Page 10 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

9

O liver stepped out of Claremont’s box at the theater, Lady Helen dangling from his arm, Atherby trailing a step behind. Helen was garbed in shimmering green, ash-blonde hair caught up in ringlets with fresh flowers dotting her fair locks.

Green is not Helen’s color.

A ridiculous observation. He’d never given a fig before about the color of a lady’s gown. But in the last few weeks, Oliver had made note of several ladies wearing various shades of mint, emerald, sage, or chartreuse and had found them all wanting in some regard.

He let out a breath, grateful that the evening was at least partially over.

Oliver had no appreciation for the theater. His mother had found plays to be merely entertainment for the masses. She’d considered Shakespeare to be a half-wit who’d misused the English language. Also, if you were female and trod the boards, the duchess had deemed you to be a harlot. If you were male, you were a talentless gentleman and couldn’t earn your coin any other way. Acting took no skill, in the duchess’s opinion.

Thus, Oliver rarely came to Drury Lane. The patrons were disorderly. The performances sloppy. The velvet curtains flanking the stage were garishly crimson and uneven on one side.

He preferred the opera. Marginally.

During intermission, several of the Barnes cousins had descended upon Claremont’s box, nodding their heads in approval at Lady Helen. Nigel Barnes had even commented how much Helen reminded him of the previous Duchess of Hartwood.

It wasn’t nearly the compliment Nigel had thought it to be.

Atherby strutted about with his chest puffed out, as if Oliver were courting him and not his daughter.

Helen’s conversation skills seemed limited to thinly veiled attempts at ascertaining when he meant to offer for her. She would continue to wonder because Oliver hadn’t yet decided, and he wouldn’t be rushed. The only mildly interesting incident thus far had occurred when he’d caught sight of one of the Barnes cousins who was paying far too much attention to the very married Lady Ensfield while her husband, something of a drunkard, stumbled about.

A perfectly placid, acceptable evening.

Leading Helen down the stairs to his waiting carriage, he heard a throaty, sensual peal of laughter echo above the din of the crowd. A sound that had Oliver pausing on the steps, because a bolt of arousal curled immediately around his thighs with the force of a bullwhip.

Bloody hell.

A mix of copper, auburn, gold, and possibly orange sparkled at Oliver from the far corner of the main lobby, enhanced by a stunning gown the exact shade of dewy spring grass. Helen’s gown paled in comparison

Dear God. Could that woman not wear any other color?

Mrs. Celia Barnes. Thorn in his side. Embarrassment to his family. Unwelcome responsibility. Would have been better off as a courtesan.

Oliver’s cock, to his utter horror, grew stiff before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Atherby reached him, leaning closer, the fumes from the wine he’d been swilling all evening reaching Oliver’s nose. “I see Mrs. Barnes has Lord Chester in her clutches. I thought he had better taste. His wife must be rolling about in her grave.”

Oliver recalled Chester—or rather, his brother, Edward, who he’d unfortunately known at Eton. Terrible slob. Went about with jelly on his fingers a great deal of the time. He’d heard Chester’s wife had died.

Celia seemed attached to Lord Chester’s side, hooting gaily and rather loudly at whatever he related to her. The lights caught in her hair, making the strands glow like some bloody beacon. She would smell of lilies and warmth.

Oliver practically salivated at the sight of her.

He hadn’t seen Celia in several weeks. The Barnes name hadn’t once been in the gossip columns, and there was no other reason to seek her out. Oliver had foolishly convinced himself Celia finally understood her situation and wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

“You really must do something about Mrs. Barnes, Your Grace,” Atherby stated. “Just look at her.”

There were a great many things he wanted to do to Celia .

Oliver took in the graceful line of Celia’s neck, that smooth expanse of cream leading down to yet another scandalous neckline. He was unable to look away.

Shutting his eyes for a moment, mostly to blot out Atherby, Oliver forced himself to regain some semblance of composure. He had a near uncontrollable urge to hit something. Possibly Chester.

“I hope Chester doesn’t mind the gossip columns,” Atherby continued in his snide way. “He’s sure to find his way into them after tonight. An association of that sort”—he gave Oliver a weighted look—“is not beneficial for an earl.” Atherby’s lips grew taut. “Or a duke.”

