Page 20 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

19

O liver closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of herbs with just a hint of lilies and warm female skin. Celia was flushed a delightful rose color. He assumed it extended over the entirety of her body, now strategically hidden by a mound of soap bubbles. Interrupting a lady’s bath—without an invitation—was completely out of character for Oliver. He shouldn’t be here in her rooms, let alone her bloody house.

“I want you to know,” he said, looking around for a sponge or a cloth, “that Kemp did try to refuse me entrance. But he was overruled.” He shook his head, pushing aside a small pile near the tub, consisting of her slippers and a ball of silk that appeared to be a robe.

“I won’t hold him at fault, Your Grace.” She was watching him, the flush deepening along her cheeks. With a defiant look, Celia tossed out one leg, allowing it to hang over the edge of the tub, dripping bathwater.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said.

“Did you straighten my drawing room before you came up?” Her fingers flicked about the surface of the water, moving more bubbles to hide herself from him.

“I did not.” Strange, wonderful creature.

“Surprising.”

“Isn’t it?” From where he stood, Oliver could see straight through the mound of bubbles. The small patch of hair at the apex of her thighs matched the color on her head. He stared longer than he should have—though it wasn’t the first quim he’d seen.

But desire for that particular quim made him lightheaded.

Oliver forced his gaze from Celia in her tub to a book, spine up, on the floor. The pages stuck together with jam. He bent and picked up what looked to be a rather improper novel.

“I wasn’t expecting company in my bath,” She said defensively.

Shaking his head, Oliver found a towel, using it to wipe up the jam before closing the book, setting it gently on the small table strewn with combs and hairpins. Without thinking, he carefully lined up the comb and brush, side by side. Gathered the pins and put them back in a small jar.

“Stop doing that.” Her brows drew together. “I am not something that needs to be tidied up, Your Grace.”

“I don’t know that I can.” He raised his hands up in surrender, stepping back from the table. “The duchess insisted on absolute order when I was a child. I suppose now it is a habit.”

The first time the duchess had ever touched Oliver with anything resembling affection—really, nothing more than a sharp pat on his shoulder—had been when he’d correctly spaced out the silverware beside his plate. She deemed a finger-width between knife and plate to be correct. Getting the spacing incorrect meant eating soup with a fork.

“Not everything must be perfect, Your Grace.”

“Oliver. And the duchess would have disagreed.” He shrugged and knelt behind the tub once more, watching the steam curl around Celia’s nose. Small freckles were scattered across the bridge. He wanted to press his lips to each one. Taste her skin.

“I happen to appreciate a bit of clutter. Makes things seem lived-in.” A bubble floated dangerously close to the rise of one breast.

“No sponge. I suppose I must search again.” He desperately wanted to be closer to all that wet, delicious skin. At a flick of his fingers, the bubble closest to that luscious mound barely breeching the water popped.

Celia’s arm rose out of the water, a sponge clasped in her fingers. “You should await me downstairs.”

Oliver took the sponge from her, somewhat surprised Celia pretended modesty. He was unlikely to have been the only man who’d ever watched her bathe, according to gossip.

The knowledge curled into a knot in his stomach.

“I cannot wash your back if I’m in your drawing room. Now…” He nodded to her leg carelessly hanging out of the tub, watching as a bubble slid to the rug. “I believe I’ll start with your foot.”

Celia regarded him with an odd look. “I know you want to mop up that bubble, Your Grace. And the water,” she whispered.

“Yes, but I’m not going to.”

He trailed the sponge over, first, her knee, then down the length of her leg to her calf. Tiny, lovely toes. Oliver leaned forward to press a kiss to the arch of her foot, nibbling along her ankle.

Celia sucked in a breath.

His mouth moved back up her leg, tsking at the sight of a bruise marring her skin, until he was once more at her knee. The dark triangle between her thighs taunted him. Beckoning Oliver to come closer.

“Perhaps it isn’t your back that needs my attention,” he murmured.

“I don’t believe you have washed it yet, Your Grace.” There was a seductive, throaty sound to Celia’s voice. One that did all sorts of things to Oliver.

He released her foot, dipping his hand into the bath. He moved the water around his fingers before teasing at one plump breast. “An oversight I’ll correct shortly.”

Celia’s entire body vibrated against him, as if he had plucked the string of a harp.

The edge of his nail circled one nipple before brushing over the tip, back and forth. The sound she made was indistinguishable, but he hoped it was his name. Oliver was too focused on the breast bobbing before him to listen too closely.

“Dr. Stemmons is an excellent physician,” he whispered, torturing the small peak. “But he may have overlooked something. I’ll have to examine you myself. Every inch. I intend to be thorough.” Oliver pressed a kiss to a scratch along her neck. “I plan to ravish you.” He glanced over at the large bed on the other side of the room, eyeing the mound of ridiculous pillows with distaste. “If those tassels don’t strangle me.”

“Do you think that wise, Your Grace?” Celia arched back in the tub, her head falling against his shoulder. “Not the strangulation, but the ravishment.”

Oliver pressed a kiss to her cheek. “No, it isn’t. But I am tired of pretending I don’t want you.” He drew his finger along the top of the water, teasing once more at the globes of her breasts. “Dishonesty doesn’t sit well with me.”

