Page 22 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

21

O liver woke with a start.

Something was tickling his nose, and he immediately batted it away. Odd. Nothing in his bed was ever less than perfect. Coverlet. Pillows. Mattress. So as not to disturb his sleep.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes. The ugliest pillow he’d ever seen in his life stared back at him. Devoid of tassels, the blasted thing had, instead, feathers.

Not his bed. Or his rooms. The mattress was far too lumpy.

He shifted. The most exquisite warmth pressed against him. Soft. Feminine. Lilies rushed into his nostrils along with something herbal. The entire effect was ruined by a ridiculous, unladylike snort.

His heart skipped, the beat unsteady.

Celia .

He sighed into her, curling closer to her smaller form as a sense of peace filled him. Strange to be sure, as there was nothing calming about Celia.

What have I done?

A mild sense of panic filled him. Oliver had never spent the night with one of his lovers, not even a mistress. There had been casual dalliances at house parties, but Oliver had always returned to his own room. Privacy was ingrained in him, among other traits. The idea of waking up beside a woman had never held appeal. Usually, once matters had been seen to and both parties satisfied, Oliver would take his leave.

Yet here he was, in Celia’s bed. Worse, he didn’t want to leave.

Damn. It.

He’d fallen asleep— for the entire night —in the worst place possible. He could only hope that Kemp had taken care of his horse—and that the household staff wasn’t completely scandalized. Or prone to gossip, though given their employer, Oliver couldn’t be certain.

He made a mental note to speak to Kemp.

Glancing towards the window, gray light only now edged through the curtains. Not yet dawn, although it soon would be. He needed to leave Celia’s home before he was seen.

Her hair was a bright glow against the sheets, brighter than the coming sunrise. The wild curls in every shade of red imaginable spread in disarray across his chest. Her cheek was pressed against his heart.

And she was drooling.

Oliver waited to feel…disgusted. Appalled. Mortified.

But there was nothing except reluctance at leaving her. Which worried him far more than anything else.

He traced a fingertip along her nose and the softness of her cheek before brushing his lips against her mouth. She was so achingly beautiful in the muted light coming through the window, finer than any painting by an artist.

“My autumn,” he whispered.

Damn. It.

Rolling out of bed, kicking aside yet another overly ornate pillow— honestly, what was she doing with them all? —Oliver stopped to gather up the hair pins strewn across the rug. It bothered him that Celia had consumed his thoughts so much, he’d lost himself in her. He’d broken his own rule, one he’d lived by for years.

He picked up her robe and placed it over a chair.

His riding breeches were across the room, tossed into a corner. He pulled them on, along with his boots and shirt. Celia’s maid had never returned to her room last night, probably warned by Kemp, and the bath still sat full. A pile of towels lay discarded on the floor, including one he’d used to clean them both off last night. Picking up the towel, Oliver stared at the blood dotting the linen. Felt his heart clench at the sudden absurd thought filling his head.

Don’t be ridiculous .

The scratches on her arms. From her fall into the bushes after the ride in the park with Pratmore. The incident seemed a lifetime ago, yet it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. He must have rubbed one. Broken the skin again. Oliver hadn’t exactly been gentle.

He had tried to be. Wanted to be. But Celia?—

Frowning, he absently rubbed his chest where a small pinch had taken up root. He hoped the sensation would start to fade now that he’d finally bedded Celia. Three times, by his count. She’d screamed his name in a broken rasp at the last, into one of her terrible pillows

“Are you leaving, Heartlesswood?” her voice, thick with sleep, called to him.

Oliver bit his lip to keep from laughing, some of his discomfort fading. “Is that any way to speak to a duke?”

Celia sat up, hair spilling over her shoulders like flames. “I think it suits you. Or do you prefer Your Dourness?”

There it went again. The twitching of his lips. The urge to stay grew stronger.

“I must go, my autumn.” The words came out before he could take them back.

I don’t want to take them back .

A slow grin spread across her lips. She looked well satisfied and wholly seductive, with her eyes still heavy with sleep and one breast popping out from beneath the sheet. All that coppery hair falling over her shoulders.

Oliver inhaled with the force of it. God, she’s beautiful.

“No one has ever described my hair before in such a poetic manner. You are dangerously close to being considered human, Your Grace.”

“Perish the thought.” He moved to the bed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Are you well, Celia?” His finger traced a tiny mark near her throat. “I’m not usually so—rough. I think some of your scratches might have opened up.” Oliver held up the bloodied towel.

“I am quite well. You were wonderfully unhinged.” She took the cloth and tossed it aside. “Splendid, in fact.” She cupped his jaw. “I like your rough edges, Your Grace.” Her palm fell to lay against his heart. “And what is beneath them.”

The air refused to fill his lungs at her words. He shied away, ignoring the way Celia looked at him. Because he might stay.

“I don’t know what you speak of, Mrs. Barnes,” he said in his usual stern manner, marching over to rearrange the flowers in a vase by the window. Dropping their petals, creating a mess. “I can’t bear the sight of the peonies so at odds with the ferns.”

Celia regarded him with a soft look. “I would venture that the duchess had very distinct instructions for her bouquets.”

Oliver’s hands fell to his sides. Contrary to what Claremont or the cousins assumed, Celia was far from stupid. Insightful was a far better word.

“I need to be on my way. Though I’m sure I am not the only man to have left your home in the dawn hours.” The comment helped put some distance between them. A warning to Celia not to look too closely beneath his skin.

Not at all put off by his chilly manner, she fell back against her assortment of unnecessary tasseled pillows and gave him a small wave. “I bid you good morning, Your Grace.”

He waited for her to ask when he would return. Beg for the time of their next assignation. But Celia, unlike every other woman he’d ever bedded, declined to inquire. While a voice inside him screamed at Oliver never to return.

Stay far away from Celia Barnes .

“Good morning, Mrs. Barnes.” He departed without once looking at her, too terrified he might never leave if he did. Quietly, he made his way downstairs. The hour was early, but the maids were probably up and about.

Kemp, to his credit, pretended not to see Oliver as he slipped out the door.