Page 19 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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C elia winced as her head bumped into the edge of the tub but continued to sink deeper into the warm scented water. Therese, excellent maid that she was, had sprinkled a mix of herbs and oil into the bath, claiming it would ease both the scrapes and her sore muscles. And something she’d added to the water had made a great deal of bubbles.

Upon seeing the duke’s carriage with Daisy tied behind, poor Meeks had rushed forward, stammering out at least a half-dozen apologies. Apparently, he’d already been castigated by Hartwood for Celia’s choice of horse.

She assured the groom it was not his fault. The blame was Hartwood’s.

Kemp was prepared when she arrived, waving away the duke’s footmen who’d taken it upon themselves to see her inside. Kemp had shouted for Therese and helped Celia up the stairs himself.

Dr. Stemmons had arrived shortly thereafter.

Hartwood’s personal physician had examined every scratch and bruise. Felt along the edge of her scalp, frowning at the small bump on her head. He’d asked her the date. Who was the queen. Her entire name. Satisfied with Celia’s answers, he’d left behind a tin of ointment and instructions for her to rest over the next few days and refrain from the social whirl.

The idea of staying home had merit. She didn’t care to be subjected to another of Hartwood’s chosen suitors. He excelled at tidying up, but his matchmaking skills left much to be desired.

She tried not to dwell on the duke, which was nearly impossible. Concern had etched his severe features, along with fear and something else Celia didn’t want to examine further. Whatever that elusive emotion had been, it had pained Hartwood for her to see it. The way he’d clutched Celia to his chest. The sound he’d made.

“Don’t be foolish.” She flicked at a soap bubble.

His concern had been for appearances and his own reputation. How would it have looked if Celia had expired during a ride in the park, one he’d insisted upon? Think of the scandal. The whispers. He might have had some general concern for a fellow human being, but nothing else. Celia refused to think it could be anything else.

Yes, but that kiss on my temple…

“Was insignificant. An accident.” Celia tossed the sponge she’d been using into the water with a plop. The entire incident had ended with their usual verbal sparring. Which had twice now led to something more physical in nature. A violent kiss. A punishment that turned to intense pleasure.

The sudden slick feeling between her thighs was not due to whatever Therese had put in the bath.

Celia wanted her austere, not quite so priggish, chilly duke. More than she did any other gentleman she’d considered taking to her bed. Which was mildly troubling.

“I can’t believe I’m contemplating Hartwood as a lover,” she mumbled, placing a washcloth over her eyes and sinking lower into the tub. “What on earth is wrong with me?”

Taking the duke as her lover was an impossibility and a terrible idea. Celia was the widow of a Barnes cousin, no matter how distant. The subject of conjecture and gossip, much of which, granted, she’d brought on herself. She and Hartwood agreed on nothing, not even the placement of a bloody clock. There was also the matter of the duke thinking Celia to be something of a harlot, an opinion shared by much of his family.

“I’m not, though,” she whispered.

If Hartwood could be induced to become Celia’s lover, he would be her first. Yes, she was possessed of spectacular kissing skills and little modesty, but no actual practical experience. He was bound to realize if he bedded her. And the duke was such a bloody honorable prig?—

The door behind Celia clicked open and shut as a bark of laughter escaped her.

“I shouldn’t worry, as I am the last woman in London His Dourness would take to bed.” A pity, really. Hartwood hid a great deal of passion underneath all that arrogant ducalness.

There is more hidden , her heart whispered.

“I’m not ready to get out, Therese. Another half an hour.”

“I disagree with your assumption, Mrs. Barnes.” The lovely deep tenor purred over her naked skin. “As usual.”

Celia pulled the washcloth off her eyes with a gasp. Perhaps she’d hit her head harder than she supposed and was now hallucinating.

Was it hallucinating if she heard, rather than saw, an illusion?

There was a mirror just to the left of the tub, reflecting Celia and an abundance of soap bubbles. As she watched, the edge of a well-tailored coat above too tight riding breeches hiding muscular thighs appeared behind her. Hartwood leaned over, his harsh features appearing just above her shoulders.

“Your Grace.” Celia floated deeper into the tub, quickly pushing more of the bubbles over the top of the water to cover the swell of her breasts. Shocked to the very core of her being at his appearance. “I am not receiving at present.”

“After your tumble today, I wanted to make sure you were well.”

“I—I am, Your Grace,” she stuttered.

“You should have told me you didn’t ride, Celia.” The words ghosted around the edge of her ear. “I’m entirely responsible for today’s unfortunate accident.”

Well that much was certainly true. “I agree. Thank you for admitting as much. Now, if you don’t mind?—”

“I’ll assist you in your bath, Celia. It’s the least I can do.” Hartwood discarded his coat, folding the garment neatly and then carefully placing it over a chair. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing a pair of toned forearms dusted with dark hair.

Oh. Dear. Celia cleared her throat. “I see.”

“Now, where is that soap?” One arm dove into the tub, brushing along her thighs as Celia squeaked in protest. “Ah, there it is.” He held up the small bar and stood.

“And given I’m going to wash your back, you should address me as Oliver.”