Celia whimpered as he rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I like you entirely too much.” His voice lowered. “I’ve no right to ask, Celia.” Oliver paused. “But I would like you to agree to two things before I drag you from this tub.”

“Wait,” she breathed. “What will you do once you take me from my bath?”

“Ravishment. I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He nuzzled the side of her neck, his fingers gliding up and down her arm, loving the feel of her skin slick with soap.

“Where?” she tilted her chin back to look at him. Celia had such lovely eyes, a combination of brown and green. Sometimes there were bits of gold. So very expressive. “Where will you put your mouth?”

“Everywhere. I will also use my tongue. My hands. Fingers. Eventually my cock.”

“For examination purposes.” She laughed softly, cheeks delightfully pink. “What are your terms, Your Grace?”

“If we become lovers”—he nipped at the skin along her collarbone—“I insist on absolute discretion, something for which you show little inclination.” Oliver continued his assault along the nape of her neck, sucking and nipping at the soapy expanse until Celia grabbed at the edges of the tub. “But in this instance, entirely necessary.”

If he meant to have Celia, and he did, she must understand it had to remain a secret. Not purely for his sake, but hers. Once Oliver returned to the country, which he would because he despised London, there would be nothing to stop Atherby and the Barnes cousins from destroying Celia in his absence.

“And your other demand?”

“I will be the only man in your bed for the duration of our—association. No other gentlemen stealing kisses or taking liberties. No one in your drawing room when I call.” He ground his teeth at the thought of Elliot. “No dancing about in bloody fountains.” Oliver heard the thread of possessiveness in his words but did not try to temper it. “I’ve never been good at sharing, Celia. I will leave now if you can’t agree.”

She tilted her head as if considering. “This is madness, Your Grace.”

“Oh, most assuredly.” He leaned in, tongue tracing the outline of her ear as one hand moved slowly down between the valley of her breasts and across her stomach. His fingers drew across the soft hair of her mound before cupping her sex. “This belongs to me,” he growled. “Mine.”

“So,” she panted softly. “Arrogant. I belong to myself.”

“Hmmm. Not at the moment, you don’t.” Oliver’s fingers sank into Celia’s warmth, eliciting an entire range of sighs, all of which proved his point. Careful strokes of his fingers caressed her, pressing along that small, sensitive part hidden in her folds, delighting in the way she writhed, forcing the bathwater onto the floor.

“I am something of a disaster,” she said.

“ My disaster.” Probably his undoing. An ache he might carry his entire life.

“I will never be obedient. Overly polite. I’m messy. I won’t change. Those are my terms, Your Grace.”

“I don’t want you to.” Oliver caressed Celia until she thrashed, slender fingers curled around his wrist. “Obey me in this. Come for me.” Her body clutched at his fingers, heralding her approaching climax. Pressing a kiss at the corner of her mouth, he whispered, “Make this the one time you do as I ask, Celia.” He stilled his fingers.

“Prick.” She grunted in frustration, hips pushed up, attempting to gain more of the pleasure he withheld from her.

“You have the most vulgar mouth, Celia. I’ll assume you learned such language roaming about the countryside without supervision before you wed Percival.” His teeth grazed her neck. “I don’t mind. It arouses me.”

Arching her back, Celia’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling at the ends until Oliver’s scalp stung.

“Do you agree,” he whispered, refusing to give into her need, no matter how much he wanted to watch her come apart. “To my terms, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Only,” she panted. “If they apply to you as well. I don’t like to share my toys either, Your Grace. And fair warning. I will not involve myself with a gentleman who is betrothed. Or wed. You will not alter my opinion on this.”

Lady Helen. A woman he intended to marry but had not even kissed.

“I promise.” He brushed his mouth with hers.

This thing between him and Celia would run its course, sooner rather than later, he expected. After a few weeks, a month or so at most, they would amicably part, the passion of their affair having burned out. Pleasant memories would remain. His chest would stop aching whenever she was near. Oliver would betroth himself to Helen.

“One last thing.” She moaned as he moved his fingers once more. “No more…suitors for me. I will depart London for a time once—our friendship is ended.”

The thought of Celia gone from his life left Oliver unsettled. “I agree. Now, be good, Celia. I don’t want to have to punish you again.” His thumb pressed down, delighting in the sounds she made. “Say you belong to me.”

“It was no punishment, Your Grace. Something I suspect you know. So do your worst.” She arched farther back, and Oliver dropped the sponge, wrapping his fingers lightly around her neck, his thumb dragging over Celia’s plump bottom lip.

Celia nipped at his thumb, before drawing the digit into the heat of her mouth. His fingers thrust into her below the soapy water as she circled his thumb with her tongue, moaning out his name as she reached her peak, still holding his wrist while her body clenched down hard on his fingers.

“Celia,” he nuzzled along her neck, holding her until she lay in the water, panting and replete. The bath had cooled, and he could see the goosebumps lighting along her skin. Lifting her into his arms, Oliver didn’t care that his shirt would be ruined. Or his stupid cravat. He forgot about the reputation of the Barnes family, Atherby and Helen. Ignored the open door of her armoire with a mound of fripperies tumbling out—far more difficult than one would imagine.

And carried Celia to bed.