Page 15 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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O liver could still smell lilies. As if the blasted flowers, ones he’d never cared for, were stuck in his nose. Painted on his skin.

Celia danced with Musgrove, the skirts of her gown belling out, the far too bright color of her hair drawing his eye no matter how Oliver tried to ignore it. Atherby, with Claremont’s urging, had suggested Musgrove, claiming the older lord to be respectable and steady. He wouldn’t mind Celia’s reputation, Atherby insisted, nor, if they wed, would he keep her in London but rather in the country. A desired scenario. Atherby introduced Oliver to Musgrove upon his arrival tonight, declaring the match held excellent potential.

Oliver had thought Musgrove would be taller. And overall…less rodentlike in appearance.

Nor had he considered how watching Celia dance with Musgrove would irritate him to such a degree. Musgrove’s fingers kept sliding over her waist and hip. Sinking into the folds of her skirts, which were yet another shade of green, though the gown was excessively modest for Celia. The soft hue had a pattern of vines embroidered along the skirts before circling the neckline.

Oliver wanted to trail his fingers along those vines, touch the softness beneath.

Damn it.

Had it not been for Elliot’s untimely appearance the other day, Oliver might well have lost his bloody mind. Lifted her skirts and done unspeakable things— so many things— to Celia. But he’d composed himself. Reined in his control.

And taken Elliot to White’s to keep them both away from her.

Oliver was experiencing what a vicar might call a lapse of faith, though there was nothing remotely religious about the feelings Celia invoked in him. There was irritation that she couldn’t use a bloody plate while eating biscuits. And her taste in literature left much to be desired. She was killing the lovely pale lavender orchid by leaving it in front of the window, and her drawing room was in constant need of dusting. Not to mention disorganized.

But the worst of the sensations Celia invoked in Oliver was possessiveness. A thick stinging that coursed through his veins and made him want to break each of Musgrove’s wandering fingers.

I don’t even like her.

“Musgrove is a mature gentleman,” Atherby commented. “Has some odd hobbies, but he’ll provide a steady hand for Mrs. Barnes. I think we can both agree she requires one.”

Oliver made a noncommittal noise.

Atherby rubbed his beak of a nose. “The damage done to your family’s name is not insignificant but will be repaired once she is wed and gone from London. In a few years, no one will recall she was once a Barnes.” He gave Oliver a toothy smile, proud of himself. “I have several other suggestions should you not approve of Musgrove.”

The earl made no secret about wanting Celia removed from the Barnes family and London, as if she were an unsightly wart. It was an opinion shared by every relative Oliver possessed. Far too late now for her to practice discretion, Mr. Thomas Barnes had informed Oliver in an uncharacteristic tirade. Far too late for forgiveness.

Edmonds, standing behind Thomas at the time, had mouthed ‘ dramatic’ to Oliver before rolling his eyes. His butler didn’t care for the stuffiest of the Barnes cousins. Nor any of them, truth be told.

“You must force her to see the wisdom of once more taking a husband, Your Grace. It is in her best interests, after all,” Atherby instructed, as if he had a right to dictate Barnes business.

Would the earl ever cease talking? The man loved the sound of his own voice.

“She frolicked in a fountain,” Atherby continued as if everyone in London weren’t already aware. “At the gathering held by Mrs. Harris, she was unrestrained .” His cheeks puffed in outrage. “Unseemly.”

“I have addressed her behavior.” Oliver had also kissed her senseless. Not exactly putting his foot down where Celia was concerned. “I strongly suggested she marry again.”

Atherby gave him a disgruntled look. “Suggested.”

“You realize Mrs. Barnes is not some unwed young lady floating about creating scandal but a widow. I cannot force her to do anything.”

“Bah. You are a duke.” Atherby batted his hand in the air. “Threaten her with poverty. Take her house. Cut off her allowance.” He leaned forward slightly. “I do not want my daughter tainted by the association.”

“Are you dictating to me ?” Ice coated Oliver’s words. The duchess would have shredded Atherby into little bits for daring to challenge a duke. “I would take better care.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace. I only seek to assist in any way I might.” The older man attempted to placate him. “Mrs. Barnes doesn’t strike me as overly intelligent. Claremont claims her to be little more than a pea hen, incapable of choosing a gown to wear, let alone managing her own household. You would be doing her a service, Your Grace, in finding her a husband.”

Oliver had never punched another gentleman at a ball, but Atherby might well be the first. Celia was many things, but not unintelligent. She was impetuous. Given to childish stubbornness. A tendency towards untidiness. There was a vulnerability about Celia, one well hidden behind sarcasm and bold statements. He’d seen flashes of it during their argument in her drawing room.

But she was not stupid.

“Your opinion is noted, Atherby.”

Musgrove’s hands slipped down Celia’s hip once more as he attempted to spin her, fingers flexing as if inspecting a melon at the market.

