Page 18 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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O liver sat atop his horse some distance from where Celia had fallen, satisfied to see his carriage arrive. The urge to punch his footman for touching her had him gritting his teeth. The lad was only assisting her inside the carriage, not taking liberties.

Possessiveness, for a woman who was not Oliver’s, was entirely unnecessary.

His grip on the reins tightened.

A note had already been sent to Dr. Stemmons, who would examine Celia’s injuries, which were minor. She was safe. Unharmed. Perfectly fine, as evidenced by the barbs she had tossed in Oliver’s direction.

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 issue at hand.

A stifling weight sat on his chest. The panic, the heart-pounding fear, of seeing her fall from her horse had not left him. Not yet.

Celia honestly believed he would be grateful for her to be… extinguished .

A deep, shuddering breath left Oliver, a painful one. He turned his horse towards the exit from the park, not seeing the passing trees and ignoring the few souls brave enough to call out to him in greeting. The sight of Celia falling played over and over before his eyes. When she’d slipped from her horse, Oliver’s heart had ceased beating. He’d felt the blasted organ stop.

Dishonesty was something Oliver detested in any form. Especially the sort he seemed intent on practicing.

He arrived home sometime later in a foul temper—another biting reminder that he seemed to be losing control of himself—and went straight to his study.

“Your Grace?” Edmonds followed at his heels, a silver tray held aloft full of correspondence, invitations, requests to call upon him.

“Get rid of that.” He waved at the tray before marching straight to the sideboard. Pouring out an enormous glass of scotch, he took a swallow.

“Shall I assume…” Edmonds shut the door behind him. “That the meeting between Lord Pratmore and Mrs. Barnes did not go as planned?”

He rubbed his chest, willing that annoying pinch over his heart to go away.

“Your Grace? Are you well?”

Oliver went to one of the chairs before the fire and sat, staring into the flames as if they might offer him some sort of guidance. The tearing in his chest was brutal and unrelenting. He’d do anything to make it stop. He hadn’t felt?—

He sucked in another breath.

—such desolation since he’d watched two men from the village bring in his father’s body. Relief was all he’d felt when the duchess had died.

Rather terrible to admit. So he never had.

“Is that concern I hear in your voice, Edmonds?” he asked his butler, not looking away from the fire.

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace.” Edmonds moved to stand beside his chair, waiting for Oliver to speak.

“Pratmore will not suit Mrs. Barnes.” Oliver swallowed another mouthful of scotch, the burn on his tongue unable to blot out the ache in his chest.

“Pity, Your Grace. You will have to cast your net farther afield.”

Edmonds had never approved of the plan to threaten Celia to remarry. He had his own opinion on the matter because he saw far too much of everything and everyone, which included Oliver.

“There was an incident.” His throat felt raw. “Mrs. Barnes took a tumble from her horse.”

“Well, that would certainly solve all your problems, wouldn’t it, Your Grace.”

Oliver’s fingers tightened on the glass as he considered flinging the contents into the butler’s face. The words were nearly the same as Celia’s. The mere thought?—

“You are overfamiliar and impertinent. I should sack you.”

“You really should, Your Grace.” Edmonds sighed. “But you’ve repeatedly stated that Mrs. Barnes is a burden. A blight on the Barnes name. If fate took a hand in things…” He shrugged. “I expected you’d be pleased.”

“Shut. Up.” Oliver snarled. “I forbid you to speak of such things ever again.” He tried to take a breath, but the weight wouldn’t release from his chest. Celia could have died. Her body broken and sprawled among some bloody berry bushes in the park. And he would never—Oliver took another mouthful of the scotch, willing the thought away before it could take form.

Edmonds stood over him like a sentinel. “If I may be so bold, Your Grace.”

“Just say it, Edmonds. You’ve never been shy before about expressing your opinion.” Edmonds was the only person Oliver trusted implicitly, though he was merely a duke’s butler.

No, not only a servant , but…a friend. A rather good one, whom Oliver wasn’t sure he deserved.

Edmonds exhaled slowly. “I do not believe you wish to rid yourself of Mrs. Barnes.” The timbre of his voice was solemn, so unlike his usual sarcasm. “You— like her , Your Grace.”

“I do not.” The ache across Oliver’s chest dug teeth into his heart. “I don’t.”

“You speak of her more often than not, Your Grace. She takes up a great deal of your thoughts, much more so than…others.”

Such as Lady Helen.

“After being in the presence of Mrs. Barnes, you are in a state of annoyance. But also…dare I say it…somewhat pleased. Happy, even. I noticed after the Wolbrook ball.”

Oh, yes.

His brilliant plan to prove Celia was a child by punishing her as such. Instead, Oliver had pleasured her. An absolute and utter failure to prove his authority. He’d had to return to that stupid ball and make conversation with Helen and Atherby while his cock throbbed, his mind on Celia.

“What rubbish, Edmonds.”

“You speak of Mrs. Barnes far more frequently than you do Lady Helen.” The butler made a sound. “Your future duchess.”

Damn Edmonds. Oliver should send him to a penal colony.

“Lady Helen doesn’t annoy me as Mrs. Barnes does. She is demure. Polite. Absolutely perfect.”

“My point exactly,” Edmonds said, taking Oliver’s glass to refill it once more. “Perfection is overrated.”

Oliver allowed the words to settle along his skin, pricking and poking in a manner that had his jaw tightening. Celia had said much the same. “Mrs. Barnes neglected to inform me that she does not ride—she said only that she didn’t care for it. I—forced her to get on a bloody horse. Obey me.” The teeth in his heart twisted painfully.

“The duchess would have done so. Ordered Mrs. Barnes to ride.”

“Not exactly a compliment, is it?” he asked quietly.

Edmonds declined to answer. He didn’t have to.

Absently, Oliver ran a finger over the edge of the table, checking for dust as he did every day. But his study was impeccable, from the rugs to the leather sofa. Even the fire barely made a sound, as if the flames didn’t want to offend him.

The duchess had demanded that everything be well ordered. Flawless. Appearances were of the utmost importance. The opinions of those beneath her, which was nearly everyone since she was a duchess, were unnecessary. Humor was frivolous. Laughter nothing less than a lack of self-restraint. One’s emotions were to be kept under control. Better yet for unwelcome sentiments to be non-existent.

The duchess would have drowned Celia in the Serpentine today without a second thought.

“Mrs. Barnes is stubborn. She took a bad tumble today, and I am to blame. I doubt she will allow Dr. Stemmons to examine her properly—or take the good doctor’s advice.” Oliver knew what he wanted—to check on Celia. To see her. He suspected Edmonds knew as much.

“Oh dear, Your Grace. What will you do?”

“Could you not at least attempt to be more respectful? Pretend subservience? I am a duke, after all.” The side of Oliver’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile. “I should make sure Mrs. Barnes is well.”

“You look like a crocodile, Your Grace. One must broaden their lips to smile correctly. Shall I have word sent to Lord Atherby? I will assume you cannot attend the musicale tonight.”

“Regrettably. Something has come up.” Oliver had no desire to spend the evening at an event hosted by a desperate matron meant to show off her daughter’s mediocre skills on the piano. Not when Celia might be unwell and he the cause of it.

“Have flowers sent to Lady Helen by way of an apology.”

Edmonds bowed. “I shall do so immediately, Your Grace. And I’ll have the carriage brought around for your imminent departure.”

“I’m only calling upon Mrs. Barnes to ensure she is suffering no ill effects,” he said to his departing butler, though it shouldn’t matter what Edmonds thought.

“Of course, Your Grace. What other reason could there be?” Edmonds strolled out of the room. Whistling.