Page 12 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

11

C elia came down the stairs, unsurprised at Kemp’s announcement that the Duke of Hartwood was cooling his heels in the drawing room. She’d expected his arrival at some point, given the gossip over her antics at Mrs. Harris’s, but that had been well over a week ago. Perhaps he’d been marshalling the troops, so to speak. The Barnes cousins would descend upon her en masse and burn her at the stake. Still, a little warning would have been nice. A thunderstorm, perhaps, or a cluster of vultures to serve as a portent of his presence.

“Your Grace.” She lowered herself into a perfect curtsey.

Hartwood had been right, as had Dulcetta, as much as she hated to admit to it.

If the welcome she’d received at Madame Lucien’s was any indication, her stubborn nature might well cost Celia her hard-won independence, along with her place in society. She’d enraged a duke. Probably destroyed Holbrook’s chances for wedding the girl he loved. Ruined her reputation.

Best to get this over with as soon as possible.

Mr. Elliot had promised to call upon her today. He, at least, had not been put off.

The air in her drawing room held the aroma of bergamot, one of the scents she most favored, which was rather unsettling since it emanated from Hartwood. The duke was perfectly turned out, as usual. Not a hair out of place. Beautiful lips drawn taut with displeasure.

I really must stop looking at his mouth.

“Mrs. Barnes,” Hartwood drawled, managing to sound bored and furious at the same time. He came to his feet and gave a stiff bow.

Celia glanced around the room before perching on the settee. Hartwood had been busy while he waited.

The clock on her mantel had been moved from the left, where she liked the timepiece, to the middle once more and centered. Every bottle and decanter on the sideboard had been turned to face the same direction, arranged according to height and color. Including the Pierre Ferrand cognac. Which no matter how well hidden, the duke had found.

Drat.

He had to have poked around quite a bit.

“I hide that for a reason, Your Grace.” She nodded at the glass in his hand. “Pierre Ferrand is somewhat expensive, and I have lately been advised that my household expenditures must now be approved. I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to purchase more.”

The light streaming through the windows glanced off the Barnes nose, drawing attention to the slash of Hartwood’s cheekbones. “Entirely possible,” he agreed.

Despite his unpleasing personality, Celia couldn’t deny the duke was an attractive man, especially that lovely mouth. Gold sparkled in the burnished brown of his hair, the color matching his eyes. Every feral curl had been brushed back from his forehead, the strands probably terrified to venture over the curve of his ears. Strong jaw, always straining not to smile. Hartwood could have been seated among a collection of barristers, physicians, ministers, or Parliament, and no one would mistake him for anything other than a duke. The commanding arrogance bleeding from his fingertips ensured it.

“Well, Your Grace, if you have come to berate me for my behavior, I insist we wait for the tea cart. I like a bit of tea with my brandy.”

The gold of his eyes narrowed on her. Long fingers drummed absently against the arm of her chair as he took a sip from his glass, cheeks moving as he swished the brandy about his mouth.

A moment later, one of the maids arrived bearing a tray with tea and an assortment of teacakes and biscuits. The girl cast a glance in Hartwood’s direction before carefully setting down her burden on the low table before the settee.

“Thank you, Elise.” Picking up a biscuit, Celia considered tossing the small pastry at his head but instead bit into it. She chewed slowly, waiting for the duke to speak.

His eyes followed the movement of her fingers, lingering far too long on her mouth. Hartwood grimaced, as if the sight of a biscuit being devoured was the most offensive thing he’d seen all day. He huffed and leaned forward, picked up a plate, and held it out to her.

Celia took the plate and placed it carefully on the table. Taking another mouthful of biscuit, she deliberately allowed crumbs to fall from her fingers. A smattering in her lap. One on the rug.

Hartwood’s brows drew together. The beautiful line of his mouth thinned and pursed. Clearly, he was unsettled by…a few crumbs?

Good. Maybe his arrogant head will explode.

Kemp would clean up the mess.