Musgrove will find it hard to study his ferns if I break his hand.

A wholly vicious, unwarranted thought. One very much unlike Oliver’s usual controlled demeanor. He forced his attention away from Celia to where it truly belonged, on Lady Helen. He took in his future duchess. Stunning, as always. Flawless manner. Cultured. She would never demand or raise her voice to Oliver. Certainly, Helen would never challenge him on anything, especially the placement of a bloody clock. She would be the perfect duchess.

Oliver felt nothing when he looked at Helen. Not the slightest stirring. Had Musgrove been twirling her about, he would have been hard pressed to care.

The sound of Celia’s whimper as she had wrapped her leg around him during that magnificent kiss, the memory of the way they’d grabbed at each other, had unwanted hunger crawling over him.

Damn. It.

Oliver was the Duke of Hartwood. The head of the prestigious, respected, and powerful Barnes family. His attraction to Celia was an aberration . A deviation. One brought on by their argument and his annoyance at the state of her drawing room. Nothing more. Anything else was blatantly unthinkable .

Lady Helen made a soft exhale at his side, obviously disappointed at Oliver’s lack of attention.

The dance finally ended amid a flurry of colorful gowns and laughter on the ballroom floor, the crowd parting to reveal Musgrove—but not Celia.

Oliver cursed under his breath.

“Your Grace?” Helen regarded him with doe eyes. “Is aught amiss?”

A great many things, none of which he wished to discuss with Helen. “Not at all, my lady. I’ve just caught sight of Lord Rutledge. I must have a word with him. I’ll return momentarily.”

“Your Grace—” She started to protest.

Oliver strode off, headed for the opposite end of the ballroom, swatting away the simpering sycophants who offered him greetings. They all wanted something from him. A favor. A good word. His influence.

Once he reached the other side of the ballroom, a long hall faced him with two open doors. The first gave access to a parlor of some sort. A fire was lit but the room was otherwise empty.

The next room, far larger, had been set up for cards. The tables were all full, the sound of coins and laughter meeting his ears as fortunes were won and lost. He spotted Musgrove at a far table, squeezing into the lone open chair next to a buxom woman dressed in blue. Reaching him, Oliver asked after Celia, but Musgrove merely shrugged. “I believe the ribbon on her slipper came loose. Mrs. Barnes wished to fix it.”

Thanking him, Oliver set off for the room set aside for the ladies, hovering at the entrance like some lecher. After a quarter hour, with more than one curious look in his direction, Oliver came to the conclusion that Celia was not inside.

That left one other place she might be. The gardens.

Celia was well known for her assignations among the rose bushes. Playing in fountains. Whatever the bloody hell she’d been doing with Elliot and Holbrook at Mrs. Harris’s party, something Oliver didn’t dare contemplate.

“Your Grace.” Mr. Edwin Barnes popped up before him, impeding his progress.

Edwin was yet another cousin in the employ of the Home Office. One eager to prove his worth. Also incredibly rigid, even for a Barnes. “Mr. Barnes.”

“I am grateful to know you are in London, Your Grace. There is a matter of some importance that must be brought to your attention.”

Oliver paused. “I’m aware. If you’ll excuse me.”

“But…Your Grace.”

Oliver stepped around Edwin with a chilly look. Every Barnes relation in existence kept jumping out at Oliver, like an army of voles across the lawns of Hartwood House. It didn’t seem to matter what event he attended, there was always a cousin hovering about with a list of prepared grievances in regard to Mrs. Barnes.

“I doubt she will drink both glasses of champagne,” a lady in red whispered to a friend as Oliver stepped onto the terrace. “She must have a lover waiting in the garden. Or more than one.” A giggle. “I’m told the incident at Mrs. Harris’s home…”

The woman’s words faded as Oliver jogged down the steps into the garden, jaw hard, intent on finding Celia. If she was lolling about in the grass once more with the weak excuse of star gazing, Oliver would drag her out and toss her in his carriage. She had been warned not to cause any talk, and she’d unwisely chosen to wander about with two glasses of champagne into the dark depths of the garden to meet a lover, not bothering to be discreet.

If she was out here with Elliot?—

“Your Grace.” A pained sigh came from beneath the willow tree to his left. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you following me about.” Celia tipped her head back to take a swallow of the champagne held in one hand. “No impropriety. No assignation.” She carelessly fluttered her fingers in the direction of the house. “Feel free to return to Lady Helen.”

“Mrs. Barnes.” The pressure inside Oliver eased even as he scanned the bushes behind her for any sign of Elliot or another gentleman.

“I’m quite alone, Your Grace.” The champagne flute was tilted to her lips once more, the irritated cast to her features difficult to miss. “I am only dallying with Wolbrook’s excellent champagne.”

