Page 11 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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“ C elia.”

Her steps halted at the sound of her name, and she shut her eyes. Taking a deep breath, Celia turned, attempting to hide her irritation at the sight of Lady Claremont just behind her. She was in no mood to tolerate any member of the Barnes family, not after the duke had so abruptly ended her budding relationship with Lord Chester.

I really liked Chester.

Maybe enough to have reached an understanding with him. Widows formed long-term associations if they didn’t wish to remarry, which Celia did not. Chester would have made a caring lover and companion.

We could have gone to Rome together.

But Heartlesswood had well and truly ruined any further relationship with Chester. Celia hadn’t received so much as a note from the earl since the theater. The rejection stung, but she’d managed to focus her efforts elsewhere.

The results had been…mixed.

“Dulcetta.” Celia greeted her former sister-in-law with as much warmth as she could muster. There wasn’t any sign of Lord Claremont, which was promising, at least. “I was just on my way to Madame Lucien’s.” She took a step forward in the direction of the modiste shop, which sat at the very end of New Oxford Street. “Please excuse me. Have a lovely day.”

“As it happens, I’m on my way there as well.” Dulcetta tucked Celia’s arm in her own, refusing to let go. “Madame is working on several new ballgowns for me which, in my opinion, require more embellishment. A bit of lace. Or piping. I’ll have a fight, I suspect, as Madame informs me that the fashion of the day calls for far less decoration. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.”

Drat .

“Of course,” Celia replied smoothly. It wouldn’t be the first time Dulcetta had ruined her plans for the day. Probably not the last.

“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.” Dulcetta let out a troubled sigh. “Of which I’m sure you’re aware.”

The recent event held at the home of Mrs. Harris. A small gathering for dinner and music. Even Celia had to admit she’d behaved without a great deal of thought. Not that any real impropriety had occurred but…well, Celia had behaved impulsively and without undue consideration. She’d been so furious over Hartwood’s high-handed behavior at the theater, so annoyed at his having chased off Chester, that she hadn’t been thinking clearly.

James often said I was my own worst enemy.

“Of course.” Celia kept her eyes forward, wishing she could fling Dulcetta off her arm. She was in no mood to be scolded today, even though in this instance, the rebuke was deserved.

“Your behavior at Mrs. Harris’s gathering the other night,” Dulcetta started, confirming Celia’s suspicions, “was wholly inappropriate. Appalling, if I am being honest. I can hardly fathom why you assumed there would not be talk.”

If she swung about just so and anchored her heels, Celia might be able to heave Dulcetta into the muddy street. She would pretend innocence, of course. Claim she’d tripped. Or lost her footing. The thought of Dulcetta, covered in mud and flailing about, was a pleasant one.

“Nothing at all improper occurred.” That at least was the truth.

“I realize,” Dulcetta continued, ignoring her, “you think Lord Claremont and I are stuffy. Prudish. Lacking in humor. You chafed under our rules in Percival’s extended absence.”

“You mean his abandonment.”

Dulcetta cleared her throat. “We all expected that, once settled, Percival would send for you, if that matters. I do not blame you for feeling…neglected.”

“More discarded,” Celia bit out.

“Very well, discarded. The treatment you received at the hands of the Barnes cousins was not gracious. Or kind. I don’t fault you for your anger.”

“That’s a rather mild assessment.”

Dulcetta kept her gaze forward, not looking at Celia. Out of shame, most likely.

“Had you been a more…biddable girl, perhaps things might have turned out differently. But I suspect obedience is not your strong suit. Your own brother refused to take you back at the news of Percival’s death.”

Celia hadn’t known of Claremont’s efforts to send her back to James, but she was unsurprised her brother hadn’t wanted her. They had never been close. She’d been more duty than sibling. And Percival…well, he’d wanted to win his wager. And conveniently, James had an unwanted younger sister, one left to grow wild in the country. Gullible. Stupid.

“Is there a point to this discussion, Dulcetta?” Celia didn’t wish to think about James or Percival. Revisiting that old wound did her no good. “Please get on with your rebuke of my behavior so I may continue with my day.”

“So dismissive and glib. You’ve always lacked respect for the Barnes family.”

“I think it much more correct to say the Barnes family doesn’t respect me,” Celia said. “Though given the reasons for my marriage, I don’t see how they possibly could.” She glared at Dulcetta. “The wager.”

Dulcetta looked away. “Yes. Unfortunate.” Her lips pursed but she made no further excuse.

How typical.

“But surely even you can see that the path you are on, the future you’ve carved out for yourself, is not a good one,” Dulcetta continued. “Yes, you are a widow of means, but that autonomy, at least in this family, comes with a price. If you had practiced a bit more reserve when taking your paramours, stopped flaunting yourself, the talk would have ceased. The duke’s looming presence would depart London, for which we would all be grateful. Instead, you have angered him at every turn.”

Celia had no paramours. No legion of lovers. But Dulcetta would never believe her. Nor would the duke. No one would.

