Page 1 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

PROLOGUE

London, 1841

“ W e resemble a patch of faded hyacinth,” Celia drawled, eyes scanning the crowd. How she envied the glittering whirl of color flashing before her. She was relieved to no longer be wearing black, like some overly large crow, but gray and lavender had become unappealing as well. “I shall be glad when my mourning is finally over.”

“Mourning? Is that what you’re doing?” Minerva said from beside her, sharp features showing nothing but annoyance at the giggling young ladies swirling about. “You didn’t even like Percival Barnes.”

True. But at one time, Celia had felt some affection for her husband.

“I am mourning the loss of the years I spent sequestered.” She draped a hand over her throat. “At the mercy of the Barnes cousins while Percival enjoyed India.” She batted her eyes in the direction of a rather delicious looking gentleman who was observing her from the other side of the room. “Abandoning me to the dubious care of his brother, Lord Claremont.”

“I fear you are dramatic.” Her dear friend Eleanor, clad in a gown a shade paler than Celia’s more robust lavender, peered around Minerva. “Although I agree. Claremont is intolerable. Incredibly stuffy.”

“My point exactly. I barely escaped with my youth intact,” Celia drawled. “Opening Percival’s London house, moving out from under Claremont’s watchful eye, was something I should have done much sooner.” Not that Claremont would have allowed her to do so, but she should have insisted. “My appetite has vastly improved now that I no longer suffer his company over breakfast or the evening meal. I’ve lost track of the number of times he’s corrected my manners. Prig.”

“Celia…” Eleanor’s tone was soft. “I beg you, keep your voice down.” She glanced around the small alcove where the three of them stood. “You’ve already embarrassed our hostess once this evening, with your rather enthusiastic greeting for Lord Calvert. No need to press your luck any further.” Eleanor brushed her skirts. “I’m enjoying the dancing and don’t want to be tossed out.”

“I merely thanked him for the invitation tonight. Is it my fault his wife possesses a personality as poor as her teeth?”

“You’re quite terrible.” Her friend turned away, lips held tight to keep from laughing.

“She is.” Minerva’s mouth twitched. “Do not encourage our dear Mrs. Barnes.”

“Thank you for thinking me dear to you.” Celia inclined her chin. “I adore you both.”

Eleanor and Minerva, like Celia, were widows. Celia felt it a lovely coincidence to have found friends in much the same position as herself, though she doubted their deceased husbands would see it that way. And much like Celia, neither woman truly mourned.

“I am a social creature,” she declared firmly, discreetly adjusting her bodice. “One who has been trapped beneath the censure of the Barnes family. Now that I’m free of my husband’s relatives, I can breathe once more.”

“Good lord, but Eleanor is correct. The way you emote.” Minerva flicked her wrist. “Has Kemp been instructing you?”

Kemp was Celia’s butler. He’d once been an actor of little note.

“I have every reason to be in a celebratory mood. I am no longer Claremont’s prisoner.”

Minerva rolled her eyes. “I think prisoner a strong word.”

“First under my brother’s dubious care, then passed off to Percival and his family. Like being placed in a box no one ever cared to open. My natural exuberance has been stifled for years.”

“I consider myself fortunate Lord Hye did not possess an overbearing family,” Eleanor mused, turning up her dainty chin.

Tiny, petite in stature, Eleanor resembled a sprite, perhaps, or some other fairy. She even managed to look ethereal while wearing that terrible shade of lavender.

“Nor a long life. Do you even recall being wed to him, Eleanor?” Minerva dug a pointed elbow into the other woman’s side. “He perished rather quickly, though at least he made it to the altar, unlike your other suitors.”

“Of course I recall him,” Eleanor puffed. “Lord Hye was a decent sort. Not terribly handsome, I’ll grant you. Fairly ancient. But he did introduce me to marital relations before”—her fingers made a swishing motion— “his expiration,” she finally managed. “And I found it to be…mildly pleasant.”

“His demise or the marital relations?” Minerva made a chuffing sound.

“That is rather unkind,” Eleanor sniffed.

“Unkind is having to endure torturous groping and being slobbered over like some dog.”

Celia placed a hand on Minerva’s arm to stop what was likely to be a tirade against her loutish, brutal and very dead husband, Lord Glenville. Or males in general. According to Glenville’s female companions the evening of his demise, the earl had been enjoying himself with great enthusiasm until he’d merely stopped… thrusting . A cause of death had never been determined, though Glenville had been a heavyset man who had enjoyed his fair share of spirits, pastries, and roasted duck.

Oddly enough, Celia had caught Minerva perusing a book on poisons shortly before Glenville’s death.

“There was no slobbering involved.” A tiny frown wrinkled Eleanor’s brow. “I enjoyed the kissing portion. The rest was somewhat messy.” She made a face. “Unfortunate Hye didn’t survive. None of them do.”

Poor Eleanor.

All her previous suitors, of which there had been three before Hye, had met tragic ends before any marriage could take place. Her husband had survived the brief courtship but, alas, not the wedding night. The gossips had speculated that Eleanor was cursed long before her husband’s death. Now, no one doubted it.

“Bedding my dear departed husband was akin to being mauled by a mastiff,” Minerva said with more than a little venom. “Percival couldn’t have been any better.”

Celia gave a careless shrug. The circumstances surrounding her wedding night were rather humiliating: rejection, followed by abandonment. To India. Where Percival perished due to an opium addiction. The memory of her wedding night was one she’d never confided to her friends, nor would she.

