Page 16 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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“ R ude. Obnoxious. Incapable of feeling,” Celia said under her breath.

She refused to feel any more sympathy for Hartwood. No matter that his upbringing under the tender care of the Duchess of Hartwood had to have been…unpleasant. One only had to note his devotion to perfection and his obsessive attention to tidiness to understand the sort of mother the duchess must have been.

I nearly felt sorry for him.

The attraction between them had hummed against her skin in the garden, and Celia could still feel it, making her want to seek him out once more. Another reason for her to return home.

As she made her way to Claremont’s carriage, footsteps sounded behind her, but Celia didn’t bother to turn around. Footmen and grooms were rushing about, along with guests leaving or arriving for the evening. Nor would anyone be chasing her. She doubted Claremont or Dulcetta would even notice she was missing. Or care.

Hopefully, whoever dogged her steps wasn’t Musgrove. She had no desire to further their acquaintance or see his bloody ferns.

“Celia.” A snarl came from behind her just as she approached the carriage. “Stop. I demand you stop this instant.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned. “Am I a horse, Your Grace?” Good lord, could he not leave her be? “First, I am to be returned , now I am commanded to halt. What is next? Will you order me when to eat? How to walk? Oh, I know. You’ll instruct me in the proper way to organize my sideboard.”

“I wish to…offer an apology,” he said in a stiff tone.

“You do?” Hartwood did not strike her as the apologetic sort. “You chased me out here to apologize? More likely you wanted to make sure I didn’t stop and bed a footman.”

Hartwood looked away, jaw tight. “I regret the breach of propriety which occurred in your drawing room when I last called. An unwelcome event for which I take full responsibility.”

An unwelcome event. Like an illness. Or a carriage accident. What a horrible way to describe such a magnificent bloody kiss. Not flattering at all.

“You’re joking,” Celia returned lightly, trying to put pressure on yet another, unexpected wound. “Oh, wait, that can’t be the case because you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“I am trying to make amends,” he ground out. “I should have done so earlier, in the garden. I meant to. My conduct that day was dishonorable and?—”

“Let me assuage your sense of honor or”—Celia interrupted with a raised hand—“whatever else dictates regret over your actions. Allow me to speed things along, Your Grace, as my temples ache most dreadfully and I desire to be away from you.”

Not entirely true. She’d wanted to be enveloped in all that bergamot warmth earlier. But he’d ruined it.

“You are appalled at your horrifying lack of control. Possibly you returned home and flagellated yourself for hours as punishment. I’ve heard of such things.”

“Flagellated myself?” he bit out.

“Using a whip of some sort. I’m not certain how such things are done, nor do I care to. But that is beside the point. You wish to assure me that it will never happen again. You don’t know what came over you. I’ll assume that I compelled you, much like a siren of Greek mythology, to behave in a manner which goes against every bone of your unbending body. Am I right?”

Celia exhaled, the air catching in her lungs, wishing she had something to toss at his arrogant head.

“And you do not wish your actions to harm Lady Helen and thus beg for my discretion.” She raised a brow. “Did I miss anything, Your Grace?”

“There is no need to be flippant, Celia,” he murmured.

The use of her name. The soft sound of him. Made things that much worse.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” she snapped back. “Rest assured, you are not the first gentleman I’ve kissed, Your Grace. Nor will you be the last.”

Hartwood’s beautiful mouth curled up like a knot, as if he had to take on a particularly distasteful task. Or was looking at the placement of the clock on her mantel. “Good to know.”

“It was just a kiss. Stop behaving as if you bedded me while Lady Helen was standing in the foyer. Frankly, it is somewhat insulting.” Celia hadn’t meant to say the last part. But there was nothing worse than an apology for the most glorious kiss of her life. Or having the man who had bestowed it regretting that he had.

Not regret, she decided. Utter mortification .

“I will see you home,” Hartwood said quietly. “My carriage is just over there.”

“I do not need to be seen home, Your Grace. It isn’t necessary.” Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Find a Barnes cousin to upbraid this evening.