“There is so much gossip about you now, Celia,” Dulcetta huffed. “Well, I can hardly even fathom you’ve done half of what has been ascribed to you. Bathing in champagne with Lord Dorset?—”

Patently untrue . “Did that bother Hartwood?” Celia hoped it had, when he’d read it in the gossip column last week, even though she didn’t even know Lord Dorset.

“—and inviting both Mr. Elliot and Mr. Holbrook to escort you into the garden at Mrs. Harris’s gathering.” Dulcetta shot her a disparaging look. “There is a rumor you were sprawled on the grass. Spread out like—some trollop.”

“Stargazing, Dulcetta. We lay upon our backs and looked up at the stars. Nothing more,” she said quietly. An impulsive decision on Celia’s part. Being discovered with two men in the grass, though the situation had been entirely innocent, had not been part of her plan. The three of them, who all had a passing interest in astronomy, had merely looked at the stars. Something of which the married Lady Berber, pressed up against a tree by her latest lover, had failed to inform Mrs. Harris and the other guests. Far more amusing to embellish the rumors of the notorious Mrs. Barnes.

“Not a soul believes in your innocence. Elliot is a known rake.”

Elliot had placed his coat on the ground for Celia, and the three of them, admittedly somewhat foxed, had looked up at the stars trying to make out the constellations. Spoken of comets. Stars. Holbrook was in love with Lord Dartmore’s youngest daughter. He had little interest in Celia.

And Elliot? He was still under consideration, but Celia’s feelings towards him had turned more to friendship than anything romantic. He’d stolen a kiss or two from Celia in the past, but Elliot hadn’t touched her that night.

“The Barnes name was once more in the gossip columns. Whispered about at every event I’ve attended as of late. If you want to be turned out and reduced to living on charity, by all means, continue with your behavior.”

Celia inhaled. “An idle threat.” The modiste shop was only a few steps ahead.

“It is not. The Barnes cousins are already up in arms over your stargazing . I attended tea and cards just the other day with Lady Helen Robb?—”

Of course she had.

“—where you were referred to as the Barnes Bawd. Lady Helen and I were both speechless with mortification.” Dulcetta dropped her arm. “We had to take our leave. Disappointing, because I was winning.”

“I thought I was a trollop,” Celia said lightly, a terrible ball of dread taking form in her mid-section. She’d known that venturing out with Holbrook and Elliot was a poor idea, but at the time, Celia had been consumed with how horrid the duke behaved at the theater. Expecting blind obedience. Dismissing Chester. She’d been angry for days.

“If your desire is to punish the Barnes family and taint Percival’s memory, you’ve succeeded, Celia.”

“That is not my intent.”

Not entirely. She had wanted to thumb her nose at the Barnes cousins after their unkind treatment. Live, after a lifetime of being controlled and criticized by others. Honestly, Celia didn’t think her behavior to be so gossip-worthy.

Dulcetta made a derisive sound. “Your intent no longer matters, Celia. I know your marriage to Percival was…not as you’d hoped.”

“Rest assured, I did not miss Percival when he left me in London. Nor was I displeased he didn’t ask me to join him in Bombay. We didn’t suit, as you know. Now, I only wish to have my independence, which Hartwood seems determined to take from me.”

Dulcetta clucked her tongue. “Invitations will begin to dry up, if they have not already. If your defiance, your flagrant disregard for rules and reputation, continues, you will become a pariah. Hartwood will have little choice but to toss you into the streets to protect the family name. His patience for you grows thin.” She tightened her hold on Celia’s arm. “The house you call home was never Percival’s but belongs to the Barnes family. Another point of contention for the Barnes cousins. They don’t think you deserve to both defame the family and yet live on our largesse.”

It was one thing to have Hartwood threaten her with eviction and poverty, quite another to have Dulcetta parrot the same words.

“I know you do not like me, Celia, and I don’t blame you. But I—hold you in some affection, though you may not believe it.”

“You are correct, I do not.” Neither Claremont nor Dulcetta had ever treated her as anything other than an unwelcome guest. One with the pox. Or some other terrible ailment. Only slightly kinder than the Barnes cousins, who mocked the way Celia spoke and her awkward table manners.

“Then believe this much. Appearances, especially in society, are everything . And you have given an unwelcome impression. The Duke of Hartwood is as unforgiving as his mother. This is not a game you will win. Do not force his hand.”

Dulcetta stopped just outside the modiste shop’s door at the end of her little speech. “I’ve just remembered another errand that must be seen to. I’ll return later for my fitting.” She dropped her hold on Celia. “Please consider my words.” She turned and strolled off in the other direction, having delivered her warning.

Celia took a deep breath. Composed herself. Shook off Dulcetta’s words. The woman thought a tasteful show of ankle to be obscene. The incident at Mrs. Harris’s had been…unfortunate but also completely innocent. Not one soul in London, save the Barnes cousins, would believe all the nonsense being said about her.

A tiny bell jingled as Celia pushed open the door.

The buzz of feminine chatter met her ears, along with the rustle of silk. Soft laughter and the sound of heels clicking against the floor. As Celia made her way to the ribbon counter, the soft discussions slowed and turned to the sharper, almost vicious hissing of wasps. Two young ladies at the ribbon counter glanced at Celia from beneath their bonnets before hastily moving aside.

