BEDDING LORD NED
Sally MacKenzie
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2321-0
ISBN-10: 1-4201-2321-1
Publisher: Zebra Books
Release Date: June 2012
Pleasure is in her future...
Ellie Bowman is determined: during this year’s Valentine house party, she
will choose one of the men the matchmaking Duchess of Greycliffe--aka
the Duchess of Love--has invited for her. Unfortunately, that man will not
be Lord Ned, the duchess’s second son. Ned is still mourning his wife and
will never see “trusty” Ellie as anything other than a childhood friend.
Now if only she could convince her heart of what her head already knows--and
persuade the duchess’s thieving cat to stop stealing her red silk drawers
and depositing them in Ned’s bed. Lord Ned arrives at
Greycliffe Castle vowing to finally cooperate with his mother’s matchmaking
efforts. He’s been a widower for four years; it’s time to put his past
behind him. He wants a family; he needs an heir. Ergo, he must get a
wife--and this year’s candidate even looks like his lost love. But his old
friend Ellie is behaving strangely, and Reggie, Mama’s cat, keeps bringing
him a pair of shocking red underwear. This outrageous, alluring scrap of
silk couldn’t be Ellie’s, could it? Suddenly his respectable old friend is
invading his dreams in an utterly scandalous manner.
A man’s pride needs careful handling.
--Venus’s Love Notes
CHAPTER 1
Miss Eleanor Bowman stood in the Duchess
of Love’s pink guest bedroom and stared at the scrap of red silk spilling
out of her valise, her heart stuttering in horror. That wasn’t--
Her brows snapped down. Of course it
wasn’t. She was letting her imagination run away with her. The red fabric
was merely her Norwich shawl. She distinctly remembered packing it, as she
did every year. It was far too fine to wear to darn socks or mind her
sisters’ children, but it was just the thing for the duchess’s annual
Valentine party. It was her one nod to fashion, the small bit of elegance
she still allowed herself.
She snatched the red silk up again, shook
it out--and dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake.
Damn it, it wasn’t her shawl. It
was those cursed red drawers.
She closed her eyes as the familiar wave
of self-loathing crashed over her. She’d made these and a matching red
dress to wear to Lord Edward’s betrothal ball five years ago, desperately
hoping Ned would see her--really see her--and realize it was she he wanted
to marry, not her best friend, Cicely Headley. But Mama had seen her first,
when she’d come downstairs to get into the carriage, and had sent her
straight back to her room.
She glared down at the red cloth. Thank
God Mama had stopped her. If she’d gone to the ball in that dreadful dress,
everyone would know she wasn’t any better than a jezebel.
It was no surprise Ned had chosen
Cicely. She’d been everything Ellie wasn’t: small, blonde,
blue-eyed--beautiful--with a gentle disposition. And then when Cicely and
the baby had died in childbirth...
Ellie squeezed her eyes shut again, the
mingle-mangle of shame and yearning twisting her gut. She’d mourned with
everyone else--sincerely mourned--but she’d also hoped that Ned would turn
to her and their friendship would grow into something more.
It hadn’t.
She snapped her eyes open. Poor Cicely
had died four years ago; if Ned were ever going to propose he would have
done so by now. She’d faced that fact squarely when she’d turned twenty-six
last month. It was time to move on. She wanted babies, and dreams of Ned
wouldn’t give her those.
She picked up the drawers. She’d dispose
of this ridiculous reminder of--
“Ah, here you are, Ellie.”
“Ack!” She jumped and spun around.
Ned’s mother, the Duchess of Love--or, more properly, the Duchess of
Greycliffe--stood in the doorway, looking at her with warm brown eyes so
like Ned’s.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry.” Her grace’s smile
collapsed into a frown. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ellie took a deep breath and hoped the
duchess couldn’t see her heart banging around in her chest. “You didn’t
s-startle me.” If she looked calm, she’d be calm. She’d been practicing
that trick ever since her red silk disgrace.
And what was there to be anxious about
after all? The duchess’s house parties were always pleasant.
Ha! They were torture.
“I was going to look for you later.”
Ellie tried to smile.