“ I find it necessary,” he growled, taking her arm.

“Fine. Do what you wish,” she finally said, exhausted with this evening, with him and the entire turn her life had taken. “I grow weary of being subjected to the whims of the glorious Duke of Hartwood.”

He led Celia to his carriage, which was farther up the line because he was a bloody duke. That made her angry all over again.

“What about Lady Helen?” she asked. “Lord Atherby? Neither will be pleased you didn’t manage to toss me at Musgrove. Or is he waiting inside your carriage along with a vicar?”

“You aren’t nearly as amusing as you imagine.” Hartwood stopped before his carriage, nodding at the driver. “Get in.”

Celia ignored his outstretched hand with a sniff and settled herself without his help.

Hartwood’s carriage was a far more luxurious vehicle than that of Lord Claremont. The leather seats were well cushioned and embossed with his crest, just as the shiny black exterior had been. Celia crossed her ankles and placed her hands in her lap.

The duke settled across from her, filling the carriage with his larger, delicious smelling form. How she wished he reeked of cigar smoke. Or gin, perhaps. Something completely distasteful.

“I’ve never been referred to as glorious before,” he said, across from her.

“Hard to imagine,” Celia shot back. “Given your pleasing personality.” Truth be told, her temples were beginning to ache. What a disaster tonight had been. She might never leave her home again. Which would greatly please Hartwood.

I will do nothing that pleases him.

“I have an acquaintance whom I believe you’ll like better than Musgrove. Lord Pratmore. He’s a viscount.”

Celia turned away from him to look out the window. One marriage had been quite enough. Hartwood could play matchmaker all he liked, but she had no intention of taking another husband. She had been dictated to her entire life. Ignored. Her feelings and opinions deemed unimportant. Never in control of her own existence. And now that she had her freedom, Celia wasn’t about to give it up.

“You will obey me, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Will I?” She glared at him. “We’ll see.”

The tension inside the small space intensified, like a roll of thunder before a storm. Hartwood adjusted his cravat. His coat. Brushed non-existent bits of lint from his sleeve.

Good lord, he was fussy.

He looked exactly as he had in the drawing room, arguing with her over that clock. Just before?—

“Damn. It.” Hartwood hissed before grabbing Celia and pulling her across the aisle. He flipped her over, pushing her against his thighs before she was even aware of what he was doing. Now all she could see was the carriage floor and his well-shined boots.

“Let me up this instant,” she sputtered in shock.

“If you insist on behaving like a child,” he snarled at her. “I will treat you as one.” Without further ado, the Duke of Hartwood lifted Celia’s skirts to her waist. The cooler air ghosted over her underthings, teasing at the opening in the fabric.

“Are you insane?” she screeched, smacking at him with a fist.

The flat of his palm struck her backside, the sting stealing her breath.

Dear lord, that hurt.

“I am not a bloody child. Let me up this instant.” Celia kicked her feet.

Another sting of his palm had her pounding at his thighs. “Stop this instant, you bastard.”

Something curled deep inside Celia, throbbing and twisting.

“Such vulgarity, Celia. Worthy of another stroke.” His palm stayed, the heat from his hand sinking through the cotton covering her. One finger was very close to…well, parts of her person . His fingers stretched. Tightened. Pulled at her flesh. Settling over the sting.

More warmth spread along Celia’s backside. The twist inside her unwound to spill between her thighs. Fluttering madly.

Puffing in horror at her reaction, she struggled to get off his lap.

“I warned you.” There was no threat to his words. No anger. His fingers continued to caress her stinging flesh. A pained sound left him. “You are…most definitely not a child.” Another soft groan as he cupped one cheek, squeezing and rubbing his fingers over the rise of flesh.

Celia shut her eyes. She was aching and damp. Evidence that having a duke resort to disciplining her like a wayward child aroused her.

He’d probably apologize later.

“Your Grace…” The words ended in a soft moan as his fingers dipped lower, drawing along her slit. “This is rather unseemly.”