Celia sat back and munched happily away. He might threaten her with poverty or toss her out of this house, but Heartlesswood wasn’t going to determine how she ate a bloody biscuit.

“Our relationship…” His eyes remained on her lips—or the biscuit, Celia couldn’t be sure. “Does not need to be contentious, Mrs. Barnes.”

More crumbs collected in her lap. Celia brushed them from her skirts to the floor.

Hartwood’s eye twitched .

Celia struggled to keep from laughing. This was highly amusing. She was, by nature, a lover of disorder. Chaos was freedom. Also, her mother had been a great admirer of clutter, something Celia appreciated and James, detested. When she’d lived with her brother, she had done everything possible to leave a mess in her wake, simply to annoy him.

Her eyes roamed the room.

Not only had the sideboard and the clock been touched, but also the haphazard stack of books on the side table. Celia had a habit of starting one book, grow bored, and decide on another, only to return later to the original book she’d been reading, so she kept them all close. The teetering stack of tomes had been rearranged according to size and… title . At the window, an orchid, one Celia struggled to keep alive, had been moved out of the direct light and looked as if it had been pruned.

Good grief.

“Contentious? Perish the thought, Your Grace.” She picked up another biscuit, satisfied when those golden eyes focused on the crumb clinging to the corner of her mouth. She wiped at her lips with a finger, watching Hartwood’s eye twitch again.

“Can you not use a plate?” He finally asked. “Or a napkin?”

Completely driven mad by a crumb .

“I could,” she agreed. “But I have chosen not to.”

He glared at the crumbs, as if they meant to do him harm and overtake his duchy. His poor household staff must run about constantly wiping up the slightest bit of mess. Had he checked the drawing room for dust?

I’ll wager he did. I must advise Kemp not to dust in here for at least a week.

“I visited my club the other day, Mrs. Barnes.”

“How enjoyable for you, Your Grace.”

“Not entirely. I was cornered by several of the Barnes cousins, one of whom witnessed your behavior at the home of Mrs. Harris. Can you imagine, Mrs. Barnes, having three of my cousins demand that I rein you in? Not one member of my illustrious family?—”

Celia made a noise, and Hartwood scowled. “Apologies. The biscuits are somewhat dry. Do continue, Your Grace.”

The scowl deepened. The duke looked as if he were in pain. “Not one member of my family?—”

“ Illustrious family,” Celia interjected, pouring herself a cup of tea. She stood and went to the sideboard, carried a decanter back to the table, and splashed a healthy dose of the Pierre Ferrand into her cup.

Hartwood growled at her. Subtle. Polite. But a growl, nonetheless. “Not one Barnes has ever been in danger of being censured.” He drew out the word. “By society.”

“I do not wish to be ostracized, Your Grace. I regret that my recent behavior has been…questionable. But innocent,” she rushed to add. Self-realization had come late, after her visit to Madame Lucien’s. And several glasses of brandy while staring into the fire. “However, in future, I will be more mindful of my conduct,” she finished.

“Too little, too late.” The duke pinched the bridge of his nose, as if on the verge of apoplexy. His eyes kept flitting to the crumbs at her feet. “I think it in everyone’s best interest that you remarry.”

“But not in mine.” Celia abruptly came to her feet, making sure to kick a few crumbs in his direction. One landed near his foot.

“I think it wise.”

“You wish to shift the burden to someone else’s family. How clever of you, Your Grace. Unfortunately for you, I have no intention of taking another husband.”

I’m so bloody tired of being passed around like a moldy bit of bread.

“Well, you cannot remain a Barnes.”

Celia stomped over to the mantel, so furious she thought she might explode. Looking Hartwood directly in the eye, she purposefully, slowly , dragged the clock to the left.

“You think I wish to stay a member of your family? I’ve never met a more boring, humorless group of individuals, Your Grace. And that includes you .”

Hartwood’s jaw hardened to such a degree that Celia thought his teeth would shatter. He marched to the fireplace, standing mere inches from her. Grabbing the clock, he pulled it back to the center.

