Bedding Lord Ned (Duchess of Love 1) Page 5

  Ophelia smiled. “Oh, no. I was fortunate to stay nearby last night.”

  Probably in Percy’s bed.

  She put her hand on Percy’s arm. “I’d hate to miss the Duchess of Love’s annual party.”

  “Oh? I would be happy to miss it.” Ned would give anything to be back in his study at Linden Hall, a glass of brandy by his elbow, a good book in his hands, the fire crackling in the hearth.

  “What, Lord Edward,” Percy said, “don’t you like having us all here to celebrate your birthday?”

  “Not particularly.” And especially not you, you whoreson.

  Why did Ophelia waste her time with Percy? Her father, the Earl of Brambril, had been dodging duns for years, so one would think his daughter would look for a man with money, not a ne’er do well like his brother-in-law. Even though her reputation was decidedly soiled, her birth—the daughter of a penniless earl was still the daughter of an earl—would make her appealing to many men. She was still attractive, though age was beginning to make its mark. Ned didn’t remember seeing the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes last year.

  There was a stir at the drawing room door and Dalton stepped into the room. “The Countess of Heldon,” he announced. “Lady Juliet Ramsbottom; Mr. Harold Cox.”

  “Wonderful,” Mama said, dragging Father over to greet the newcomers. “Welcome to Greycliffe.”

  “How ... interesting that they arrived together,” Percy said.

  Ophelia frowned at him. “Oh, hush, Percy. They likely met in the hall when they came downstairs.”

  What the hell were they talking about? Not that it made any difference. Percy and Ophelia were always gabbing about some on dit that Ned couldn’t care less about. He never knew any of the subjects of their chatter.

  But this time was different—one of their subjects might become his future wife. At the moment, he could only see Lady Heldon and Cox. The woman must be Lady Heldon since she looked nothing like Cicely. She had dark hair and heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes; full lips, very red against her pale skin; and extremely large—

  He shifted his attention to Cox. The man was a typical London buck—coat, cravat, and pantaloons all the dernier cri, dark blond hair cut in the latest style. All he needed to complete the picture of a town beau was to observe them through his quizzing glass—which he did at that moment.

  Ned glanced down at Ellie to share the joke.

  She was staring at Cox with an extremely determined look. Damn. What was she thinking?

  “There’s Juliet,” Ophelia said.

  Ned looked back at the group—and felt as if he’d taken a direct hit to his chest. The rest of the room faded away, and all he could see was the exquisite, fairy-like woman smiling up at Mama. Cicely.

  All the pain and loss and love he’d felt for his wife—everything he’d thought he’d finally put behind him—flooded out of the dark place he’d forced them, bringing the prick of tears to the back of his eyes.

  This wasn’t Cicely. It wasn’t, but ...

  Even Percy sounded a bit awed. “It is amazing how much Lady Juliet looks like my poor sister, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 4

  Sometimes you need to be daring.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Thomas raised his brows as he removed Ellie’s untouched bowl of soup. She’d been to dinner at the castle often enough that the blasted footman knew Cook’s turtle soup was one of her favorites. She just had no appetite this evening.

  “Did you encounter any difficulties with the snow on your way down from London, Mr. Cox?” she asked, turning to the dinner partner on her right. Mr. Humphrey, on her left, was busy rescuing the last mouthful of soup before surrendering his bowl.

  “Hmm?” Mr. Cox was staring across the table at Lady Juliet.

  The woman was lovely. She was small and fine-boned with perfect features, silver blond hair, and large, long-lashed, deep blue eyes. She looked very much like Cicely, only perhaps prettier, and at the moment she was gazing at Ned as though he were a god.

  And he was looking at her as if she were the answer to his prayers.

  Damn.

  Ellie glanced at the duchess, sitting to Ned’s left. If her grace were Sir Reginald, she’d be purring.

  Ellie gritted her teeth. “Did the snow make your travel difficult?” she asked Mr. Cox again. She was clearly wasting her time with him—he was besotted with Lady Juliet. She should pursue Mr. Humphrey instead.

  Her stomach knotted.

  She reminded her stomach she was already twenty-six years old. She wanted children.

  Squinty-eyed little mole children?

  Ahh.

  No wonder she had no appetite.

  “Not at all.” Mr. Cox had finally managed to tear his eyes away from the object of his affections. He bent his lips into a polite smile that didn’t even begin to reach his eyes. “I rode down on horseback. I found the cold and snow rather ...”—he glanced back at Lady Juliet as if he couldn’t help himself—“appropriate.”

  “Yes, it is February, isn’t it? I suppose we should expect winter weather.”

  That profound observation did not require a reply; Mr. Cox merely nodded.

  She should definitely concentrate on Mr. Humphrey. There must be something appealing about him or he wouldn’t have been invited ... unless the duchess recognized Ellie was past her prayers and should be ecstatically grateful to wed any male willing to have her.