Bold of Atherby to chastise Oliver, though he wasn’t incorrect. The Barnes cousins had not been reticent in their opinion of Percival’s widow. They’d flooded Oliver’s residence, his club—one cousin had even had the nerve to approach him in the park. The views on what should be done with Celia Barnes might have differed— one cousin had suggested selling her to a Russian prince —but all agreed that it was Oliver’s responsibility to fix the situation. Soon.

“Your opinion is noted, Atherby.” Oliver’s tone held a hint of warning even as his gaze drifted to Celia once more. He was unable to look away from that lustrous skin, the sheen of a freshwater pearl. The flame of her hair blazed at him.

I want to hear her laugh again.

Celia turned slightly, eyes widening at the sight of him. Alarm flashed briefly across her face before her chin tilted dangerously. The fingers of one hand fluttered in a wave before trailing down Chester’s arm, leaning into his side.

Atherby snorted. “Trollop.”

She was purposefully making a spectacle of herself. Maybe Celia would have Chester bed her, right here in the lobby of the theater for all of London to see. Her mockery of Oliver and the Barnes family was on full display this evening.

“Excuse me, Lady Helen. Lord Atherby. I must have a word with Mrs. Barnes.” Ignoring Helen’s small, disappointed gasp, Oliver disengaged her fingers from his arm and marched over to the theater’s other performance this evening.

Mr. William Barnes, of Her Majesty’s Home Office, stood just to Oliver’s left watching the proceedings, a frown on his drooping features. He’d probably write up an account of this evening’s events and send it out to the entire bloody family.

Oliver passed him without a glance.

“Your Grace.” An impish smile greeted him as Celia lowered prettily, allowing a glimpse of her— admittedly magnificent—bosom. There was a reason for her necklines. A weapon she wielded with much skill. She’d already taken down Chester and half the men in the lobby. Oliver was so furious, he barely felt the way her skirts wrapped around his calf.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured.

Chester bowed. “How good to see you, Your Grace. It has been many years. I don’t know if you recall, but you attended Eton with my brother, Edward. We met?—”

“Briefly.” Oliver cut Chester off, keeping his eyes on Celia.

“Are you in London for the Season, Your Grace?” Chester ventured, attempting conversation.

“An unwelcome inheritance, of sorts, brought me to town,” Oliver said pointedly, watching with delight when Celia’s smug smile froze on her lips and the air between them grew thick with tension. “One it is my duty to facilitate for my family, no matter how distasteful.”

She flinched. “How coincidental, Your Grace. I too have been subjected to an undesirable set of circumstances. One foisted upon me without regard or care, very much like your unwelcome inheritance.”

“Childish.” The word flew out of Oliver’s mouth before he could stop himself.

“Petty tyrant,” Celia snapped back, releasing Chester’s arm.

“Irresponsible.”

“Prig.”

Chester looked askance between them, his eyebrows raised in consternation and surprise. “If—if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Barnes. Your Grace. I see an acquaintance of mine with whom I simply must have a word.” He bowed. “Apologies.”

The earl fled their company to disappear into the crowd on the other side of the room.

“Was that necessary, Your Grace? Your rudeness to Chester?”

The blood rushed to the surface of Oliver’s skin, along with a twitch of his cock. Which only made him that much more annoyed. “You were practically climbing him as if he were a tree, chattering away like some squirrel. I could hear you braying from across the room.”

“Braying?” Her mouth pursed in outrage.

“I warned you, Mrs. Barnes.” Oliver’s voice raised an octave, making him sound slightly crazed. “Warnings you saw fit to disregard.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Her hands clutched at her skirts, anger lighting every word. “I am merely enjoying myself and the company of a lovely gentleman. The ‘chattering’ you heard from me was laughter. You should try it sometime, Your Dourness.”

“What”—he inhaled sharply—“did you just call me?”

“A little amusement might do you good. Though I can’t imagine you have much fun in your future.” She tilted her head in Lady Helen’s direction. “Does she possess a thought of her own?”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” His lips snapped shut, horrified he’d not only cursed but raised his voice. In public . Every ounce of control, cultivated over years, frayed to nothing within moments of encountering Celia Barnes. His fingers stretched, wanting to wrap around that delicate throat.