“I’m aware.” He shifted slightly until her hips tilted forward, offering him more access to her body. One finger stroked gently, drawing teasing circles against the wetness before sliding inside her.

Oh .

Another moan came from her as a second finger joined the first.

Celia had explored in the general area, learned how to make herself climax with some effort, but it had felt nothing like this slow drag of desire. Her head fell forward, breath coming in soft pants.

“Dear God, tell me to stop, Celia,” Hartwood pleaded as his fingers curled inside her, touching a spot Celia hadn’t even known existed. His fingers retreated, only to toy along the wet slide of her body, teasing at a particularly sensitive part.

Celia jolted. Panted. Pressed into his hand.

“I don’t think I will, Your Grace.” She arched her spine, begging for more. His fingers thrust inside her again, stroking and teasing. And Celia thought of nothing. Not their hostility towards each other. Nor their dislike. Only the pleasure he gave her.

The hard length of him, like an iron bar, pressed into her hip.

Celia deliberately rolled her body, pressing against the spot.

“Damn it,” he hissed.

“More. Please,” she whispered, swiveling her hips. “More.”

“What are you doing to me?” He nuzzled the back of Celia’s neck, nipping gently at her skin, sending a ripple down her spine.

“I don’t like you,” Celia whimpered, wanting Hartwood to run his teeth over her entire body. Bite her. Nibble at her skin. Keep those marvelous fingers focused on their mission.

He pressed an openmouthed kiss just beneath one ear, his free hand on the back of her neck while she writhed on his lap. “I don’t like you either.”

“At last,” she choked as the most delicious tension built inside her, stirring along the base of her spine. “We are in agreement.”

Hartwood’s fingers glided over her wetness, caressing her slick flesh, teasing at the spot only Celia had ever touched. This was sinful and wicked. Perfect in the very worst way. The carriage rocked as they turned a corner, pushing his fingers deeper.

Sounds came from Celia. Whimpers of pleasure. Breathless begging.

This was far better than anything she’d ever attempted on her own.

Those marvelous fingers brought her so close to pleasure, Celia thought she might shatter, before the movement slowed and retreated into soft strokes, deliberately avoiding her most sensitive areas.

“Please,” she begged shamefully, nearly weeping as his fingers caressed her again, only to once more stop as her body tightened. A grunt of frustration left her. One of her hands slapped at his leg.

“Where is your defiance now?” Hartwood toyed with her sensitive flesh, his thumb doing the most amazing things until Celia whimpered. “Will you come if I command it?”

“You arrogant—” She choked, unable to get the words out.

“I want you to say my name.” His teeth scraped the side of her neck. “ Oliver . Say it.”

Celia clamped her lips shut, a cry escaping her as three fingers pressed inside her, thumb still teasing with small strokes.

“So difficult,” he said against her skin. “Say my name.”

“Oliver,” she panted as the lower half of her body clenched, the buds of her nipples tightening painfully beneath the layers of her gown. “Oliver.”

Another deliberate stroke of his thumb, the fingers inside her curling.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Tightening the hold on her neck, he finally allowed Celia her pleasure. She climaxed, most spectacularly, in the Duke of Hartwood’s lap, screaming out his name, legs kicking against the leather seat as fire blazed along the nerves of her body. The fact that she was in a carriage, sprawled across a man she had such distaste for?—

Oh, that’s not entirely true Celia, as the current situation proves.

—panting as she struggled to calm her breathing was…rather mortifying even after she had experienced such bliss at his hands.

“Celia.” Hartwood’s fingers glided along her trembling flesh, stroking her through the last echoes of her pleasure. His voice was rough with something desperate. “I?—”

The carriage came to an abrupt halt. A moment later, a sharp rap sounded on the door. “Your Grace, we’ve arrived.”

“A moment.” Hartwood cursed, slowly untangling himself from her. Fingers retreating. One hand slid regretfully down the edge of Celia’s thigh before straightening the layers of cotton and pulling down her skirts. He cleared his throat. Gently pushed her off his lap until Celia sat beside him.