The moonlight lit her beautiful face, shadowing along her cheeks and neck. Oliver drank in the sight of her, his heart thumping harder than it had been moments before.

When had she become beautiful and not merely pretty?

“I—grew concerned,” came his bland reply. “When Musgrove didn’t return you.”

To me .

“Return me?” Celia laughed softly. “I am not a package, Your Grace. Or a book you have borrowed. Though I can’t imagine what you read. Not novels. Too exciting for you. Probably something dull. Animal husbandry. Or woodworking techniques. The evolution of trout fishing.” A twinkle of mischief flashed in her eyes.

Hazel . Celia’s eyes weren’t merely brown but held flecks of green and gold hovering in their depths. Sparkling back at Oliver when he pinned this outrageous, unapologetic creature to the wall, his mouth on hers.

“None of those,” he answered, unsettled at the direction of his thoughts. He couldn’t for the life of him recall the color of Helen’s eyes. “I prefer history.”

“Drier and duller. Battles, spears, armies. Men marching off to do their duty.” She made a dismissive sound. “Carving out their enemies. Suits you, I suppose. Why are you here, Your Grace? Speaking of duty, I’ve done mine this evening. I believe I’ve earned my champagne and a moment to myself.”

“You’re speaking of Musgrove.” Oliver had difficulty looking at anything other than her mouth, remembering the way her lips had unfurled beneath his. He recalled her taste. The sounds she’d made. The warm scent of her skin.

“He collects ferns, Your Grace. Ferns ,” Celia stated again with more emphasis.

“I heard you the first time, Mrs. Barnes.”

A spray of lovely reddish gold curls dangled along the side of her neck. Such a marvelous color. Unique and rare.

Oliver pressed the pads of his fingers into his thighs. If he didn’t stop this descent into madness, he’d touch Celia.

“That is not the least of his sins. Lord Musgrove also belongs to a society which does nothing but speak about the raising of ferns beneath glass domes. I can think of at least three dozen other activities on which I would rather spend my time. Taxidermy, for instance.”

“Taxidermy?”

“The stuffing of dead things.” Celia twirled a finger. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m aware of taxidermy, Mrs. Barnes.”

“At any rate.” She gave an elegant roll of her shoulders. “We have little in common. I can say, with all confidence, we do not suit. Your Grace. I am a grand seductress, after all,” she said ruefully. “Mere steps from becoming a courtesan, and he is in love with Stag’s Feet.”

“Stag’s Feet.”

“The fern, Your Grace.” She gave him an impish smile and took another sip from her glass. “Ferns are possessed of an assortment of clever names, which was the only interesting thing Musgrove said.” Celia shook her head. “Really, what you must think of me.”

Lilies caught in his nose as the breeze shifted. “He is an acquaintance of Atherby.” Oliver tried not to stare at her mouth.

“That explains it.” A throaty, soft chuckle sounded, one Oliver felt deep inside his bones. “Atherby is a stick in the mud. Reminds me of someone,” she said, eyes wide with innocence. “I’m sure you can’t imagine who.”

“I am not nearly as intolerable as Atherby,” he insisted with a frown, not completely immune to her teasing.

“I suppose we will agree to disagree, Your Grace. Do not ask me to receive him if he calls. He reminds me of a rodent.”

“Who, Atherby?”

“Oh, good lord, Your Grace. Are you making a jest? I can hardly believe it.” She laughed once more, not at all bothered by Oliver’s stern demeanor or the threat of Musgrove.

An ache made itself known in his chest. One he didn’t want. Hadn’t asked for.

This is not a welcome development.

“It’s the mustache,” Celia insisted. “Overly large and ridiculous with those waxed, pointed tips. Given his obsession, you might imagine he would leave the hair on his face to resemble one of his ferns.”

“An ostrich fern? Think of the plumage,” he quipped.

“Your Grace. Stop.” Celia tossed her head in surprise. “Or I will think you possess a sense of humor.” Warmth came from her, reaching out for Oliver, as if he’d just stepped before a fire.

“Perish the thought.” He did have a sense of humor. But as a duke, it was preferrable to project a more serious demeanor. Respect was far more important than amusement. “I won’t press you on Musgrove.”

“How kind of you, Your Grace.”

“I’m rarely kind. But I take your point.” Oliver sat down beside Celia. Not too close in case someone happened upon them. But there were no other guests in this part of the garden.

“How did you meet Percival Barnes?” he asked.

Celia was so…opposite from the type of girl Percival should have chosen. Oliver had never cared before, how she’d become a Barnes, but now he was curious. The duchess had not allowed any of the cousins to marry without her approval, but Oliver wasn’t of the same opinion. He had never been overly invested in the private lives of his family, as long as the Barnes name was protected.

