Bedding Lord Ned (23 page)

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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

BOOK: Bedding Lord Ned
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He frowned. “Terrified, of course. And, yes, angry.”
“Exactly. And I'll wager you wouldn't have felt either of those emotions if it had been Percy who'd leapt to the rescue.”
Drew shrugged and looked away. “Perhaps not.”
“Of course not. And I can also assure you that once you got me to safety, you'd have castigated me in exactly the way Ned did Ellie.”
“I'd be annoyed with anyone who'd taken such an unnecessary risk.”
“Yes, annoyed—not furious. Ned was so angry he had to go back to the house by himself.”
“But certainly Ned has been angry with Ellie before. I don't see why a little temper this year should be so significant.”
“It wasn't a little temper, it was a towering rage.” Drew was arguing so hard because he wanted what she was saying to be true, of course. “And I told you—this year's different because they are both finally ready to know their hearts.” Venus giggled. “Especially Ned. I can't wait until he sees the new ball gown Mary's made for Ellie.”
 
 
The very first thing Ellie did when she got back to her room that evening was push the wooden desk chair up against the tall mahogany wardrobe, climb onto the seat, stretch up on her toes, and feel around for—
“Aiee!”
She screamed and reared back as her searching fingers encountered fur instead of silk.
Oh, blast, she was going to go crashing to the floor. She teetered on the chair, desperately trying to regain her balance, but it was hopeless. Fortunately, the bed wasn't far behind her; it slowed her progress, but she still landed hard on the carpet. She was going to have a very sore rump in the morning.
“Reggie!”
Reggie peered down at her from the top of the wardrobe, Ellie's red silk drawers dangling from his mouth.
“Damn it, how did you know I'd hidden those up there?”
Reggie didn't answer. He jumped lightly down to the desktop and from there to the floor. Then he came over to drop the drawers in her lap.
He rubbed against her side, and she stroked his back. “You are
so
maddening, you know, but I suppose I do need to thank you for rescuing these from Percy.”
Reggie graciously allowed her to scratch his ears.
Ellie shifted so she could lean back against the bed. “What do you make of this party, Reggie? It certainly is more ... well, I wouldn't call it exciting, exactly. Interesting, perhaps.”
Reggie did not dispute her assessment.
“I didn't know where to look at dinner tonight. Mr. Cox glared at Ned and Lady Juliet throughout the entire meal.” She paused, picturing the table again. “If you wish to know the truth, I believe Mr. Cox was inebriated. He must have had five glasses of wine at dinner, and he'd already had a glass or two of Madeira in the drawing room—and likely some brandy before he'd even come downstairs.”
Reggie turned over so she could rub his belly. He clearly was not interested in Mr. Cox's intemperance.
Ellie ran her fingers back and forth over his soft fur. Dinner had been bad enough, but afterward in the drawing room, when Lady Juliet had—
“Merrow!”
Reggie's tail swished, and he caught her with his claws.
“Ouch!” She snatched her hand back. What was the matter with the blasted cat? All she'd been doing was—
Oh, yes. Perhaps she
had
been a little rough. “Sorry, Reggie.” She smoothed his fur more gently. “It's just that Lady Juliet made me so angry. She virtually admitted she planned to cuckold Ned with Mr. Cox. Can you imagine that?”
Reggie yawned.
Well, he
was
a tomcat. Perhaps he didn't find the notion so upsetting. But she did, and she should have said so. It was no excuse that shock had stolen her voice; she should have shaken it off and told Lady Juliet exactly what she thought. Certainly she should have expressed her outrage to Ned when the woman had run out of the room.
But she hadn't. She'd been a voiceless little worm, a mute milk-and-water miss—the woman she'd turned into when Ned had married Cicely.
Reggie gave a warning growl, and she gentled her hand again.
“I'm trying not to be a quiet, meek, old spinster any longer, Reggie. I want to be strong and determined like I was at the pond this afternoon.” There she'd taken action instead of standing around wringing her hands, waiting for someone else to do something.
She stroked Reggie's ears. As it turned out, it had not been the smartest thing she'd ever done. She could have ended up cold and wet—or worse. She'd been very lucky Ned had been at hand to rescue her.
But she was still proud of herself. And if she found herself the social equivalent of cold and wet—or dead—by no longer pretending to be someone she wasn't, that was a risk she was willing to take.
She stroked Reggie's side and felt him rumble with satisfaction. Life was so much easier for a cat.
She had two more days before the house party was over and Ned went back to Linden Hall. He couldn't still be thinking of marrying Lady Juliet—he must see that would be a terrible mistake—but if he'd decided it was time to remarry, he would be looking around for another candidate. He didn't have to wait for next year's party; by next year he could be wed and perhaps a father. There must be suitable women near Linden Hall, or he could even go up to London and shop the Marriage Mart.
If she wanted him, she would have to come up with a way to get his attention and persuade him to consider her matrimonial attributes ... whatever they might be.
Reggie stood up and stretched. He eyed her drawers.
“Oh, no you don't.” She snatched them behind her back—and then sat on them for good measure. “You are not taking these back to Ned.”
Reggie growled a bit and batted at her derriere, but she held firm—or, rather, sat firm.
“I mean it, Reggie. Go on.” She gave him a gentle push. “You're not getting them from me.”
Reggie hissed.
“That's not very gentlemanly, sir.” She pushed him again. “You are the Duchess of Love's cat. You must live up to her grace's high expectations.” Though Ned's mother likely only expected a high degree of meddling from Reggie, and he lived up to that and then some.
Reggie paced back and forth staring at her rump; she crossed her arms and stared back at him. Finally he gave up and ran behind the wardrobe.
“I'm not going to have you hide back there, Reggie,” she called after him, keeping her hindquarters planted firmly on the floor, “and then snatch my drawers when I'm not looking.”
Reggie did not reply.
“Reggie!”
Still no answer.
“Here, I'll let you out.” She clutched the red drawers and got to her feet, wincing a bit as she straightened. Her poor posterior. She hoped it wasn't all black and blue in the morning, not that anyone would see it. But she would feel it.
She hobbled over to the door and opened it wide enough for a cat to exit. “Come on, Reggie.”
Silence.
“Reggie!” She glanced up and down the corridor. Fortunately, no one was around to hear her arguing with the duchess's cat. “Will you come along now?”
She might as well be talking to herself, damn it.
She left the door ajar and limped back to the wardrobe. At least the moving around seemed to be helping her rump recover. “Reggie, I'm going to drag you out of there if you don't come willingly right this instant.”
Nothing, not even a hiss of annoyance at being spoken to in such a rude fashion. Oh, well. She'd hear plenty of hissing and complaining when she hauled him out from behind the wardrobe, assuming she could reach him, of course.
She stuffed the red silk drawers into her bodice; she wouldn't put it past Reggie to distract her with a scuffle and then dart off with her undergarment in his teeth. Hmm ... should she don her gloves? No. Reggie might be annoyed when she evicted him, but she felt certain he wouldn't so far forget himself as to do her any real damage.
She grabbed her candlestick and took a deep breath to prepare for battle. “All right, Reggie, don't say I didn't warn you.”
She peered behind the wardrobe, candle held high to illuminate the shadows.
Nothing.
She rubbed her eyes and looked again—still nothing.
“Reggie, where are you?” She bent closer. There was only about a cat's width of space between the back of the wardrobe and the wall, and there was no cat there. Reggie had vanished. Damn. He must have darted out the other side when she was opening the door.
She looked under the bed and behind every other piece of furniture. Then she went back to the wardrobe and stuck her candle into the gap, moving it up and down.
Aha! There, close to the floor, was a cat-sized hole in the wall.
She jumped back, almost extinguishing the candle. Had something—rats came immediately to mind—chewed that opening? But she'd never seen rats in the castle.
She carefully touched the edge of the hole with her fingertip. It was smooth—obviously man, not rat, made.
Did this mean there was some kind of elaborate cat pathway in the castle walls? She looked around the room. Ugh. But at least that explained how Reggie managed to move through the house so freely.
And how was she to keep her red drawers out of Reggie's hot little mouth?
Ned had suggested the only solution. She put on her nightgown and slipped the red silk up over her sore derriere before climbing into bed.
 
