Page 13 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

12

C elia could not get her breathing under control. Her body still throbbed from the most spectacular kiss ever pressed against her lips. Bestowed upon her by a man so devoid of passion?—

A flutter took up residence between her thighs in gentle reprimand.

Fine .

Not completely absent of feeling. More that whatever passion Hartwood possessed was hidden beneath layers of severely tailored clothing and kept in check by a fussy, cold demeanor that rivaled the finest matrons of the ton . But that kiss— another small flutter, this time across her heart —would be relived, repeatedly, much later in the privacy of her bedroom.

Don’t forget the ducal hand on your bosom .

Celia had never seen such a furious loss of control, like bearing witness to the eruption of a volcano, something she’d read about. As if all that constraint inside Hartwood had forced itself out, spewing over her in the most breathtaking way.

Could he be induced to do so again?

Perching on the settee, she knocked over the stack of books he’d organized earlier.

Hartwood’s eyes narrowed at the mess she’d created. The scowl tightened on his lips. He very deliberately pushed the now broken clock back to the center of the fireplace mantel.

“I’ll stay for tea,” he said, looking rather impressed with himself. “Have a biscuit. And use a plate.”

Drat .

Celia opened her mouth to demand he leave, but Elliot took that moment to stroll into the drawing room, smiling, until he caught sight of Hartwood leaning against the fireplace. He also took note of the half-empty glass the duke had left discarded on the table.

“Mrs. Barnes.” He stopped just before the settee. “Kemp didn’t inform me you already had a caller. Apologies for the interruption.” Elliot bowed to the duke. “Your Grace.”

“Yet you’ve intruded all the same.” Hartwood’s icy ducal proclamation was lobbed at Elliot, who didn’t deserve such treatment.

Elliot’s mouth drew together, all his previous enthusiasm gone as Celia stood and he took her hand.

“I’m quite pleased to see you, Mr. Elliot.” Celia gave Hartwood her back. “Don’t mind the duke.” She sent a wave of dismissal behind her. “We had a rather heated discussion that dragged on far too long. I won, of course. The duke was forced to concede defeat.”

A grunt came from the general area of the fireplace.

Why didn’t he leave? His horror at what had occurred should have had him fleeing the premises. Instead, he watched her with what appeared to be intent. Perhaps plotting her demise. Or something a bit more…sexual in nature.

She pressed her thighs together as a wave of bergamot-scented shaving soap washed over her. The aroma refused to leave her, reminding Celia she’d been…molded to all that warm, ducal muscle.

“I would say”—Hartwood’s gaze dropped to her lips—“the argument ended in a draw.”

Celia’s entire body hummed as if there were bees trapped beneath her skin. Unsettling in the most delicious way.

Goodness .

How many gentlemen had she kissed in the last few months? Dozens. Yet not one of them had left her feeling as Hartwood had.

“But I enjoy a good debate.” His gold-flecked eyes remained heated as they drew over her form even though annoyance lit every syllable. “Mrs. Barnes is quite eloquent when making her point.”

“I have found Mrs. Barnes to be quite fervent in her arguments, Your Grace,” Elliot said. “Pity she is not a member of Parliament. Lord Ashley could certainly use a fiery orator on his side.”

Elliot really needed to stop speaking. This instant. If there was one thing Celia despised, it was a gentleman’s habit of discussing a woman while she sat in the same room. As if she were a child to be spoken about but had not the intelligence to be addressed directly. As to Ashley, he was attempting to put forth a bill banning young children and women from working in coal mines.

And while Celia agreed that no child should spend their days toiling below ground, she rather thought that a grown woman could decide whether she wished to wield a pickaxe.

Hartwood left the fireplace and took up his half-empty glass. “Would you care for a glass, Elliot? Mrs. Barnes keeps a fine sideboard.”

What arrogance. Offering Elliot refreshments in her home . A biscuit thrown at Hartwood might not force him to leave, but one of the teaspoons, if wielded correctly, might hit him in the eye.

“I believe I would.” Elliot looked at Celia as if suddenly recalling her presence. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Oh, Mrs. Barnes doesn’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” she agreed politely.