Celia choked on her champagne. “Pardon. I—that is an unexpected question, Your Grace. But easy enough to answer. My brother, Lord Kensworth, knew Percival from his time at Harrow.” She shrugged. “Isn’t that how all such acquaintances are formed? At school?”

“Some.” Oliver recalled the giddy Kensworth at the wedding. Not a man who had been distressed about marrying off his sister. “Are you close? You and Kensworth?”

“No, Your Grace.” An edge entered her voice. “James is fifteen years my senior and nearly as humorless as you. I’m sure you can imagine how well we got on. He did teach me to fish, though, so that is something. Do you fish, Your Grace?”

A nice deflection from the topic of Kensworth.

“No, I never learned,” he admitted.

The duchess considered fishing far too common an activity for a duke. Hunting was approved, mainly because Hartwood House boasted several gamekeepers, but mucking about in a stream or pond, touching worms and fish, was not.

“I am…an only child,” Oliver said. He rarely spoke of his family to anyone. Only Edmonds, on occasion. There simply wasn’t much to say. “I inherited when I was ten. I had little time for hobbies after that.” No, his life had become an unending list of responsibility, duty and restraint. Dukes didn’t run about learning to fish.

“Ten?” Celia turned on him. “So young to have such obligation thrust upon you. You attended Eton as a duke.”

“I did. For a time.” The day the duchess had decreed it was a deterrent to Oliver’s future for him to mingle with the other boys would forever be burned into his memory. The dressing down she’d given him before everyone, including the headmaster, for the unpardonable sin of having dirt on his boot had been both humiliating and unnecessary. He’d only just come back from riding. The duchess had then made her way into the room Oliver shared with two others, shaking in fury at the sight of his unmade bed. The scatter of books. The paper on his desk where he’d drawn a caricature of one of his teachers.

A duke is fastidious .

“The duchess deemed Eton to be unnecessary for my future. I had a private tutor afterward.”

Something passed across Celia’s face that looked very much like pity. Her hand stretched towards his but retreated before touching him. “A lonely childhood.”

“I had duties,” he snapped, appalled that Celia, of all people, might feel sorry for him. The Duke of Hartwood. “The management of estates, of which there are many, took a great deal of time. I had much to learn. There were investments. Financial matters…” He waved a hand. “I was looked to. Depended on. By all the Barnes cousins.”

The duchess had demanded it.

“You were ten. A boy.” This time, her hand didn’t retreat. The tip of her forefinger traced lightly along the edge of his.

Oliver snatched his hand away as if he’d been singed. He didn’t want Celia’s pity, she the ruiner of the Barnes name and reputation. A woman he didn’t even like?—

“Don’t. I require neither your sympathy nor your comfort.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said in a slightly wounded tone. “I tend to be overfamiliar.”

“Exactly.” He inched away from Celia, rubbing the edge of his hand where she’d touched him, deciding he didn’t care if he had hurt her feelings. Celia was a burden . A chore. One he needed to hand off to another gentleman as soon as humanly possible before she destroyed his entire family with her carelessness.

“I believe that is the crux of the problem.”

She swallowed back the remainder of her champagne and set both glasses down on the bench for one of Wolbrook’s servants to find in the morning. “My temples have started to pound, Your Grace,” she stated in a bored tone, once more composed. Bland. The same politeness she reserved for Claremont and his wife.

He’d done that. Dulled Celia. “Probably the champagne.”

“Dancing with Lord Musgrove was quite taxing,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “He does not dance well. Possibly one of my toes is broken. My apologies, but I believe I will return home.”

“You do not have my permission,” Oliver reminded her.

“I don’t believe I asked for it, Your Grace.” Celia stood. “I am not one of the Barnes cousins who hangs on your every word, salivating for your permission to do the smallest things. Such as leaving a ball that has ceased to hold my interest. Nor Lady Helen, who would never disagree with any word you utter.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” he growled. “I must insist?—”

“Insist?” The word came out like a slap. “I would like to remind you, Your Grace, that while you may be a duke, you are not my guardian,” she stated. “Nor are you my husband, brother or, really, any relation to me whatsoever. I did as you commanded. No scandal. No assignations. I danced with Musgrove. Now I am returning home. Should you wish to stop me, feel free to cause a scene.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” he growled.

Celia ignored him, hips twitching in anger as she made her way back down the path towards the house. Hands fisted at her sides. Probably cursing him under her breath.

He watched until she disappeared back up the steps to the terrace, his own hands splayed out on either side of the bench, fingers biting into the stone. Now that she was gone with so little fuss, Oliver was free to enjoy the remainder of the evening with little concern that Celia would do something to invite gossip.

His fingers drummed on the stone.

What did it matter that she’d gone? Her injured feelings were not his concern.

Oliver frowned at the willow tree.

“Damn it,” he hissed before coming to his feet to chase after the one woman in the world he should not.