Page 17 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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“ O ne should always look beautiful when going to meet their death,” Celia whispered under her breath as she came down the stairs, prepared to ride a horse for the first time since she was a child.

If His Dourness had asked, Celia would have informed the duke she could barely sit a horse, a skill at which, as a lady raised in the country, many would imagine she excelled. But Celia did not. She was also equally terrible at embroidery, gardening, and artistic endeavors.

Also, Mama had fallen from a horse.

Celia’s eyes fluttered shut, palm pressed over her chest, telling her heart she was no longer a child watching the person she loved best in the world die.

Debra, Lady Kensworth had been beautiful. Full of life. Laughing gaily even as she marched to the mounting block to sit on the black stallion. Zeus had been his name, and Celia had woven ribbons in the mane of that murderous horse. The air had been full of Mama singing a tune while she galloped off.

Until the crack of her neck snapping silenced her forever.

Thus, Celia had a rather uncomfortable relationship with horses. She liked the animals just fine as long as she wasn’t in a bloody sidesaddle atop one. Another thing with which she took issue: sidesaddles. Society was far more concerned with a woman’s modesty than her safety.

“I would rather suffer the same fate as my mother than inform Hartwood I do not ride. Which he will not accept, at any rate. It will serve him right if I go tumbling to my death. I’ll become a ghost and haunt him,” she muttered while the groom, Meeks, helped her into the saddle.

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing, Meeks,” she tried to smile. “Just saying a prayer for my deliverance.” Her fingers curled around the reins.

“Daisy is a gentle thing, ma’am,” Meeks assured her, mounting his own horse. He would escort her to the park, where Heartlesswood and Lord Pratmore waited. “She won’t cause you any problems. Docile as a lamb.”

“Wonderful.” Celia gave him a brave smile.

If nothing else, the forest green riding habit was a stunning creation. She couldn’t fault the way the fabric draped over her curves. Madame Lucien had outdone herself. Jet beads decorated the shoulders and hem, swinging jauntily as Daisy moved forward.

A funeral march, of sorts.

Celia adjusted her skirts, making sure to drape them properly over the sidesaddle. A matching hat was perched atop her curls, and her boots, never worn before this auspicious occasion, were so finely polished, Celia could see her reflection.

Hartwood would have nothing whatsoever to complain about.

“Oh, he’ll find something.” She adjusted her seat on the sidesaddle, her stomach a bundle of nerves.

Celia had given a great deal of thought to what had transpired in Hartwood’s carriage and, prior to that, in her drawing room. The conclusion she’d reached, after reliving every pleasure-filled minute, was that against all odds, their mutual dislike, and his overbearing personality, real attraction existed between them.

Celia was drawn to every unyielding inch of Hartwood. Feelings on her part might even be involved, which was rather unsettling. It was a strange paradox to desire Hartwood and yet be annoyed with him at the same time. Her friend Eleanor, in her wisdom gained from having had four suitors to Celia’s one, often claimed that opposites were attracted to each other.

Celia thought that to be utter rubbish. If that were true, she’d be enthralled with Musgrove.

She adjusted the placement of her boots in the stirrups once more, nervously plucking at the draping of her skirts.

If she thought too long about Hartwood, her mind would venture to the shape of his lovely mouth or the pleasure to be had from his marvelous fingers. The ache between her thighs might become so insistent she’d fall off this blasted horse. Daisy. The method of her execution.

Swallowing down her fear, Celia drew her focus from physical matters to focus on the beast she rode and maintaining her balance. Riding sidesaddle, in her opinion, required far more skill to remain seated than riding astride, though she wasn’t good at that either. Mama had been riding sidesaddle the day she’d died. James, newly pompous after months in London, had insisted to Father what an unladylike disgrace it would be for Lady Kensworth to be seen riding astride.

Another hitch in her chest.