 
Ned came back to his room very late and very drunk, carrying a bottle of brandy.
“Oops.” He bumped against a table, sending the copy of
Some Useful Thoughts on Estate Management
he'd been reading tumbling to the floor. It was a large tome; it made a large noise.
“Mer-
row
!”
“S-so sorry, Reggie. Did I disturb your s-slumbers?” He squinted, closing one eye and then the other. There appeared to be two Reggies on his bed. “Invited a friend in, did you? Never s-say I interrupted a romantic tryst.”
Neither Reggie admitted anything.
“Oh, well.” He put the bottle carefully on his desk. “I'm frightfully d-drunk, you know.”
He didn't usually drink to excess, but he'd made an exception tonight. He felt he'd earned it. He'd smiled after Cox's and Lady Juliet's appalling performance in the drawing room; he'd smiled through hand after hand of whist even as Miss Mosely, his partner, bungled every damn trick; he'd smiled as Jack made idiotic jokes about his bad luck and Miss Wharton, Jack's partner, crowed over their wins. He'd even smiled under Mama's near constant scrutiny.
“You know, Reggie,” he said, draining the last drop of brandy from his glass. “I'm damned tired of smiling.”
Reggie yawned.
At least once he'd retreated to Ash's study he could stop. Ash and Jack bloody well hadn't expected him to smile. They hadn't even expected him to talk. They'd just kept his brandy glass filled.
“I've got the best of brothers, Reggie,” he said, uncorking the decanter. His glass might be empty, but the bottle wasn't. “Remind me of that when next I'm ranting about them, will you?”
Reggie began cleaning his hind leg.
Ned concentrated on pouring the brandy. Getting the liquid into the glass was surprisingly difficult, but he managed to do it without spilling too much. Then he straddled the desk chair, crossed his arms on its back, and sighed. “You must be as unlucky in love as I am, Reggie. I see your friend has left.”
Reggie ignored him.
“You d-do know Lady J-Juliet prefers that b-bounder Cox to me, don't you?”
That registered. Reggie paused in his ablutions long enough to send Ned a look—commiserating or derisive, he couldn't tell.
“The thing of it is I don't mind. Oh, I'll admit it's taken me d-down a peg. I s-suppose I always thought once I found a female I was willing to offer for, she'd fall at my feet.” He took another swallow of brandy. “Do you ever feel that way?”
Reggie moved on to his other back leg.
“Well, you're a cat, of course. I s-suppose it's d-different for you. No parson's mousetrap for you to step into.”
Reggie's ears twitched at the word “mouse.”
“But I need a wife if I want an heir. And I do, Reggie. I want an heir and a spare and a few d-daughters, too, if I can get them.” He sniffed. The brandy was making him maudlin. “Hell, maybe it's just as well. Lady Juliet is small like Cicely was. Maybe she'd have trouble in childbirth, too.”

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