Lady Bennett, an overly important matron of the ton , turned her nose up at Celia before averting her gaze completely.

Well, that was fine, wasn’t it?

Lady Bennett was a shriveled prune of a woman, an observation not helped by the color of her ensemble of deep plum. Barely an acquaintance. Her disapproval meant little.

Straightening her shoulders, Celia made her way to the counter, where a display of velvet ribbons, lace, jet beads, and other assorted fripperies rested. She waved in greeting to Lady Gerand, who was a friend of Eleanor’s and shared her love of animals. “Lady Gerand, how lovely to see you.”

Lady Gerand looked right through Celia. Not a flicker of recognition on her pretty features.

A direct cut and at, of all places, the modiste.

It is possible Dulcetta did not exaggerate.

Tumbling into a fountain after having had too much champagne was outrageous but could be explained away as an accident, no matter how thin the silk of Celia’s gown had been. But stretching out across the grass with two gentlemen to look at stars after such a misstep, when added to all the other instances in which Celia had thumbed her nose at Hartwood and the Barnes cousins, had placed her in a precarious position.

You are your own worst enemy, Celia. If there is anyone to blame, look in the mirror.

Her brother’s words still lingered in her ears, spoken to her on the rare occasion he acknowledged her existence. Usually after Celia had done something James considered horrifying. Which was nearly everything. His care of her rivaled that of Lord Claremont.

“Mrs. Barnes,” one of the modiste’s assistants said in greeting. “May I be of assistance?”

Celia ignored the scornful looks thrown in her direction from every corner of the shop. She hadn’t considered…

“The pink ribbon. This lace.” She pointed. “Thank you.”

James and she were fifteen years apart, and he had always been a stickler for rules. Propriety. Polite behavior. He’d detested Celia’s mother, finding her to be a frivolous nitwit who had no business wedding a much older baron, and Celia, the product of that union, to be something he must tolerate.

The situation did not improve after the death of Celia’s mother. Father grieved and Celia was cast adrift, left to run wild at the remote Kensworth estate. James had been in London when Father died, furious at having to return and care for his unwanted much younger sibling when he had just inherited. The more James ignored Celia, sometimes leaving her for months at a time with nothing more than a governess and a list of rules, the more defiant she became. The more…challenging her behavior.

The breaking point had come when Celia was caught flirting with the butcher’s son in the village. She couldn’t even recall his name, only the screeching of Mrs. Notting, who’d discovered Celia, alone and unchaperoned, with a lad.

You are a burden I no longer wish to bear.

Her brother’s exact words after having tea with Mrs. Notting, who was a terrible busybody. When Celia had next ventured into the village with her governess, she’d been pointedly ignored.

Very much like today.

Percival Barnes had arrived only a month later at the Kensworth estate. He and James had attended Harrow together. Percival was a year older than her brother. Dashing. His family prestigious, the Duke of Hartwood a distant cousin. Celia was mere weeks from her eighteenth birthday and had never ventured farther than the village an hour’s walk from the Kensworth estate. She longed to be out from under her brother’s rigid care. When Percival offered for her shortly after their first meeting, Celia had thought it all terribly romantic. Overjoyed at the chance to escape the suffocating existence of living with a brother who despised her, she’d barely questioned why a man like Percival Barnes would want to marry her. On her wedding night, Celia had realized she’d left her home only to wed a gentleman—and into a family—who cared for her even less than James.

“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Barnes?”

“No.” Celia smiled and lifted her chin, keeping her gaze forward. She would not look at any of them.

You were the means to an end, Celia. If your own brother doesn’t want, you what makes you think I would?

Percival’s disgust for her had been…crushing. He’d left her untouched on their wedding night, departing with a grunt of disgust. She’d foolishly hoped, over the course of the next year while living under Claremont’s roof, that Percival might change his mind. But he hadn’t. Quite honestly, Celia doubted Percival had ever thought of her at all once he had departed for India.

“There you are, Mrs. Barnes.” The girl slid a neatly wrapped package with the gauzy wrap and gloves Celia had ordered last week across the counter. “I placed the ribbon inside.”

“Make sure to include this with the sum owed for the three gowns I ordered.”

The girl nodded. “The duke’s solicitor has already requested an accounting.”

She nodded. “Of course. Thank you.”

Holding her chin up, Celia made her way outside, that stupid bell tinkling loud enough to make her temples ache. What bad luck it had been to marry Percival Barnes. Part of his appeal had been the large Barnes family because Celia longed for connection.

Well, she’d certainly got the bad part of that bargain, hadn’t she?

The irony of this entire situation was that while London thought her an indiscreet lightskirt, Celia had never had a lover. Sadly, it had seemed far easier to pretend to be an experienced widow than to admit the truth: Percival had found her so lacking in appeal, he’d gone to India leaving Celia’s maidenhead intact.

Nearly as bad as being named a trollop.

Perhaps James was right.

You, Celia, will likely come to a bad end.