Page 14 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

13

U gh.

Celia paused at the landing atop the stairs, wishing there was some way she could avoid her escort for the evening but knowing she could not. Lord Claremont, as detestable as always, awaited her.

When Percival had first abandoned Celia to his brother, she’d still been reeling from her wedding night and the knowledge her husband had never wanted her. Barely eighteen with no friends, having never truly been out in society, Celia had hung on Claremont’s every word. Determined to obey him and Dulcetta so as not to invite the disapproval of the Barnes cousins, Celia had tried to become what they all wished her to be. But neither Claremont nor the rest of the family had proved welcoming. The fact that Percival had seemed to regret his marriage and departed for India almost immediately hadn’t helped matters.

She no longer sought Claremont’s approval, nor anyone else’s.

“The carriage is waiting outside.” An impatient look was tossed her way. “Hurry along.”

Straightening her shoulders, Celia agreed. The sooner this evening started, the quicker it would end.

The summons —because one couldn’t call the note from Hartwood demanding Celia’s attendance at the Wolbrook ball to be anything else—had come yesterday. No salutation. No asking after her welfare. The handwriting was exemplary and spare, much like the duke.

Celia’s own handwriting was barely legible, full of curls, swoops and swirls merely because she enjoyed the way they looked. Her barely readable response would have been difficult for him to decipher.

I hope it gave Heartlesswood fits.

“I’ve been standing here for at least a quarter of an hour.” Claremont, stiff-lipped and scowling, interrupted her thoughts.

Claremont had never liked her. Tolerance was the best he could do. He must have known Percival had wed her merely to win a wager. Maybe not at first, but later. Not that it mattered. Once in the second year of her unwelcome marriage, after imbibing a bit too much wine and after Dulcetta had retired, Claremont’s hands had…wandered.

It isn’t as if my brother would give a fig.

Entirely true, but Celia had slapped him all the same. By that time, she had come to terms with her unenviable place in the Barnes family. She’d already had quite enough of Percival’s prudish cousins, the priggish Claremont who pretended to be honorable and was not, and the suffocation of her existence.

Claremont had never forgiven that slap, blaming Celia for ‘tempting’ him.

“Apologies, my lord.” She bobbed politely at reaching the foyer, taking her wrap from Kemp.

“Late,” he groused, his hooded gaze running over her gown. “Intolerable.”

“My delay in coming down, or is there something else you disagree with, my lord? Please, do not spare my feelings.” Even Claremont wasn’t so obtuse as to miss that bit of sarcasm.

There could be no complaints at all on her gown. Pale green tulle skirts embroidered with vines that, even when she moved or stomped her foot, displayed not a hint of ankle. Neckline exceptionally modest and higher than usual, though the tight lacing of her corset still pushed her bosom up.

“Not at all, Mrs. Barnes.” He regarded her with distaste. “Shall we?” He strode ahead of her, not bothering to take Celia’s arm. Once they reached the carriage, he gave a put-upon sigh and deigned to help her inside.

“Good evening, Lady Claremont,” Celia uttered as she settled against the leather seats.

“Mrs. Barnes.” Dulcetta surveyed her gown with a quick pursing of her lips. “An improvement. I can only hope this means you’ve taken my advice to heart.”

Celia said nothing.

Hartwood might believe that her docile behavior tonight was due to his threats, but he would be wrong. Celia had reassessed her situation after the visit to the modiste shop. She did not wish to become a pariah in society or to be referred to as a bawd in such indelicate terms. Neither would serve her well in her search for affection or a lover. It would be far better for Hartwood and the rest of his odious family to assume they’d won. She’d decided to approach this evening with a great deal of decorum. No champagne.

A dreadfully dull evening awaited her.

As to the encounter in her drawing room with the duke, well, that was of no consequence. A result of heightened passions due to their heated argument. Unlikely to happen again.

I’ve thought of that kiss the entire week.

There was a creak of leather as Claremont took the seat next to his wife, reeking of displeasure at being subjected to Celia’s company for the evening.

I feel exactly the same.

“I’m not sure why Hartwood insisted we escort you tonight,” Claremont grimaced.

“He didn’t want her ”—Dulcetta pointed at Celia with her fan—“to have any opportunity to create a scene by attending on her own. The duke is arriving with Atherby and Lady Helen this evening. His Grace insists on presenting a united front so that the cousins understand the matter to be well in hand.”

Celia was the matter .

How many Barnes cousins would be there tonight? Was the ballroom large enough to contain so many egos at once? There were dozens of them, all as staid and disapproving as Claremont. Most weren’t even closely related, their only commonality the desire to gain prestige for the Barnes name. Oh, and to please the duke. They all bloody well lived to please Heartlesswood.

“Lord Musgrove will be in attendance tonight.” Claremont cast a sly look at Celia while addressing his wife.

