Bedding Lord Ned

by Sally MacKenzie

  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 al
l 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.

  “—but I must say you’ve given me reason to hope—”

  “Sir, we’ve just met!”

  “—that you will make me the happiest of—”

  “Mr. Humphrey!” He was like a runaway horse.

  “—men”—Mr. Humphrey smiled—“shortly.”

  She must remember she couldn’t afford to be choosy. She wanted children; her window of opportunity was fast closing. Mr. Humphrey was willing and male.

  And she wasn’t that desperate. She hadn’t even met Mr. Cox. “Mr. Humphrey, you presume too much.”

  “Ah, yes, I know. It’s early days yet.” He winked one of his squinty, little eyes at her. “As long as we understand each other.”

  “We do not understand each other!” Ellie took a deep breath. She must remember she did not want to burn any bridges. Mr. Cox might be worse. “I mean it is indeed early days—far too early for me—or either of us—to have formed an opinion about ... anything.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He gave her a very odd look which in another man she might describe as a leer. “I like what I see. And you?”

  “Me?”

  He pulled on his waistcoat again. “Do you like what you see?”

  “Ah. Er. Well.”

  “Speechless, eh?”

  She nodded. It seemed the only response.

  “I often have that effect on women.” Mr. Humphrey’s narrow lips twisted into a self-satisfied smirk.

  “And what effect would that be?” Ned said from behind her.

  Ellie spun around, catching her heel in her skirt. She would have fallen if Ned’s hand hadn’t shot out to grasp her elbow, steadying her.

  She shook off his hold immediately; she couldn’t risk falling under his spell again. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people that way, Lord Edward.”

  He gave her a puzzled, almost hurt, look, but his face hardened when he shifted his attention to Mr. Humphrey. “Is this man annoying you, Ellie?”

  Oh, dear, his voice had that edge to it. Even as a boy, he’d fly to defend whomever he believed to be the injured party in a confrontation. If he thought Mr. Humphrey had insulted her, he could make things very unpleasant.

  Lovely. That would be all they needed—Ned and the mole getting into a drawing room brawl, though given the vast difference in their size and strength, the battle wouldn’t last long.

  “Of course not. This is Mr. Humphrey, Ned. He has just inherited an estate in Devon.” She turned back to the mole. “Mr. Humphrey; Lord Edward.”

  “So why isn’t he in Devon?” Ned said, looking at the mole as if the man was indeed a member of the vermin class.

  Mr. Humphrey’s face turned an unpleasant shade of white, and his small eyes grew as wide as they could behind his spectacles. His Adam’s apple bobbed spasmodically.

  “Because your mother invited him to the house party, of course,” Ellie hissed. “And I’m sure she expects you to make him feel welcome.”

  “Not if he’s insulting you.”

  “He’s not insulting me.”

  Mr. Humphrey finally found his voice. “Of course I am not insulting Miss Bowman, Lord Edward. On the contrary, I was about to”—Oh, God, the man could not mean to tell Ned he was going to—“offer her the honor of being my—”

  Ellie trod as hard as she could on Mr. Humphrey’s foot.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.” She refused to look at Ned. “I can’t believe I was so clumsy.”

  Mr. Humphrey smiled, though his expression looked a bit forced. “Quite all right, my dear.” She could feel Ned bristle at the “my dear.” “No harm done. As I was saying—”

  Thank God the duchess came back then; she’d sent the duke, a large glass of Madeira in hand, off to join the party by the fire. “Ned, I see you’ve met Mr. Humphrey.”

  “Yes.” Ned sounded rather surly.

  His mother beamed at him. “Splendid. Then if you’ll excuse us, I should make Mr. Humphrey known to the others.” She took the mole by the arm. “This way, sir.”

  Mr. Humphrey was no match for the duchess; he meekly allowed himself to be led away.

  The moment the fellow was out of earshot—not that Ned gave a damn whether Humphrey heard him or not—Ned turned to Ellie. “That idiot wasn’t proposing to you, was he?”

  Ellie flushed. “N-no.”

  “But he’s going to, isn’t he?”

  Ellie wouldn’t meet his eye. “Perhaps.”

  “Good God, he just met you.”

  She glanced up at his face and then quickly away. “Maybe he was taken with my great beauty.”

  He heard the sarcasm in her tone and opened his mouth to continue the joke, but something about the way she was holding herself so stiffly stopped him.

  What was the matter? Cicely had been very sensitive—he’d learned to choose his words carefully with her—but this was Ellie. He and she had joked and teased about everything for years, like brother and sister. Ellie didn’t care about things like physical beauty. Just look at the dress she was wearing. It would be hard to find a plainer gown or one that hid her figure more completely. It had long, puffy sleeves and a neck up to her chin, for God’s sake.

  But then there were those red silk drawers ... Was she wearing them now?

  And had he lost his mind completely? Next thing he knew, he’d be imagining Ellie as an opera dancer or some such thing.

  “Here come Percy and Lady Ophelia,” Ellie said.

  “Oh, blast.” He turned to see his brother-in-law—short and wiry and as dark as Cicely had been light—and the fellow’s light o’love, Lady Ophelia Upton, headed their way. This was going to be infernally awkward. “Why does Mama invite them every year?”

  Ellie looked at him as if he were a halfwit. “Because Percy is Cicely’s brother and lives nearby, of course, and Ophelia is his”—she flushed slightly—“good friend.” She shrugged. “It’s not as if he wouldn’t notice if he was left off the guest list. He knows when your birthday is; he knows your mother always holds this house party; and his butler is the cousin of one of the Greycliffe footmen.”

  Ned grunted. All true, unfortunately.

  He’d never liked the fellow even when they were children—none of them had. Percy was Ash’s age and had always
been a sneak and a bully. But the man was Cicely’s brother, so once Ned had married, he’d tried to keep his opinions to himself—not always with success. Percy had been the root of his infrequent arguments with Cicely, arguments that always left her in tears and him feeling like the biggest brute in Christendom.

  And then the month after Cicely died, Percy wrote asking for money. He’d sent him some, because he was certain that’s what Cicely would have wanted. And then Percy wrote again and again, damn regularly these last few years. Finally, Ned had had enough. He’d sent him a check at Christmastime with notice it was the last farthing Percy would ever get from him. He’d burned every one of Percy’s letters since—and there had been many in the short time since the holiday—without bothering to open them.

  He didn’t expect his brother-in-law to be happy to see him. “Good evening, Lady Ophelia. Percy.”

  Ophelia smiled at him, but Percy didn’t.

  “Edward.” The word was encased in ice. Percy gave him his shoulder and smiled at Ellie—the annoying half-smile that always made Ned want to punch him in the teeth. “My dear, it’s been too long.”

  Ellie nodded to Ophelia. “You just saw me last week in the village, Percy, if you’ll remember. I was buying ribbon, and you were buying snuff.”

  Ned grinned. Ellie was too smart to be taken in by Percy—of course, she’d grown up with him, too. She knew how oily he was.

  “Must you always be so prosaic?” Percy said waspishly.

  “I suppose so. I certainly can’t see any reason to talk nonsense with you—nor can I imagine why you’d wish me to do so.”

  “It’s merely polite conversation, as you’d know if you’d ever been to London.”

  “And as you know, Percy, it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever go to Town, so I think I can save myself the worry of what might pass for polite talk there.”

  Ophelia frowned. “Surely you want to go to London some day, Ellie,” she said, “to see all the sights and attend the balls and parties.”

  Ellie shrugged. “I’ve found it best not to wish for what I can’t have.”