“Now that I am out from under the heel of Percival’s family,” Celia said boldly, “I plan to attend as many balls as possible. No lavender. No more gunmetal or dove gray. I will dance to excess. Flirt excessively and indulge in champagne.”

“Champagne is the drink of the frivolous,” Minerva observed.

“Exactly,” Celia replied. “I can’t think of any better way to celebrate my freedom.” She had spent her entire twenty-three years of existence obeying the dictates of other people. “I no longer give a fig for the prudish rules of the Barnes family.”

“Yes, but perhaps you shouldn’t antagonize them.” Eleanor nibbled on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Several of the cousins are well-placed in government. And what about the duke? He will not take kindly to your disregard for his family.”

“What of him? I daresay I’m not important enough to merit the Duke of Hartwood’s attention. Claremont and the others can go hang as well.” She looked at her two friends. “You’ve no idea the suffocating restraint I’ve been forced to live under. Constantly criticized. Even before Percival’s death, I was rarely allowed to attend anything without Claremont’s approval. His concern was that as an unsophisticated country girl I would bring undue embarrassment to the Barnes name.”

Celia had grown up in the country, far from London, and had been inexperienced in the ways of society. But that didn’t merit, in her opinion, Claremont’s excessive chaperonage. Yes, her lack of experience had led her to make a handful of innocent mistakes, all of which had required hasty correction. But instead of guiding her, Claremont and his wife had deemed Celia to be little more than an errant child. Percival’s unwanted wife who must be taken in like a stray dog.

She can’t even curtsey properly. What was Percival thinking?

One of the kinder remarks the Barnes cousins had made about her during Percival’s continued absence.

I can bloody well curtsey now.

“Don’t look, but I think one of them is here.” Eleanor pointed to a staid gentleman with a tuft of white hair. “The Barnes nose gives him away.”

“Thomas Barnes. Home Office. Prig.” Celia waved a hand at the gentleman, who had once referred to her as unrefined and mannerless merely because she’d unintentionally chosen the incorrect fork to eat her pickled eel. He’d commented to Claremont that the cut of Celia’s bodice was inappropriate, though that hadn’t stopped him from leering at her from across the table.

Thomas Barnes deliberately turned away, pretending not to see her.

“I am merely playful. Friendly, if you will,” Celia stated, not at all bothered by the dismissal. “Flirtatious.” Percival had declared her to be vastly unappealing, so much so he couldn’t—well, she meant to prove him wrong. “I’ll wear what I wish. Speak to whom I choose. Dance all night if it suits me. Lord Claremont and his wife, as well as the rest of that family, are prudes to the very core of their beings. I can’t fathom how children were even produced from their union given such an attitude. The rest of the family is worse. Somber. Serious. Dreadfully dull. Not a vivacious bone in their bodies. Sticks stuck up their bums, the lot of them.”

Minerva nodded in agreement. “The Barnes family is known more for their devotion to Queen and country, not their sense of humor.”

“But the biggest stick”—Celia warmed to her topic—“likely the size of a large oak, is shoved firmly up the backside of the Duke of Hartwood.” She walked stiffly back and forth, arms taut at her sides, composing her features into a scowling mask.

“Stop this instant, Celia. He is a duke and deserving of your respect.” Eleanor held a hand over her mouth, trying not to burst into a fit of giggles.

“I’ve never met a more stone-faced individual,” Celia declared. “I imagine if Hartwood were to smile, his skin might crack. Just imagine the fortitude one must have to be comfortable with such a large stick. I suppose his valet assists in wedging it up his backside.”

Minerva opened her fan, hiding her face. “I beg you,” she snorted. “Stop.”

“You should have seen Hartwood at my wedding to Percival. Sitting in the front pew with a frown, the very personification of the Black Plague. He glared at me during the entire wedding breakfast and then, thankfully, departed before spoiling any more of the food.”

“Oh, Celia. Stop. I can hardly breathe.” Eleanor pressed a palm to her midsection, wiping a tear from her eye.

“But don’t worry, my friends. Should Hartwood venture to London, a dark cloud will hover about the city for days heralding his arrival. Frogs will fall from the sky. All amusement will flee this part of England. The entire Barnes family will begin praying for atonement.” She cocked her chin. “They all bow to his wishes, existing only to please him.”

“You cannot be serious,” Minerva said.

“I am. Hartwood dictates the move of every Barnes. One cannot use the privy without his approval.”

“Careful.” The laughter died in Minerva’s eyes. “You know better than anyone that the Barnes cousins are not known for their tolerance. If you cause the least amount of scandal, Claremont might summon that ogre of a duke. You are still angry over your poor treatment, and with good reason, but?—”

“Do not concern yourself,” Celia interrupted. Minerva didn’t know the half of it. “First, I am a widow, but one of little importance. Percival wasn’t at all notable. Secondly, as a widow, my life is my own. I have Percival’s house and an allowance for having suffered through marriage to him. Lastly, as I mentioned, I am so far beneath the duke’s notice as to be invisible. Besides, Hartwood rarely leaves his country estate. Now, not another word about the duke. The Dunwick ball is next week. Who is coming with me?”

“I’ll go.” Eleanor said. “Though I’ll be dressed in gray. Like a pigeon.”

Minerva sighed in resignation. She hated social events of any kind. “I suppose I must attend. If Celia is intent on starting a scandal, I want to be there for it.”

Celia clapped her hands. “Splendid.”

She had no intention of fading away quietly in some tiny seaside cottage. Or arranging her existence to suit the Barnes family. Life was meant to be lived. Mama had always said so.

And after years of having not been permitted to enjoy London, Celia had every intention of not wasting another moment.