Father never forgave himself for allowing her to ride Zeus. Or insisting on that bloody sidesaddle. He died barely a year later, grieving Mama with his last breath. Leaving Celia with…James.

She sighed and patted the side of Daisy’s neck. “No trouble today, Daisy. Please. Do your part to make sure I don’t break my neck, if you don’t mind. I promise an apple or two in return.”

Meeks had assured her that the mare was exceptionally tame. The biggest concern would be in making sure she didn’t stop every few feet to munch on the grass.

And if she was thrown from Daisy and broke her neck, which Celia expected to be, the entire Barnes family would rejoice in their good fortune. Including Hartwood.

I will not give them the satisfaction . Her grip on the reins tightened.

“Rearranging my drawing room and my life to suit him. Trying to marry me off while I’m forced to sit atop a horse. Doing…things to my person.” Celia cursed the duke under her breath as Meeks led Daisy along the edge of the park where the source of her irritation waited.

“I’m to wait here for you, Mrs. Barnes.” Meeks stopped, nodding in the direction of Hartwood.

Good lord, I hope I survive that long.

Perspiration gathered between her breasts and under her arms as Daisy moved forward. Her fingers trembled on the reins. She might well be ill.

“Mrs. Barnes.”

Celia composed her features into extreme boredom before glancing towards Hartwood. As expected, he sat his horse perfectly, striking and powerful, like a general about to ride into battle. The leather of his riding breeches stretched taut over muscular thighs. He shifted in the saddle, causing all that strapping sinew to ripple beneath the leather, reminding Celia how it had felt to be draped over those hard thighs as Hartwood pleasured her in the carriage.

Good God, Celia. Look away.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him. “How delightful.”

Hartwood didn’t flinch from her sarcasm, piercing her with his own bored look. His eyes were the color of burnished walnut today, not the lighter shade Celia preferred, though there were still bits of gold sparkling in the dark depths. He was rather glorious. An unyielding piece of stone without a heart, but still blinding in his brilliance.

“I’ll return Mrs. Barnes shortly.” Hartwood dismissed Meeks before turning back to her. “Shall we?” The duke walked his horse in the direction of a nearby pond, the path winding through a spray of trees.

Good. Walking of the horses. She could do that.

“Pratmore will be coming from the opposite direction.”

The heel of her boot became stuck for a moment, which had Celia taking in the ground so far beneath her feet. Maybe her neck wouldn’t snap if the horses were walking. She would merely be dragged along the grass. “Splendid.” Bile surged in her stomach.

“Are you ill, Mrs. Barnes?” Hartwood inquired. “You’re pale. More so than usual.”

“Compliments such as yours will make me blush, Your Grace,” Celia shot back, forcing her eyes up. “No wonder Lady Helen is so enamored. Your charm is irresistible.”

His nostrils flared in annoyance. Lovely mouth puckering in displeasure. Impossible that his lips had so passionately fallen against her own. Or that those large fingers, now gripping the reins, stiff and correct, had caressed her in such a wonderful manner. Not to mention the climax he’d given her which?—

Celia jerked her gaze away from Hartwood. He assumed she had multiple lovers. Was experienced in physical pleasure. Wouldn’t he be surprised to find no other man had ever touched her…most delicate parts. Not that she would ever tell him.

That sounds ridiculous, Celia. Delicate parts. Why not use quim? Cunny? Something ?—

“Are you sure you aren’t ill?” Hartwood leaned towards her, the dark slash of his brows drawn together.

“Positive,” she answered, as if Heartlesswood gave a fig for her comfort. “I haven’t ridden for some time, Your Grace.”

The frown deepened. “Mrs. Barnes, about the other evening?—”

Celia waved her hand. “I grow tired of your apologies.” Or the regret and distaste for having touched her. “Consider the matter forgotten.”

The line of his jaw grew harder, if that was possible. “I am not apologizing, Mrs. Barnes.” The gold of his eyes deepened on her. “I only meant to inform you that Lord Musgrove has returned to his estate.”