A butter knife would do the trick. Or she could simply toss a plate at his head. Or a handful of crumbs. Hartwood needed to go, if for no other reason than Celia had planned on showing Elliot her gardens in the hope that he might steal a kiss.

The thought was far less appealing than it had been earlier.

Elliot kissed rather well, but his lips would have nothing of Hartwood’s near savage intent.

“I was under the impression, Your Grace, that you had an engagement, one that seemed rather important.” Using the toe of her slipper, Celia kicked a small mountain of crumbs across the rug.

The wisp of a smile floated over Hartwood’s stupidly exquisite mouth.

The duke refused to leave no matter how many times Celia mentioned his ‘appointment’ over the next hour, finally declaring he would reschedule. Annoyed but with no way to force Hartwood out, she was treated to an hour-long discussion of Ashley’s potential bill and the uphill battle he faced. It would have been mildly interesting had Celia been asked for her opinion at any point during their discussion.

She was not.

Calmly, Celia sipped at her cup, poured from the fresh pot of tea brought forth by Kemp, pretending great interest as Elliot attempted to impress Hartwood with his knowledge of Ashley’s position in Parliament. Sighing as she took in the younger man, she had to admit that while Elliot wore his good looks and charm like a second skin, he was no match for Hartwood.

His Dourness was difficult to ignore. Men immediately bowed to his air of authority, and women? Despite his harsh, chilly exterior, Celia suspected Hartwood did not lack for female companionship. He was rather magnificent, with those glittering gold eyes and dark hair. But even had he resembled a troll, Hartwood was a duke. Arrogant. Dominating. Horribly stern. Except, she suspected, in things of a sexual nature, given that spectacular kiss.

Entirely contradictory.

Unfortunately, the incredibly dull discussion taking place in her drawing room failed to dampen her odd longing for a man she didn’t like. The way he’d thrust his hips, pinning her to the wall, cupping her bosom?—

“I fear we are boring Mrs. Barnes.” Hartwood raised a brow. There was a smugness hovering about his gorgeous mouth Celia didn’t care for.

As if he knows what he’s done to me. What I’m thinking.

She toed more crumbs in his direction.

“Let us continue this discussion at my club, Elliot. If you would care to.”

The wretch . Mr. Elliot would never refuse an invitation from a duke, especially if he thought it would curry Hartwood’s favor. He was the second son. He needed every advantage, and merely being known as a rake wasn’t one of them. Politics were an interest of his.

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” Elliot gave her an apologetic look. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Not at all. Kemp will see you both out.” She held out her hand.

Elliot took it, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “I bid you good day.” He bowed and sauntered out of the drawing room, no doubt thrilled at the prospect of being seen with Hartwood.

The duke did not immediately follow. He bent slightly, barely a bow, and did not take her hand. He stared at her fingers as if one touch from Celia might compel him to tear into her. A current roared between them now as a result of that bloody kiss. One that pressed and pricked at her skin, refusing to be dislodged.

“I hope you reconsider my point of view, Mrs. Barnes.”

“I’ll endeavor to do so, Your Grace,” she replied crisply.

He took a step towards her, the fingers of one hand twitching in agitation against his thigh, before drawing away once more. A flash of emotion flickered across his features—desire, annoyance, and something else—before he spun on one heel and strode out.

Celia flopped back against the cushions of the settee. She toyed with one of the overly ornate tassels decorating a pillow. Pouring the remainder of Hartwood’s brandy into her tea, she stared at the stupid clock with the broken face.

What an unsettling day this had been.

Standing, she moved about the drawing room. Pausing at the sideboard, she shifted the decanters back to their usual haphazard arrangement. She took the Pierre Ferrand and hid it behind the sideboard, moving a potted fern in front of the bottle for good measure. The clock was dragged back to the far left of the mantel. She tipped the edge of the painting hanging above the fireplace with the edge of her finger, enough so that it was now crooked. Lastly, Celia took the orchid and placed it on the other side of the room.

The books, she left strewn across the rug.