Force her to kneel before him. Put her mouth ? —

“You can’t murder me in public, Your Grace.” Celia’s eyes twinkled back at him, enjoying his discomfort.

Murder wasn’t what Oliver had in mind. Rather something a bit more erotic in nature.

Which made things much, much worse.

“Good lord, Your Grace, all I did was enjoy a play with Lord Chester, who was going to see me home. Although I suppose now, thanks to you, I’ll have to find a hack.”

The neckline of her gown was obscene. He could see all the way between ?—

“You may take my carriage.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, but no.” A smirk crossed her plump lips. “Chester will see me home if I can find him. He’s a gentleman.”

Implying Oliver was not.

“Should I be unable to locate him in this deluge—honestly, I don’t understand the crowd, the play was terrible.” She shrugged. “I’ll hail a hack or find someone else to take me home. I am not your concern, Your Grace.”

“You are under my?—”

“I am not,” she interrupted, glaring back at him. “I am not . You should return to Lady Helen. She doesn’t appear to be pleased with your desertion. Nor Lord Atherby. Also…” She lifted a finger. “I should like to remind you that I did not cause a scene this evening. You did .”

“Mrs. Barnes…” Mortification filled Oliver. Everyone near them was attempting to avert their gaze from the Duke of Hartwood and the ridiculous incident he seemed intent on creating. His skin prickled. His cock felt like a brick in his trousers. His head was swimming about in the most alarming manner.

“Enjoy the remainder of the evening, Your Grace.” She sailed off in the direction Chester had gone.

She reeked of champagne. Lilies. Sin . Chester would slobber over her like some hound before putting her in his carriage for everyone to see. Tomorrow Oliver would have to read about her escapades in the paper. He would force her into his carriage if he must.

Oliver took a step forward but halted, cognizant of the dozens of eyes watching the attempt to bring his unwelcome relation to heel.

“Your Grace.” Lady Helen lightly touched his arm. He hadn’t even heard her come to his side. “I should like to return home. You’ve become…quite unlike yourself.”

He inhaled through his nose, slowly. Deliberately. Forcing calm and shards of ice through his veins. A duke did not lose his temper in public—and rarely in private.

A duke’s appearance before others must be perfect.

“My apologies, Lady Helen. You’re correct. Mrs. Barnes is quite a trial.”

Celia was horrified.

Her lovely evening with Lord Chester had been undoubtedly ruined by his Ducal Prigness, arriving as he had from the depths of the theater like a well-dressed version of the Devil. Poor Chester. They had been laughing over a lost wheel of cheese, for goodness sakes.

After searching the crowd for several minutes, Celia finally spotted Chester. She forced her fingers to unclasp, for the silly humming inside her to still now that Hartwood was no longer near. Pasting an apologetic look on her features, her fingers fluttered against Chester’s arm.

“My lord, please allow me to apologize. You, more so than some, know the difficulty of dealing with the Duke of Hartwood.”

He regarded her with an odd look. “I didn’t realize the depth of your association with the duke. In any case, your apology is entirely unnecessary. Shall I escort you home, Mrs. Barnes?”

Celia nodded. Chester was entirely gracious but distantly polite, no longer enthusiastic to be in her company. She understood. Truly. Celia had unwittingly embarrassed him, though she thought the fault lay more with Hartwood than herself. The entire ride home was conducted in near silence, Chester making only a casual comment about the dreadful play.

No more laughing over cheese—or anything else. No kiss.

When the carriage finally halted outside her home, Chester helped her out and bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Barnes,” he said, making no move to walk her up the steps. There was a finality in his goodbye which greatly disappointed Celia. But what sort of excuse could she make for Hartwood’s overbearing behavior?

“Thank you for a lovely night, my lord.” Celia smiled and went up the steps to be greeted by Kemp, knowing Chester would not call on her again.

Clutching her skirts as she made her way up the stairs to her room, Celia vowed not to bend to the duke or his ridiculous moral superiority.

She would do as she pleased.