“Ruin yourself with every man in London and have the reputation of a trollop, but not as a Barnes. When you are once more wed, feel free to destroy your new husband’s reputation.”

“Does that bother you, Your Grace? My peccadilloes?” She smiled up at him sweetly, trying not to let the bergamot make her lightheaded. It was completely wrong, in every conceivable way, that Hartwood smelled so delicious. “My ruination at the hands of every gentleman who asks?”

“No.” But the gold of his eyes burned before falling to her mouth and dipping to her bosom. “I don’t care”—he moved closer—“whom you fuck , Celia.”

Celia might have been offended at the curse if her body didn’t hum so fiercely at his closeness. “Such vulgarity, Your Grace.” Her pulse sped up to an alarming degree.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the word before, given your own propensity for vulgarity.”

She grabbed the clock and moved it once more to the left, heart beating wildly as he took another step in her direction. Looming over her, his fingers curled around the timepiece.

“I think you do,” she hissed. “Care, Your Grace. I think my crumbs, my vulgarity, and my peccadilloes disturb you to no end.”

A savage look contorted his features, Celia’s only warning before Hartwood’s mouth fell on hers, like some ravenous animal.

Damn it.

Today’s visit to Celia had been meant to be…calm. Thoughtful. He would not lose control of the situation, as he had the other evening at the theater. After the constant nagging of the Barnes cousins, Oliver meant to do something about Celia. He would resist the urge to touch her hair. Or her person. Look away from her display of bosom. And not remember, once more, how it had felt to notch his leg between her thighs.

Oliver had settled in the drawing room, waving away her trembling butler. Drank the damn brandy she’d hidden from him once more because he’d bloody well paid for it. Which had led to a complete reorganization of her sideboard. That chore finished to his satisfaction, Oliver had then scanned the entire drawing room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

This house was a disordered mess.

Nothing was organized. Every stupid vase, picture, or figurine was off center. Or perched haphazardly on the edge of a table or shelf. Not a thought to order. He recalled her room upstairs, with its pile of frilly underthings in the middle of the floor where anyone might see them. A robe of silk draped over the armoire. Her bloody stockings.

The more he’d considered those bits of silk and lace, the harder his cock had become and the more brandy he’d sipped.

And everything, everything smelled of lilies.

Oliver should never have danced with her at the Bastrop ball because now he knew what it was to have Celia pressed against him. Nor should he have confronted Celia at the theater in full view of Lady Helen and Lord Atherby.

Because this… this was the result.

A groan left him at the way her mouth surrendered to him. Her lips warm and soft, the lush form he’d only had a taste of during that blasted dance now molded to his own. Celia was like a fire, blazing with heat as the flames tore through the dry kindling that was Oliver.

“Celia,” he breathed against her mouth.

She tried to back away, though reluctantly, her lips moving in tandem with his own. Oliver followed, cupping both sides of her face, lips intent on destroying hers. A whimper came from her. Defeat, perhaps. Relief. Surrender. Her hands flew up to curl in the lapels of his coat. Not pushing him away but pulling him closer.

God, yes . Oliver wanted to be closer. His cock wanted inside her.

They spun about until Celia’s back pressed against the wall. The clock fell from the mantel, the face cracking.

“Should have left it in the middle,” he hissed, nipping at her bottom lip, sucking the plump bit of flesh between his teeth. “Where it belongs.”

“No.” She bit him back, pulling at his hair. “You are excessively fussy. Not everything must bow to your whims.”

“Will you bow, Celia?” he purred against her shoulder. “Get on your knees before me?” Oliver pushed his hips into hers, her eyes widening in surprise at the feel of his cock struggling to get to her.

“Is that what you want, Your Grace?” The words were low and breathy, sending pleasure across Oliver’s skin as she ran the tip of her tongue over his bottom lip. “My surrender?”

He was minutes away from tossing aside every single ounce of propriety in his body. Nudging her legs apart, Oliver settled between her thighs.