  Which Mr. Cox, no matter how physically attractive, wasn’t. Had her grace not been aware of the man’s feelings? He was looking back at Lady Juliet again.

  She must have been—the Duchess of Love was awake on all suits. Therefore, there must be some impediment keeping Lady Juliet and Mr. Cox from marrying, though if there was, it seemed rather cruel to dangle the unattainable under the man’s nose.

  Hmm, Lady Juliet was ignoring him; perhaps that was the problem—that she didn’t return his regard, a sadly common problem at this party. If so, Mr. Cox might be willing to take Ellie as his second choice. Not a very palatable thought, true, but then he was her second choice as well. And odds were his children would be vastly more attractive than Mr. Humphrey’s.

  “But snow is much pleasanter than rain and mud,” her grace said, turning her attention their way and reviving the weather topic. “Don’t you agree, sir? It’s so much prettier and far more entertaining. Ellie and I were just saying that earlier today, weren’t we, Ellie?”

  Oh dear, Ned’s mother had that mischievous gleam in her eyes again. “I believe you were saying so, your grace.”

  “Of course I was.” The duchess leaned closer and waggled her brows. “I ask you, sir, what could be better than slipping through the quiet snow with”—she transferred her gaze to Ellie—“a beautiful lady snug under a pile of furs?”

  Ellie was going to expire of mortification, falling nose first into the roast hare Thomas had just placed in front of her. One would think the Duchess of Love would have more finesse. At least Mr. Cox appeared to be taking the woman’s heavy-handed efforts in good spirit.

  “I can’t think of a thing, your grace.” His pleasant tone sounded as forced as his smile, but at least he was making an effort to be sociable.

  “Splendid.” The duchess beamed at him and then at Ellie. “We shall get our two horse-drawn sleighs out as soon as the snow has stopped. And we have sledges, too, for the intrepid among you, and a lovely sledding hill”—she turned toward her son—“isn’t that right, Ned?”

  Ned looked up—clearly with great reluctance—from his conversation with Lady Juliet. “Isn’t what right, Mama?”

  “That we have an excellent hill for sledding. You must remember how you and the other boys used to spend hours on the slope by the pond after a good snowfall.”

  “Yes, of course I remember, but—”

  “Ellie and Jess and Cicely would come, too,” Jack said from his seat on the other side of Lady Juliet. The duchess’s parties were always very informal; talking across the table was not
only tolerated, it was encouraged. “Cicely didn’t sled—she always moaned about the cold and went home early—but Ellie and Jess did. They were fearless.”

  “Fearless, Lord Jack?” Ellie smiled pleasantly—she hoped. She’d really prefer to pick up the hare’s leg from her plate and wing it at him. Since they were eating in one of the smaller dining rooms, she might be able to hit him. His announcing she’d been a complete hoyden in her youth wouldn’t help advance her marriage hopes—of course, her tossing food wouldn’t help, either. “I believe plaguy is what you called me.”

  “Of course I did. You kept trying to steal my sledge.”

  In her defense, she hadn’t had much choice—Papa didn’t think sledding was an appropriate activity for a girl, so she hadn’t had a sledge of her own. And of course he’d been right. She should have gone home with Cicely. Jess had been different—she hadn’t cared what anyone thought, and it had been clear for as long as Ellie could remember that Jess would marry Ash.

  “I just wanted to borrow it,” she said.

  “All the time.”

  “As I remember,” Ash said, “Ellie usually got the sledge when she wanted it.”

  “Only because she was bigger than I was then.” Jack nodded at the duke. “And because Father would have caned me if I’d rubbed her face in the snow as I’d wanted to.”

  “Indeed I would have.” The duke raised his brows. “As it was, I had to remind you on more than one occasion that a gentleman does not fight with a lady.”

  “I had no idea I was causing such difficulties.” Perhaps if she apologized, Jack would drop the subject. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be, my dear.” The duke smiled down the table at her. “I thought it good for Jack to learn at an early age how to deal with a strong-willed young woman. It’s a skill I’m certain has served him well.”

  The duchess laughed. “Very true.”

  “I don’t know, Father. I haven’t had any other female try to steal from me or hit me with a snowball.” Jack turned back to her. “I warn you, Ellie, that I throw much harder now, so beware if we get up a snowball fight during this party.”

  “Yes, indeed. Do take care, Miss Bowman.” Miss Wharton’s voice had an unfortunate nasal quality to it besides being overly loud. “Lord Jack boxes with Gentleman Jackson himself. He’s quite the Corinthian; everyone in London says so.”

  “I’m sure Ellie knows I wouldn’t actually pelt her with snowballs, Miss Wharton.” Jack’s words had a sharp edge, but it was impossible to tell if Miss Wharton noticed, as Mr. Humphrey chose that moment to open his verbal floodgates.