Celia pressed her lips together. What does one say after such a spectacular, unexpected —well she wasn’t sure what to call it. “Oliver,” she dared.

He refused to look at her. Features once more cast in stone as he forcefully shut himself off, quickly erecting a wall between them. The mood inside the carriage changed in an instant. The earlier intimacy fading as if it had never existed and replaced with a rigid chill that had Celia hugging her arms.

“Good evening, Mrs. Barnes.” The words dripped with ice.

She opened her mouth to toss some parting quip at him but found nothing clever to say. The attraction between them sparked and flared in the dark carriage, though neither dared indulge it once more. This was quite different from a somewhat violent kiss in the safety of her drawing room.

Frankly, Celia had no idea what to think.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said.

Only moments ago, she’d been gasping his name in pleasure, and now he purposefully tilted his chin in the opposite direction, as if he could no longer stomach the sight of her. Celia studied his profile. The strict stillness of his body, so taut she thought he might snap. His reluctance to look at her. The way his fingers clenched against his thighs.

Celia glanced down. Took in the tenting of his trousers, no matter that Hartwood attempted to hide his arousal with the corner of his coat.

“Very well,” she said under her breath, wishing again there was something cleverly snide she could hurl at him. But there was nothing, other than the deep ache of pleasure she’d experienced at his hands.

The footman swung open the door and helped Celia out. Hartwood certainly wasn’t going to do it. He hadn’t even moved. Her legs were unsteady as she exited, still aching from the force of her climax and the touch of his fingers. Taking a deep breath, she started up the steps to her home.

“Mrs. Barnes.”

Celia halted, feeling the cold stone beneath her slippers, knowing, somehow, what Hartwood might say and already hating him for it. Celia had no regrets over what transpired, although she expected the duke did. Not because he didn’t desire her, but because he did.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she said without turning.

“I’ve arranged a meeting with Lord Pratmore.”

The precise, clipped tone echoed in the darkness. One would never guess he was so skilled at pleasuring a woman. Had you asked Celia an hour ago, she would have laughed and said such a thing was impossible.

“See that you are dressed appropriately for a horseback ride through the park,” he commanded. “Two days hence.”

She struggled to hold on to the bliss from moments ago, wanting to bask in the feeling for only another moment before Hartwood stomped all over it. “I don’t enjoy riding, Your Grace.” Celia said over her shoulder. “Nor do I care to meet Lord Pratmore. But I thank you for the invitation.”

Heartlesswood . He did the name proud.

“Nevertheless, you will do both. Ten o’clock. I won’t tolerate tardiness.”

Perhaps he’d punish her again .

Vastly enjoyable, despite the aftermath.

Celia shivered even as her shoulders drew together. “I don’t believe this to be an appropriate time to discuss a meeting with Lord Pratmore. Given?—”

“There is no reason to delay your acquaintance with Pratmore,” Hartwood interjected.

Having pleasured me in your carriage isn’t reason enough, apparently.

“I’ll send a note tomorrow,” he finished. “As a reminder. And do something about the shrubs surrounding the front of your home, Mrs. Barnes. The shape is all wrong. Find a better gardener, or I will.”

The carriage door slammed shut.

“Arrogant, domineering prig,” she whispered as the carriage rolled away. “Possibly not prig,” she muttered. “Not after— that .” Carnal was a better word for the Duke of Hartwood. Unexpectedly carnal. Preceded by a most spectacular loss of control. Again.

Kemp opened the door at her approach. “Madam.”

“Good evening, Kemp. I see your shock that I am home so early. The ball was tedious. The company of Claremont and Hartwood even more so.” Now instead of reliving those stolen moments in the carriage, Celia would have to contend with Lord Pratmore and a ride through the park. She stepped inside and started up the stairs.

“Kemp…” Celia paused on the top step. “The duke doesn’t care for the shape of the hawthorn bushes. Have the gardener reshape them all into animals.”

“Animals, Mrs. Barnes?” Kemp looked askance. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Rats, perhaps. Or possibly a rabbit.”