“He’s a lovely gentleman,” Dulcetta said. “Prominent. Respectable. A brilliant suggestion, my lord.” She turned to Celia. “You will like him a great deal, Mrs. Barnes.”

Somehow, Celia doubted that.

Apparently, regardless of whether she wished it, a new husband for Celia was to be the theme of the evening. She should have known and escaped to visit Eleanor in the country. Yes, she’d have to tolerate the dozens of animals her friend was inclined to collect, but at least Celia wouldn’t be subjected to matchmaking.

A short time later, she stood against the pale cream walls of the Wolbrook ballroom, the light of the chandeliers dancing over her shoulders and a glass of punch clasped in her fingers. The punch tasted of overly sweet, watery berries. Atrocious. She would have preferred champagne, but that would have greatly tested her resolve. Best to keep her wits.

Hartwood stalked towards Celia from across the ballroom like some great panther, Lady Helen dangling from his jaws, while Lord Atherby trailed behind. Helen and Hartwood made a spectacular pair, with her patrician features and ash-blonde hair helping to soften the duke’s dark, stern appearance. There was no evidence, as Hartwood’s gaze passed over Celia, that he even knew her, let alone had kissed her with such desperation.

She lowered politely. “Your Grace. Lady Helen. Lord Atherby.”

Lady Helen’s gaze passed over Celia with only moderate interest. “Mrs. Barnes. How lovely you’ve joined us this evening.” She swept past to stand on the other side of Dulcetta and Lord Claremont, dismissing Celia with a mere flip of her skirts.

Lord Atherby looked down his thin nose, inclining his head.

Pretentious, condescending, arrogant earl. No wonder he was so popular in politics, which teemed with entitled peers. Atherby made no secret of his dislike for her, much like Claremont.

“No champagne, Mrs. Barnes?” Hartwood asked, wearing his ducal authority like a suit of armor. In all fairness, she doubted anyone ever challenged him, the arrogant snob. Celia was probably the most aggravation he’d experienced in his entire life.

“Not at present, Your Grace, but give me time.”

“There is someone I’d like to introduce you to, Mrs. Barnes. If you will permit me.” Not waiting for her to reply, he took her arm and led Celia into the crowd, away from the Claremonts, Atherby, and the stuffy Lady Helen before saying, “I believe you’ll find him interesting.”

“I’m sure if he’s an acquaintance of yours, Your Grace, he’ll be fascinating.”

Hartwood frowned. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Truly? I was quite certain it did.” She tried to wrench her arm free, discreetly, and failed.

The duke stared straight ahead, ignoring Celia’s efforts to free herself, and did not reply.

Rather provoking of him.

She studied the Barnes nose, the only thing about Hartwood that wasn’t ducal. “You’ve a bit of thread hanging from a button.” She attempted to sound helpful.

He immediately paused his steps, releasing Celia to search his coat for the unmitigated embarrassment of a loose thread. Or worse, a loose button.

Oh, the horror.

Hartwood tugged on every button lining his coat in turn, testing to make sure each one was secure while Celia coughed to cover her amusement.

“My apologies, Your Grace. I must have been mistaken. A trick of the light.”

He finally looked down at her, features stamped with annoyance. “I don’t care for your attempt at humor.”

“Well, you lack amusement in general, Your Grace. So that is unsurprising.” She had the strangest urge to touch the taut line of his mouth and make those lips soften for her. “What would happen if you were less than perfect?”

“A duke is always perfection. That’s the bloody point.”

“Hmm. Perfection is greatly overrated, Your Grace.”

“Of course you would say such a thing,” he said coldly. “Self-discipline, Mrs. Barnes, is not part of your vocabulary. You disregard the very fabric of society.”

Goodness . Celia hadn’t thought she was quite that terrible.

“Ah, there he is,” the duke said, tugging her along before stopping in front of a short, unassuming gentleman standing next to a large fern, which he observed with adoration while tapping his foot to the music.

“Your Grace,” he greeted Hartwood, turning his attention from the plant long enough to take note of Celia.

“Lord Musgrove. May I present Mrs. Barnes, the widow of my distant relation, Percival Barnes.”

Good God . Hartwood had to be joking.

“My lord.” Celia dipped politely as Musgrove took her hand. “A pleasure.”

Musgrove reminded Celia of a mouse, both in stature, which was slight, but also because he possessed a rather striking whisker-like mustache, heavily waxed at the edges. The mustache twitched in Celia’s direction, as if she were a large wedge of cheddar.

“A dance, Mrs. Barnes?” Musgrove inquired politely, looking at the duke for permission.

Oh, good grief.

Celia opened her mouth to remind both men that the duke’s permission wasn’t required. For anything . Because she was a bloody widow.

“Mrs. Barnes would be delighted, I’m sure,” Hartwood answered for her.