  “Miss Wharton, while I’m confident Miss Bowman appreciates your concern, I feel certain that she is fully aware, being much older and wiser today than she was when she was a child, that even if she once was so bold and reckless as to fling a snowball at Lord Jack, such an activity now that she is a grown—or may I even say a mature—woman is completely unsuitable not to say inadvisable.” His nose twitched as if to punctuate his speech, and he turned to Ellie. “Am I not correct, Miss Bowman?”

  Ellie drew in a breath. Mr. Humphrey was right by her side; the hare’s leg, still uneaten, was on her plate. She wouldn’t even have to throw it ...

  Bashing a potential suitor over the head with part of her dinner would not endear her to the man. Remember, she wanted children. “Er ...”

  “You are indeed right, sir,” Jack said, taking advantage of her momentary speechlessness. “Ellie’s turned into a proper stick-in-the-mud.”

  Jack, however, was not a potential suitor. If she couldn’t fling her food at him, perhaps she could pour a cup of tea over his head later.

  “Remember the time Ellie insisted on going over the jump you built, Ash?” Percy had decided to join the ridiculous conversation. Ellie glared at him; he flicked his eyes at her and then concentrated on Ash. “It must have taken fifteen minutes to dig her out of that snow bank.”

  Ash nodded. “I remember.”

  Jack laughed. “How could anyone forget? You screamed like a banshee, Ellie. You had snow in your mouth when we finally pulled you free.”

  “How ... brave of you, Miss Bowman.” Lady Juliet looked down at her plate in a pretty show of feminine meekness. “I’m sure I would be far too timid to attempt anything so frightening.”

  Mr. Cox made an odd noise, a cross between a laugh and a snort. He was looking at Lady Juliet with an oddly cynical expression.

  “As well you should be,” Ned said quickly. “Ellie is far more robust than you.” He threw her an inscrutable look. “But Mr. Humphrey is right; she wouldn’t do such a thing now that she is past girlhood.”

  “Aha! There’s a challenge if ever I heard one,” Jack said. “What say you, Ellie? Are you going to prove me and Ned wrong? I will even lend you my sledge to do so.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Bowman.” Lady Heldon’s voice was rich, deep for a woman, and vaguely scandalous—the sort of voice Eve must have used to persuade Adam to eat the apple in the Garden of Eden. “I quite look forward to watching you show the Valentine men—and the rest of us—how to go on, don’t you agree, Ophelia?”

  “Yes.” Lady Ophelia turned to the duke. “Please add your entreaty to ours, your grace.”

  “Oh, no. I hope I have more sense than to try to tell a grown woman how to behave.”

  “Exactly.” The duchess leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I shall race you, Ellie. I haven’t gone sledding in years.”

  Ellie almost choked on the bite of hare she’d foolishly tried to eat. Mr. Humphrey put up his hand as if to slap her solicitously on the back, but she shifted away from him.

  “Race her?” The duke’s eyebrows shot up. “You are not flying down a hill on a sledge, my dear duchess.”

  “Oh?” The duchess’s eyebrows went up as well. “Didn’t you just say you had more sense than to tell a grown woman what to do?”

  “Er, yes, but I wasn’t referring to you.” Clearly the duke saw trouble ahead, but he was a brave man with a strong will.

  The duchess’s eyebrows disappeared into her coiffure.

  “I merely wish you to remain safe, my dear. You are not as young as you once were.”

  The duchess’s chin hardened. “Neither am I dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  They looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then the duchess smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

  The duke grunted.

  “Anyone care to lay a wager?” Jack asked. “Who will win the great race of this year’s Valentine house party—the Duchess of Greycliffe or Miss Eleanor Bowman?”

  “Jack!” Ellie took a breath; shouting was no more appropriate for a respectable woman at the dinner table than flinging food. She turned to the duchess. “Your grace, I do not intend to go sledding.”

  “Oh, pooh, don’t be a spoil-sport, Ellie,” the duchess said. “I think it will be great fun.”

  Mr. Humphrey cleared his throat. Dash it, what was the man going to say now?

  “Far be it for me to presume to offer you guidance, your grace, but I will confess to being concerned for your safety; however, I know I need not worry as you are sure to be ruled by the duke’s judgment, just as Miss Bowman has been persuaded by, if I may say so, my superior male counsel.”

  Ellie’s jaw dropped as she swiveled her head to stare at the man. The entire table had gone silent.

  “What?” He looked around. “Did I say something untoward?”

  “Not if your goal is to have your head bitten off, chewed thoroughly, and spat out on your boots,” Jack said, never one to mince matters.

  “On second thought, your grace,” Ellie said, showing her teeth to Mr. Humphrey in what might have been a smile but wasn’t, “I believe I will join you on the sledding hill.”

  “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 shift
ed.

  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.”