“Then I’ve saved you the trouble.” The
duchess had an impish gleam in her eye. “I thought we might have a
comfortable coze before everyone else arrives.”
Ellie’s stomach clenched, and all her
carefully cultivated calm evaporated. There was no such thing as a
“comfortable coze” with the Duchess of Love. “That would be, ah”--deep
breath--“lovely.”
“Splendid! Come have a seat and I’ll
ring for tea.” Her grace grasped the tasseled bell-pull and paused, her
gaze dropping to Ellie’s hands. “But what have you there?”
“W-what?” Ellie glanced down. Oh,
blast. “Nothing.” She dropped the embarrassing silk undergarment on the
night table; it promptly slithered to the floor. Good, it would be less
noticeable there. “I was unpacking when you came in.”
The duchess frowned again. “Should I
come back later then?”
“No, of course not.” There was no point
in putting this interview off. The sooner she knew the woman’s plans, the
sooner she could plan evasive--
She clenched her teeth. No, not this
year.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.” Ellie moved away from the
incriminating red fabric.
“Excellent.” Her grace tugged on the
bell-pull and sat in the pink upholstered chair, her back to the puddle of
silk. “I told Mrs. Dalton to have Cook send up some of her special
macaroons. It will be a while until dinner, and we need to keep up our
strength, don’t we?”
“I’m afraid I’m not hungry.” Ellie would
almost rather dance on the castle’s parapets naked--or wearing only those
damn red drawers--than put anything in her mouth at the moment. She perched
on a chair across from Ned’s mother.
“Oh.” The duchess’s face fell.
“But, please, don’t let me keep you from
having something.” It was a wonder the woman stayed so slim; she had a
prodigious sweet tooth.
Her grace smiled hopefully. “Perhaps
you’ll feel hungrier when you see Cook’s macaroons.”
“Perhaps.” And perhaps pigs would fly.
Ellie cleared her throat. “You had something of a particular nature you
wished to discuss, your grace?”
“Yes.”
Damn.
No, good. Very good. Excellent.
The ton hadn’t christened Ned’s
mother the Duchess of Love for nothing; she’d been matchmaking for as long
as Ellie could remember, usually with great success. Ellie was one of her
few failures, but this year would be different. This year Ellie was
determined to cooperate.
“I was chatting with your mama the other
day,” the duchess was saying, her eyes rather too direct. “She’s quite
concerned about your future, you know.”
Ellie shifted on her chair. Of course
she knew--Mama never missed an opportunity to remind her that her future
looked very bleak indeed. She’d been going on and on about it while Ellie
packed, telling her how, if she allowed herself to dwindle into an old maid,
she’d be forced to rely on the charity of her younger sisters, forever
shuttled between their homes, always an aunt, never a mother.
Perhaps that’s why she’d brought those
damn drawers instead of her shawl; she’d been so distracted, she could
probably have packed the chamber pot and not noticed. “I believe Mama likes
to worry.”
The duchess laughed. “Well, that’s what
mothers do--worry--as I’m sure you’ll learn yourself someday.”
“Ah.” Ellie swallowed.
Her grace leaned forward to touch her
knee. “You do want to be a mother, don’t you?”
Ellie swallowed again. “Y-yes.” She
wanted children so badly she was giving up her dream of Ned--her ridiculous,
pointless, foolish dream. “Of course. Eventually.”
The duchess gave her a pointed look. “My
dear, you are twenty-six years old. Eventually is now.”
Ellie pressed her lips together. Very
true. Hadn’t she just reached the same conclusion?
“And to be a mother, you must first be a
wife.” Her grace sat back. “To be a wife, you need to attach some
gentleman’s--some eligible gentleman’s--regard. I believe you spent
a little too much time with Ash last year. That will never do.”
“I like Ash.” The Marquis of Ashton, the
duchess’s oldest son, was intelligent and witty...and safe.
“Of course you like Ash, dear, but I must
tell you more than one person remarked to me how often you were in his
company.”
Ellie narrowed her eyes. “What do you
mean?”
“Only that you appeared to be ignoring
all the other gentlemen.”