“I’m sure his ferns are thrilled,” she retorted. “The potted palms, overjoyed.”

The side of Hartwell’s stern mouth twitched. “Assuredly.” He turned his gaze forward. “I make no excuses for anything else.”

“Good,” Celia said in a lofty tone, softly urging Daisy forward. “There is nothing more insulting to a lady than…regret at a pleasurable experience, Your Grace.”

Hartwood made a sound beside her. Or it may have been his horse. Celia wasn’t certain. She was too busy trying not to fall.

“I look forward to making the acquaintance of Lord Pratmore,” she continued, attempting to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps he also indulges in poor behavior and unnecessary apologies. I suppose we’ll find out together.”

This time Celia was certain it was not Hartwood’s horse.

Lord Pratmore was indeed just a bit farther down the path. He was younger than she’d expected, of an age with Hartwood. Pratmore was attractive. Pleasant. And a widower with two young children.

After Hartwood made the introductions, he claimed to see someone he knew, leaving Celia and Pratmore alone. Thankfully, the viscount, who was an avid rider, kept his horse at a pace that matched Daisy’s. After an hour or so, Celia did not need to ask what had happened to Lady Pratmore, as after being in Pratmore’s company, she decided the viscount’s late wife had likely expired of boredom.

Hunting, not ferns, was the primary topic.

“An excellent hound is required for grouse hunting, in my opinion. I prefer a dog to a line of beaters driving the birds out. There is little sport in that.”

Celia nodded politely.

“Now, a fox hunt is far more appealing to me,” Pratmore continued.

“Watching a poor creature be run to ground by a pack of hounds who will then tear it apart?” Celia raised a brow. “My brother is something of an outdoorsman, my lord.”

“Then you are familiar, Mrs. Barnes, with the excitement of the chase.” Pratmore proceeded to list the poor creatures he’d managed to hunt to their demise, possibly assuming Celia found it interesting, oblivious to her complete lack of interest.

Boring and obtuse.

When Hartwood finally returned, after an agonizing recital of Pratmore’s pursuit of a deer, Celia was barely listening to him tell of his exploits. She wanted to return home. Wash the scent of horse from her person and indulge in a glass of brandy. Perhaps write to Eleanor, who was living happily with her collection of animals in the country. Celia kept meaning to pay a visit and now seemed as good a time as any to depart London for a less ducal environment.

No good would be served by further contact with Hartwood.

“I will call upon you, Mrs. Barnes,” Lord Pratmore said before he took his leave.

“Wonderful,” she smiled, knowing that when he did so, Celia would not be at home. She stretched a bit in the sidesaddle, feeling proud at not having fallen off Daisy, and glanced at Hartwood, who was scowling at Pratmore’s departing back.

“There’s no reason for your mood, Your Grace. I assure you I charmed Pratmore.” Not that the viscount suited her. No one did. Because she wasn’t going to marry again. Even if Hartwood tossed her out of her house.

I will feed Eleanor’s chickens, if I must. Or help Minerva establish her academy.

Hartwood didn’t answer, only continued to glare after Pratmore.

“This is ridiculous, Your Grace.” Her backside ached, though she felt a bit more confident in guiding her horse about, as long as the animal kept to a walk. She still didn’t care to look down. Seeing the ground move so far below made her dizzy.

“Riding?” Hartwood leaned back. “Clearly you don’t enjoy it.”

“You wouldn’t either if you were forced to use a sidesaddle,” she retorted. “Should you do so, your opinion of female equestrians would greatly increase, Your Grace.”

“You prefer to ride astride.” He raised a brow. “Why am I not surprised?”

If Celia did not risk falling off Daisy, she might have kicked Hartwood directly in his wonderfully muscular thighs.

Stop looking, Celia.

“What I would prefer is not to have to tolerate your attempts at finding me a suitor. You aren’t any good at it.” She tilted her head. “I did not enjoy Pratmore’s tales of chasing down and hunting creatures who have done nothing more than cross his path. He took great pleasure in describing the gorier details of a fox hunt to me.”