Celia nearly kicked him in the shin. But nothing would be served by refusing Musgrove a dance or behaving in a manner that would see her wed off to the man before she could blink. She would keep an open mind. Perhaps Musgrove had a keen wit.

Taking Celia’s hand, Musgrove led her past Hartwood and out among the other couples spinning about. His fingers clasped hers in a grip much firmer than she’d anticipated as he proceeded to move her about the ballroom floor. Not dancing, exactly, because clearly, he had no idea how to waltz. Also, his fingers kept wandering over Celia’s waist rather inappropriately, given they’d only just met.

“I confess I looked forward to meeting you, Mrs. Barnes, having heard your name bandied about.” He pulled her a tad too close. “You are a fixture in the gossip columns.”

Celia leaned back, putting more distance between them. “Am I? I don’t pay much attention to gossip, my lord.”

“A young widow floating about society,” Musgrove mused. “There are those who, I’m sure, don’t understand your position.” Musgrove made a tsking sound. “To have lost your beloved husband so young and after only a few years. Quite tragic.”

The only tragedy was the strong scent of pomade wafting off Musgrove. “Indeed.”

“Alas, I have never experienced marital bliss myself,” he said. “A tragic hole within my heart that requires filling.”

Musgrove’s poetic words would have been far more profound had he not been leering at her bosom as he said them.

“Companionship is a wonderful thing, Mrs. Barnes,” he continued. “I possess a large estate but little family.”

Well, that was a point in his favor.

“I long to introduce pteridomania to my future wife with the hope she will appreciate such things as much as I do.”

There was a slight innuendo hidden in pteridomania , though Celia had no idea what the word meant. Musgrove might have been leering at her again, but she couldn’t tell, given the volume of his mustache. Really, he should be complimented on it.

“I meant no impropriety, Mrs. Barnes, though you are no stranger to it, I think.”

Rather impolite to say .

Celia trod on his foot, gratified when he winced. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Musgrove cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is that pteridomania is the study and collection of ferns.”

Thank goodness. Musgrove wasn’t a deviant; he was only boring. “Ferns, my lord?”

“I have an interest in botany. The proper word for the study of plants,” he loftily informed her. “Sometimes I forget to explain myself.”

Celia forced her eyes not to roll. She wasn’t a nitwit, although Musgrove clearly thought she might be. “Fascinating, my lord.”

“I adore all plants, but ferns, my dear Mrs. Barnes, are my specialty. I have dedicated a room in my home to their growth and care, as have many of my peers who consider it to be a worthwhile use of time. We gather monthly to discuss new species and growing techniques. Bird’s Nest, Hare’s Foot…” Musgrove proceeded to rattle off a long list of ferns while Celia struggled to keep her features politely composed.

It was rather funny. A tiny fern-collecting lord.

“Perhaps one day…” Musgrove’s fingers trailed tentatively below her waist once more. “You would like to view my collection.” The unspoken question was whether Celia, having been so dazzled by him, would ask to see his ferns.

Musgrove would wait forever. Celia appreciated a good fern as much as anyone else, but that was where her interest ended.

The dance continued in silence until finally, blissfully coming to an end. She deftly darted away from his roving hands but allowed Musgrove to escort her off the dance floor. He clung to her side as they approached the Claremonts, possibly hoping for some indication she wished him to call upon her.

“Oh, dear,” Celia uttered, pretending to stumble. “The ribbon has come loose on my slipper. Please forgive me, my lord, but I must see to this immediately lest I twist my ankle.” Celia gave him a brilliant smile before fleeing his presence. “Please excuse me.”

“Mrs. Barnes?—”

Swiftly, Celia made her way to the other side of the ballroom, glancing over her shoulder every so often until she was satisfied Musgrove hadn’t followed her. She walked down a long hall and rounded a corner, where a servant stood with an entire tray of champagne.

Thank goodness.

After Musgrove, refreshments were most welcome.

Snatching two glasses, one in each hand, Celia ignored the curious looks and whispers directed at her as she made her way outside. Once her slippers crossed the stone of the terrace, she breathed in the cooler night air perfumed with roses.

“Much better.” She took a sip of champagne.

A group of ladies stood off to one side, waving their fans while they whispered, probably about Celia. She was sniffed at in disapproval. A lady garbed in yellow—not her color, with that sallow complexion—turned up her nose.

She kept walking, down the steps and into the gardens, careful not to spill a drop of the champagne. Two glasses might not be enough to endure the remainder of this evening. Lord Wolbrook’s gardens were small but lovely, nonetheless. To the left sat a bench hidden beneath a large willow tree. Lord Jameson had kissed her on that bench a few months ago, before she’d fallen into a fountain.

Breathing a sigh of relief at having reached her destination and the knowledge she was quite alone, Celia raised a glass in toast.

“I believe I won that round, Heartlesswood.”