She’d been trying so hard to ignore
Ned--to hide how much she longed for him--that she hadn’t noticed the other
gentlemen. “Certainly you aren’t insinuating...no one thought...” She
shook her head. “Ash is married.”
The duchess sighed. “Yes, he is, at
least according to church and state.”
“And according to his heart.” Ellie met
the duchess’s gaze directly. “You mustn’t think he encouraged any kind of
impropriety. He still loves Jess; I’m sure they’ll reconcile.”
The duchess grunted. “I hope I live to
see it. But in any event, I don’t believe anyone truly thought there was
something of a romantic nature between you--”
“I should hope not!”
“However people are so small-minded, you
know, and they love to gossip, especially about Ash’s awkward situation.”
“I know.” Ellie hated how the
marriageable girls and their mamas clearly hoped Jess would magically vanish
and thus cease to be an impediment to Ash’s remarriage. Some had actually
said they doubted Jess existed. “It makes me so angry.”
Her grace waved Ellie’s anger away.
“Yes, well, Ash can take care of himself. What really matters is the fact
you were ignoring the other gentlemen, Ellie. It quite discourages
the poor dears.”
Ellie snorted.
Her grace gave her a speaking look. “I
assure you most men...well, I wouldn’t call them timid, precisely, but they
hate to be rejected. If you wish a gentleman to court you, you must give
him some encouragement--a smile, a look, something to let him know you would
welcome his attentions. You cannot be forever scowling and dodging.”
“I don’t scowl or dodge.”
The duchess’s brows rose. “No? What
about Mr. Bridgeton last year? I was certain you two would be extremely
compatible and made every effort to throw you together, but whenever I
looked to see how things were progressing, you were chatting with Ash, and
Mr. Bridgeton was crying on Miss Albert’s shoulder.”
Which one had been Mr. Bridgeton? The
sandy-haired man with the receding chin or the tall, thin fellow with the
enormous Adam’s apple? “There was no one crying on anyone’s shoulder.”
“Figuratively speaking, of course.” The
duchess shrugged. “I confess Miss Albert was my other choice for him. I do
usually have more than one match up my sleeve, you know, since I’ve found
young people can be somewhat unpredictable.” She smiled rather blandly.
“They married last summer, by the by, and are expecting an interesting event
this spring.”
Ellie felt a momentary twinge of envy.
Mr. Bridgeton--she was almost certain he was the sandy-haired one--had been
pleasant. His only fault was he hadn’t been Ned.
Well, whomever she ultimately married
wouldn’t be Ned, either. “Whom have you invited...I mean, have you invited
any gentlemen that I might...er, men who might...” Oh, blast, her face felt
as if it was as red as those damn silk drawers. “You know.”
Her grace beamed at her. “Of course I’ve
invited some gentlemen who might be suitable matches for you.”
Ellie willed herself to keep smiling. It
would get easier with time...it had to. She cleared her throat. Her mouth
was infernally dry. “Who?”
The duchess leaned forward. “First,
there’s Mr. Humphrey. He’s a little younger than you and very,
ah...earnest. He’s just inherited a small estate from his great aunt; rumor
has it he wishes to start his nursery immediately.”
“Ah.” Mr. Humphrey sounded terribly
dull...but dullness was fine. She wanted babies, not conversation. And he
apparently wanted babies, too. Excellent.
“And then there’s Mr. Cox. He’s one of
the Earl of Bollant’s brood, the fourth--or perhaps the fifth--son. He’s
very popular with the ladies and a trifle wild, but he’s shown some signs of
being ready to settle down. He’s to go into the church, so you could be
very helpful to him, your papa being a vicar.”
“I see.” Taking charge of some silly
sprig of the nobility was not especially appealing, but the man did have a
number of brothers. With luck he would be equally skilled at procreating,
though it would be nice to have a daughter or two as well.
The duchess was smiling at her, a rather
expectant look on her face. Did she want her to pick one right now?
“I...er, they both sound very...pleasant,
but...” Remember, she wanted children. “Well, I suppose I will have
to meet them.”
“Yes, indeed.” The duchess glanced at
the door. “Ah, here is Thomas with the tea tray.”