“You grew up in the country, Mrs. Barnes. I should think riding would be second nature to you. And hunting. At least Pratmore isn’t obsessed with ferns,” Hartwood explained. “I thought him a vast improvement over Musgrove. Nothing rodent-like about him whatsoever. Besides, every gentleman has a hobby of sorts.”

Daisy’s ears flicked as an insect landed atop one, shaking her head.

“Really? Do you have a hobby, Your Grace? Outside of attempting to marry off troublesome widows who bring censure to your family. Wait.” She held up a hand. “Allow me to guess. “Décor.”

“Décor?”

“The placement of furniture, for instance. Or clocks.” Celia shot him a glare. “I’m sure you have an opinion on cushions, if nothing else.”

“The clock is off center, Mrs. Barnes. The placement you insist upon destroys the balance of the entire drawing room. And the cushions gracing your settee are overly ornate. Stupidly tasseled. Vastly uncomfortable.”

A breeze blew across the park, ruffling the dark strands of his hair, which had started to curl around the curves of his ears. A tiny lift at the end of his lovely mouth told Celia he was enjoying himself, though she doubted he wished to.

Warmth, just a small amount, suffused her chest.

“I like clutter, Your Grace.”

Good God , did Hartwood tremble at the word?

“Crumbs.” He gripped the reins tighter. “Books out of order. The bloody clock.” Hartwood paused as if surprised he’d cursed. “A duke should have control over his environment.” His entire being grew stiff. “According to the Duchess of Hartwood.”

Ah. His mother.

“There is nothing wrong with a bit of chaos, as it happens. Perhaps that is the problem, Your Grace.” Celia warmed to her topic. “You are so rigid and unbending, I wonder at times that your spine doesn’t snap from the struggle to keep it so. Did you berate yourself for hours the other night after the horror of having touched me?”

Daisy shook her head around in a circle at the insect buzzing about her. A tiny bee.

“You voiced no objection, Mrs. Barnes. But I’m sure you are not a stranger to having liberties taken in a carriage. Dozens have likely preceded me,” he growled back, eyes frosty. “You are a well-trod path.”

Celia sucked in a breath. “You are the absolute worst?—”

The rest of her sentence ended in a shriek as Daisy, the most docile mare in existence, took off in a gallop. The mare headed straight down the path towards the pond, shaking her head madly, as a scream bubbled up Celia’s throat.

In addition to her poor riding skills, she also did not swim.

Her body started to slide backwards as her grip flailed on the reins.

Bloody sidesaddle.

Nothing but a deathtrap for any female stupid enough to be forced to use one. Her demise was imminent, the terror filling Celia insurmountable.

I’m going to break my neck just like my mother.

Daisy swerved from the pond, still shaking her head and gnashing her teeth. She bucked, but Celia managed to hang on, though she was quite far over the edge of the saddle. Then Daisy, blasted stupid animal, headed for a cluster of fallen trees, their remains scattered over the ground surrounded by what looked like berry bushes.

Wonderful. I shall fall and be torn apart by thorns.

“No, Daisy. No.” Celia, terrified and not sure what else to do, pulled back on the reins. The poor horse reared up once more in agitation.

If she survived this, she would murder Meeks in his sleep.

Daisy managed to see the pile of rotting limbs and veered once more, sending Celia flying over the horse’s side and into the thorny underbrush. She caught sight of an unripened blackberry moments before something sharp dug into the sleeve of her riding habit. Thorns caught at her skirts, refusing to let go, and Celia’s legs twisted about the fabric as she rolled. Her head thumped against a fallen log, far too rotted to do any real damage except to the colony of small insects living inside. A caterpillar of some sort landed on her chest as the air was knocked from her lungs.

A tiny sob came from Celia. She wiggled her fingers. Her toes. She might never stop shaking.