I don’t wish to be anywhere else.

“I fear I will not give it,” she whispered.

Of course she wouldn’t . Her fierce nature would forbid it.

Oliver ravaged her mouth, feeling the press of what was arguably the most magnificent bosom in the world into his chest. The sensation was akin to intoxication, this claiming of Celia, as if he’d never kissed another woman but her. Control slipped from his grasp as his hand trailed down her arm before daring to cup the globe of one breast. A groan left him, picturing her nipples beneath the silk, peaked and hard beneath his fingers.

He wanted to devour her.

Celia wrapped her leg around Oliver’s ankle, like some bloody cat with a tail, pulling him into all those lily scented curves. Another whimper had the lower half of his body throbbing in response. Oliver ached. Burned . He started to lift her skirts, take her right here. Pin her to the wall with his cock. Make her understand that he?—

A knock sounded on the drawing room door.

The hand caressing her breast halted. Their lips stayed pressed together a moment longer before violently breaking apart. Celia’s chest rose and fell, shock and a delicate rose blush on her lovely features. She slapped his hand from her breast.

“Get off me,” she hissed, her face turning towards the door. “Yes?” Celia’s voice was composed.

“You have a caller, madam. Mr. Elliot.”

Oliver cursed, pushing away from her, disgusted with himself.

Celia pushed him back with a snarl of her own.

He moved away, horrified at having given in to his baser instincts. Shocked at what he’d done. A duke did not behave like some rutting beast. It was one thing to think of Celia while taking himself in hand, imagining her naked with all that red hair strewn about, quite another to have actually?—

“A moment, Kemp. The duke and I are just finishing our conversation.” Celia glared at Oliver, skirts rustling in annoyance as she moved to the settee.

“It is most definitely at an end, Mrs. Barnes,” Oliver snapped in that crisp, cold tone that made the rest of his family tremble in fear.

But not Celia. Never her. He respected her for that.

“You made a good argument, Your Grace. I cannot refute it.” Celia gave him a bland look as if he hadn’t just kissed her senseless and practically mounted her against the wall. Completely unaffected while Oliver felt like his cock was being throttled.

Damn her.

Smoothing her skirts, Celia gave Oliver a wide berth as she walked to the broken clock. Picking up the timepiece, the face now broken, Celia sat it once more on the left side of the mantel. She shot him a look, challenging Oliver to move the bloody thing again.

It is off center. Why can’t she see it ruins the entire balance of this end of the drawing room? The imperfection is glaring.

What did it matter if she lived in an utter mess, tasting of sugar and defiance? Reeking of lilies?

I want to kiss her again. Lift those bloody skirts.

Oliver ran a hand through his hair, unsettled by the direction of his thoughts. The manner of them. He did not lose his head over females and especially not this crumb-dropping, indiscreet termagant.

He didn’t even like Celia.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she stated politely. “I have another caller. I will take your concerns under advisement.”

“We have not come to an agreement, Mrs. Barnes,” he groused.

“I have much to consider, Your Grace.” She waved him towards the door. “Kemp will show you out.”

“You cannot dismiss a duke,” he ground out in annoyance, as unwanted possessiveness—for a woman he barely knew and did not like —thundered through his veins. If nothing else, the current state of his cock required a moment lest he damage himself by storming out.

“Yet, I am doing so,” she said with an airy wave. “Dismissing you, Your Dourness.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed on that smug smile. As she took a seat, Celia deliberately knocked over the books he’d neatly stacked on a side table.

He took a deep lungful of air, forcing ice into his veins to compose himself. Manners dictated he take his leave, but that was tantamount to announcing Celia had won this round, and that, he could not allow. Oliver waited until she’d smoothed her skirts, anticipating his departure, before approaching the fireplace to slide the clock back to the center of the mantel.

“I believe,” Oliver mused, once more in control, “I’ll stay for tea. Have a biscuit. And use a plate.”