Kemp’s brows raised up into his hairline. “I do not think the duke will approve.”

“Exactly,” she said, marching up the stairs. “See if the gardener can do a hedgehog.”

Oliver’s blood pounded in his ears as the carriage pulled away from Celia’s home, so loud it muffled the sound of the horse’s hooves against the cobblestone streets. Her arousal still coated his fingers. The scent of her, sex and lilies, permeated the small space of the vehicle.

He shut his eyes.

Now every time he sat in this bloody conveyance, her would think of her.

My intent was that if Celia behaved like a child, I would treat her as one .

He looked down at his cock, straining within the confines of his trousers.

Once more, Oliver had lost control where Celia Barnes was concerned. Thank goodness for divine intervention, which had them arriving at her home before he could?—

Leaning back against the leather, he tried to compose himself, which was difficult given that any sharp movement might result in injury, given the state of his cock.

He’d… spanked Celia. Pulled her onto his lap. Touched her quim. Behaved like some lust-filled, depraved libertine.

I only wanted to make a point.

A derisive laugh echoed in the confines of the carriage. “If the point was that I want her in my bed, I believe it has been made.”

A warm tingling sensation pricked at his skin, and—he rubbed his palm over the hard length threatening to burst free of his trousers, wishing it was Celia who touched him.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled, snatching away his hand.

A duke did not fall prey to his baser urges.

This was no small itch that must be scratched. No minor inclination of his. Oliver desired Celia Barnes with a sort of gnawing hunger that refused to go away. In fact, the yearning for her only intensified with every encounter.

Perhaps it had started when Oliver first spied her in the church on her wedding day, watching the sun glance off her bright hair. Or after he’d stormed into Celia’s bedroom demanding her obedience while inhaling her scent and stepping over her bloody stockings.

It didn’t really matter how this need had come about. Only that it ended.

There wasn’t a worse woman in all of England for Oliver to lust after. Another lapse in judgement of this magnitude could not happen under any circumstances. The best thing he could do for the entire Barnes family would be to find Celia a husband. Never see her again. He could marry Lady Helen and return to his relatively peaceful existence in the country, where no one referred to him as Heartlesswood.

Lord Pratmore was as good a candidate as any other to be Celia’s husband. Better than Musgrove, to be sure. The viscount was wealthy. Respected. Did not collect ferns. He was a solid choice. Thankfully, the introduction to Pratmore had been arranged before tonight’s debacle, else Oliver might have wavered in acquainting them. A casual ride through the park was suitable because Pratmore was something of an equestrian. Oliver would make introductions and depart, leaving her to the viscount’s care. The Celia problem would be resolved.

Oliver scratched at his chest, at the pinch of the skin above his heart.

Only a weak man gives in to his indulgences.

Mother had hissed those words at Oliver while he hovered over a chamber pot after eating an entire bag of chocolate cream drops. His favorite. He’d hidden his obsession from the duchess, knowing she would not approve, but one of the maids had found a pouch under his bed. The duchess had forced Oliver to eat the entire bag while she watched. At which point he had become so ill, a physician had had to be called.

A reminder on the dangers of excess and the inability to curb one’s urges.

Celia was very much like a chocolate cream drop. Not good for Oliver. Destined to make him ill.

Oliver stared out the window. He rarely thought of the duchess—at least, not with any fondness. At times it was as if she were still among the living, her strident, strict rebukes commanding him from the grave, whispering into his thoughts. Unnecessary since her rules had been engraved into his bones.

If a duke cannot control himself, how can he expect to control those around him?

Right now, the duchess was probably seething over Oliver’s behavior from her throne in Hell. Because he was fairly certain that’s where her soul had landed. Probably terrorizing the Devil at this very moment.

“Return me to Lord Wolbrook’s,” Oliver instructed his driver with a sharp rap on the roof, wanting to go home and knowing he could not. His absence would have been noted by now. Atherby would be looking for him. Claremont. Lady Helen. They would wonder at his disappearance and possibly Celia’s.

And the last thing Oliver wished to do was cause talk.