Not dead. I am not dead.

“Celia.” The stricken sound of her name followed by the crash of Hartwood moving through the underbrush met her ears. “Celia.”

Was he distraught? Celia blinked at the trees overhead. She could pretend to be dead, which would serve His Dourness right for having forced her onto a horse.

Warm hands ran over her shoulders as the duke’s face appeared above her, a frantic look in his eyes. He’d lost his hat. Mussed his hair. Goodness, he even had a tear in his coat.

He is entirely magnificent. Despite his personality.

“Are you hurt?” A hand gently poked at her ribs and stomach. “Celia, for God’s sake, say something.”

“I don’t care to ride,” she whispered.

A choked sound came from him as Hartwood pulled her into his arms, squeezing her to his chest. Celia sighed as all that muscled warmth embraced her. His breath was ragged against her ear. One hand cupped the back of her head, crushing her to him.

Still quite lovely, all things considered.

“Your Grace, if your plan is to smother me, you are succeeding,” she said into his coat.

Hartwood’s lips bushed across her temple. Or it might have been a leaf. Or another caterpillar. But Celia wanted to believe it was his mouth.

He loosened his hold but didn’t release her entirely. Abruptly, he turned, staring at something in the distance, just as he had in the carriage, sealing away that shocking spurt of emotion before she or anyone else might see it. When he finally turned back to her, Hartwood was once more composed. Eyes a deep gold, daring Celia to claim she’d witnessed his concern.

“I regret to inform you, Your Grace.” Celia sat up, annoyed and more than a little bit angry. “I’m only light-headed and somewhat bruised.” She pushed his hands away. “How disappointed the Barnes cousins will be to find I did not meet my demise while riding in the park. I’ll inform them you did try to solve the pertinent issue at hand.”

It was a cruel, unnecessary thing to say, but Celia took a great deal of satisfaction in the way he flinched.

“Stop hovering over me, Your Grace. I’m on the ground, my skirts are twisted about my legs. Very unseemly. You’ll cause talk. We can’t have that, can we?”

Hartwood’s features remained stony even as he gently plucked a twig out of her hair, eyes refusing to meet hers. “I suppose not. You should return home and rest. Have these scrapes tended to.” His voice was gruff, but his hands were gentle as he pulled Celia to her feet. Hartwood released her and turned away, body taut like a bowstring. “I’ll send my personal physician, Dr. Stemmons, to examine you.”

“I do not need a physician to tend to a few bruises.” Celia brushed at the bits of grass and dirt covering her skirts.

“You are getting one all the same,” he snapped at her before running a hand through the hair spilling across his brow. “You will stay here, Celia. I’ll send my carriage to retrieve you.” His eyes closed for a moment, one finger brushing gently across the top of her hand.

Celia inhaled softly at the light touch.

“Please,” Hartwood murmured, before striding away from her.

“I don’t need a physician,” she said, watching as the duke mounted his horse and rode off, splendid thighs gripping the saddle, his shoulders stiff with control. She wanted to ignore his dictates, to find Meeks and go home, but she did feel a bit bruised and unsteady. When the carriage arrived a short time later, accompanied by two of the duke’s burly footmen, Hartwood was nowhere in evidence.

“Well, I suppose that bump on my head led me to imagine his concern,” she snorted. “So much for his tender care.”

“Ma’am?” The footman, a fresh-faced lad with massive shoulders who looked all of twenty, addressed her. “His Grace will send Dr. Stemmons to attend you. We are to escort you home directly.” He bowed and helped her inside the vehicle.

“Wonderful.” She sat back against the leather seats of Hartwood’s lavish carriage, sniffing at the duke’s scent hovering in the air, ignoring the ache in her chest and the memory of the last time she’d been in this bloody vehicle.

Celia plucked a thorn from the sleeve of her riding habit.

He could have stayed with me.

She stared out the window, ignoring the way her heart ached for no good reason.