the top of the staircase and turned toward his room, rubbing his forehead. This was going to be a crushing headache. It must be the change in the weather—and riding for hours in the bitter cold hadn’t helped.

  Damn it, now his stomach was churning as well; he’d be lucky if he could eat anything at dinner. He pressed harder against his forehead. He’d take the bloody powders and lay down for a while; perhaps if he did, he’d stave off the worst of the nausea.

  God, he hated feeling like an invalid, but—

  “Come here, you spawn of Satan.”

  He stopped dead in the corridor. What the hell? That had come from his rooms. A woman’s voice with diction too educated to be a maid’s ... but Mama had said none of the guests had yet arrived. Who could this be—and what the blazes was she doing in his chambers?

  No matter, he would send her on her way immediately. Sooner than immediately, if he could.

  He lengthened his stride. He was almost at the doorway when he heard an ominous thud as if something heavy had hit the floor, followed by a muttered curse and the hiss of an angry cat.

  At least now he knew what had caused her to trespass. Reggie. Perhaps the blasted animal was stealing plumes again. Well, his intruder could take Sir Reginald and whatever plunder he’d accumulated with her when she departed, which would be in about three seconds.

  He stepped through the open door. The noise was coming from his bedchamber. He crossed the sitting room, drawing breath to tell the woman in no uncertain terms to leave at once.

  He paused on the bedroom’s threshold, his jaw dropping. A female posterior, draped in gray poplin, waggled at him from the near side of his bed. A very attractive posterior—not large, but not too small, and nicely rounded.

  His headache abated. Apparently lust was almost as effective a medicine as Breen’s powders.

  “Give me that, Reggie.” The woman’s words were slightly muffled by his mattress. There appeared to be quite a battle being waged underneath his bed.

  Reggie hissed and must have dodged her.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She twisted, backing up. Her skirt, caught under her knees, drew tight, outlining her lovely arse in even more detail.

  She had a very, very attractive bottom.

  His headache was completely gone.

  He should say something. It wasn’t proper to be observing her when she thought she was alone. He should—

  “Oh, damn it.” She jerked on her skirt, freeing it and exposing two elegant ankles and a pair of very shapely calves.

  Hell, his head wasn’t the part of his anatomy aching now.

  “Aha! I’ve got you.” She lunged under his bed, almost dis
appearing entirely. “Ouch!”

  Reggie shot out the other side, scrambled up the bedstead, and ran across the coverlet. He had something red in his mouth.

  “Reggie!” the woman shouted. “I’m going to skin you alive.”

  Reggie seemed not the least bit concerned. He caught sight of Ned and trotted over to drop his prize at Ned’s feet.

  “What have we here?” Ned stooped to pick it up. Red, silk—he shook the fabric out—drawers?

  “Aaiieee!”

  His head shot up as Reggie wisely darted out of the room. A woman—Good God, it was Ellie Bowman!—rushed at him, her eyes on the red cloth in his hands. Her brown hair, normally restrained primly under a lace cap, had escaped its pins and curled wildly around her face and over her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gleamed with ... panic?

  He stood quickly. Did she intend to tackle him?

  She almost did. She tripped over a book—likely the thing he’d heard hit the floor when he was in the corridor—and fell heavily against him. He grabbed her around the waist as her momentum carried them backward.

  “Oof!” He came up hard against the wall, Ellie plastered to his front. She was not a featherweight.

  Hmm. No, she wasn’t. She was soft and round in all the right places. And she smelled fresh and clean and lemony. Her hair tickled his chin, brushed over his hands.

  A wisp of desire curled in his gut, and his cock reacted with enthusiasm. He tangled his fingers in her curls, bent his head ...

  Bloody hell, was he mad?

  He snapped his head back. This was Ellie. Cicely’s friend. His friend. He couldn’t ... she wouldn’t ...

  He tried to jerk his hips back, but they were trapped against the wall. At least horror was causing his male organ to return to more appropriate proportions. “Are”—he cleared his throat—“are you all right?”

  She blinked at him, her eyes oddly unfocused. Her lips curved up in a damn siren’s smile, and his idiot cock stirred with interest again.