One of the footmen came in, a large
ginger cat, tail high in the air, strolling along behind him.
“Reggie!” Ned’s mother bent to scratch
her pet’s ears. “Did you come for a treat?”
Reggie meowed and butted his head against
her hand.
“Cook sent up Sir Reginald’s dish, your
grace,” Thomas said, putting down the tray.
“Excellent. Please give Cook my
thanks.”
“Very good, your grace.” Thomas bowed
and retreated while the duchess poured Reggie a generous saucer of cream and
put the dish on the floor.
Ellie kept one eye on the cat, lapping
delicately, as she prepared the tea. Reggie looked harmless, but he’d
caused quite a commotion last year, stealing feathers and other items from
the ladies--and at least one of the gentlemen--and hiding them under Ned’s
bed. He’d even snatched the stuffed pheasant from Lady Perford’s favorite
hat. Lady Perford had not been pleased.
“Has Reggie given up his thieving ways,
your grace?”
“I don’t know, as he hasn’t had another
opportunity to misbehave.” She snorted. “As you well know, Greycliffe
hates having any of the ton underfoot and grumbles from the moment
they arrive until the last one departs.”
It was true the duke rarely looked happy
during the Valentine house parties. “How does his grace bear your London
balls?” Ellie asked, handing the duchess a cup of tea. She used to read the
London gossip columns, but as she only ever saw Jack, the youngest of the
Valentine brothers, mentioned, she no longer bothered.
“With as much patience as he can muster
which is not very much, but since people expect dukes to be annoyingly
haughty, it just adds to his consequence.” Her eyes twinkled as she sipped
her tea. “And it makes people toady him all the more which infuriates him
further. No, once a month for four months a Season is the very limit of
what he can tolerate. And a ball is only one evening. This...” She shook
her head and sighed. “But it is my birthday as well as the boys’, and he
knows how important it is to me, so he grits his teeth and endures. You can
imagine how much he’s hoping Ned will remarry and Jack will wed soon so I
have no more need to have these gatherings.”
“Ah.” Ellie forced a smile. “Yes.” She
knew the main point of the damn party was to find Ned--and Jack, of
course--a suitable wife. “I can see that.”
The duchess glanced down at Reggie who
was now cleaning his paws. “Greycliffe is actually hoping Reggie pilfers
things again. He thought it made the gathering much more interesting.”
Interesting was one way to describe the
screaming and tears Lady Perford had treated them to upon finding her
mangled pheasant.
Ellie took a sustaining sip of tea. She
might as well know everything now; it would make it easier to appear
composed in company. “And whom have you invited for Jack”--she
swallowed--“and N-Ned?”
Damn, her voice cracked. Perhaps the
duchess hadn’t noticed.
And perhaps Reggie would leap upon the
tea table and sing an aria.
At least Ned’s mother didn’t comment
beyond a raised eyebrow. “I’d originally had Miss Prudence Merriweather in
mind for Jack,” she said, “however the girl eloped with Mr. Bamford three
weeks ago. Quite a shock to everyone, but of course I must take it as a
blessing. She clearly would not have done for Jack if she was in love with
another man.”
Her grace sent her a significant, if
obscure, look. Ellie took another sip of tea.
“I had to scramble a bit,” her grace
continued somewhat dryly, “but I found Miss Isabelle Wharton to take her
place. I’ve never actually met the girl, you understand, but my friend Lady
Altman says she is quite striking. I imagine Jack would appreciate a lovely
bride.” She shrugged slightly. “And if the match comes to nothing, well,
Jack is only your age. He has plenty of time.”
“Yes.” Twenty-six was young for a man;
it was firmly on the shelf for a woman.
“And as for Ned”--her grace shot Ellie
another indecipherable look--“I invited Lady Juliet Ramsbottom, the Duke of
Extley’s youngest daughter, with him in mind.”
A vise clamped around Ellie’s heart.
Stupid. A duke’s daughter was an excellent choice for a duke’s son. She
nodded and took a larger swallow of tea. If only there was some brandy at
hand to flavor it.
“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--especial 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.
* * * * *
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