Page 24 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

23

“ T he home of Mrs. Barnes,” Oliver instructed his driver.

He had managed to stay away from Celia for nearly an entire week to prove he had regained some discipline and control. Days Oliver had spent stomping around his London home, gnashing his teeth like some beast. Two of the maids had fled from him in tears after he’d declared their complete ineptitude at polishing silver. Rush had fled, spineless creature that he was, because Oliver had objected to a change in shaving soap.

Not objected . Roared out his displeasure, according to Edmonds.

Finally, after declaring his disgust at the sight of his omelet this morning, which nearly had Cook quitting, Edmonds had shut the breakfast room doors.

“Just go see her, Your Grace. Please. For all our sakes. Your—determination to prove that you are not…affected by Mrs. Barnes is proving fruitless.”

Oliver hated when Edmonds was right. It made his butler insufferable.

He had arranged the massive bouquet of apricot roses himself, after harvesting the blooms from his own garden, obsessively cutting away each of the thorns, unable to trust the task to Edmonds or anyone else. Doing so meant the roses would not grace his breakfast table for some time, a sacrifice Oliver was willing to make. Three dozen, all a vibrant apricot color, the edges tinged with hints of red.

Like the strands of Celia’s hair caught between Oliver’s fingers.

“A few moments, only,” he insisted as the carriage navigated the London streets to her home. “Make sure she is well,” he said to the empty leather seat across from him. “My attentions earlier might have resulted in disturbing her injuries.” He thought of the tiny bit of blood staining the towel in her bedroom.

Your father did not control his impulses. See that you do not make the same mistake.

The duchess whispered in his ear. Alive and well in his thoughts, though thankfully not anywhere else.

He was expected at Lord Mallard’s to dine this evening, yet another tedious dinner filled with bland conversation. His tolerance for such events was greatly diminished, no matter how excellent Mallard’s chef, brought all the way from Paris. Neither Atherby nor Lady Helen would be in attendance. He’d been avoiding them both.

Oliver would be late to Mallard’s. But he was a duke. They could all bloody wait.

When the carriage finally arrived at Celia’s home, it occurred to Oliver that Celia might be out or not in a position to receive him without notice. They had reached an agreement in relation to their—association, but the accord had been decided while he’d held Celia on the edge of a climax. Not exactly fair. She might be entertaining Elliot or?—

You are nearly betrothed to Helen, you bloody hypocrite.

“But I am not,” he hissed as the door swung open, temper far too close to the surface. “Nor will I be in the near future.”

“Your Grace.” Kemp bowed, looking unsurprised to see him. “Mrs. Barnes is in the drawing room.” He waved Oliver forward.

“I know the way, Kemp,” he said sharply, already questioning the wisdom of so boldly invading her home when he was meant to be at Mallard’s. The door to the drawing room was open, the lamps casting a soft glow, enough so that Oliver could see a good dusting was in order. The hideous, overly tasseled pillows Celia seemed to favor were tossed about as if a storm had struck the drawing room.

“Kemp…” Oliver halted the butler before he could leave. “Do something about this mess.”

Nonplussed, the butler merely bowed once more. “Immediately, Your Grace.”

Celia sat before the fire, a glass of brandy at her elbow, a book in her hands. Her eyes only widened slightly at his appearance.

Oliver glanced at the book. Probably something completely inappropriate. He’d seen the type of novels she enjoyed. Complete tripe.

But there was no sign of Elliot. Or any other man.

She shut the book. “Your Grace.” Merriment glinted in her eyes, along with something that made Oliver’s chest ache. Dreadfully. Perhaps his heart was going to give out. Or he’d have a fit of apoplexy. He’d perish, right here on the floor of Celia’s house.

Actually, my house.

Her hair shone like the changing leaves of an old oak tree Oliver had once climbed as a child, beckoning him to come closer.

Oliver kicked the door shut behind him. Took four steps forward and fell upon Celia like a ravenous wolf, ignoring the squeak she made. His arms reached around her, nose falling to the delicate slope of Celia’s neck. Oliver inhaled lilies and warmth, an abundance of it. Felt her fingers thread through his hair. For the first time in days, a sense of peace filled him.

“Your Grace, has something happened?”

Oliver shook his head. He’d missed her and could not manage the words. “I don’t even like you,” he whispered, while his hand reached down and wrapped around her ankle.

“I don’t like you either,” she said as his mouth fell to her midsection, kissing her through the muslin of her dress while his hands roughly pushed up her skirts. An openmouthed kiss met the hollow of Celia’s knee before Oliver pressed his forehead to the spot. He could smell her, through all the layers of cotton. Lilies and sex. Autumn and soft heat.

Oliver had never lacked for female companionship. One of the advantages of being a duke. But he’d never…longed for one of his lovers as he did Celia.

A string of curses echoed in his mind.

Palms sliding along her thighs, he pushed the fabric up around her hips, kissing every inch of the scented flesh beneath the silk of her stockings. Finding the opening in her underthings, Oliver blew softly across her sex.

“Oliver. What?—”

“I recalled, earlier today…” His voice was rough as he tore at the cotton. “That while I had put my mouth over your entire body the other evening, I missed this particular spot.”

“Oh.” Her head fell back as his tongue glided over her slit. “How careless of you, Your Grace.”

“Entirely.” His mouth fell over that small, sensitive bud, and Celia let out a moan. “I came to correct the situation.”

Celia’s head fell back against the chair, legs still trembling as the last vestiges of her pleasure ebbed away. She’d read about this act but never considered how it would feel or the intimacy of having Oliver’s mouth on her. He did not push down her skirts. Instead he continued to kiss up her body until meeting her lips, tasting of scotch and something musky Celia knew to be her .

His mouth moved sensuously over hers, lazy but full of possession. So unexpectedly passionate, her duke. Far more than she would have guessed. Underneath all that burning desire they had for each other lay the embers of something else just waiting to flame to life.

Celia held on to that hope for a breath, then pushed it away.

She would not waste this moment.

His head fell to her neck, nipping gently as if to mark her, large body curling over her own smelling of leather and shaving soap. The rasp of his breath heated against her skin. The room grew silent after such an eruption of passion, the only sound the clicking of the clock, which Celia had purposefully placed at the very edge of the mantel.

She sensed when his mood shifted. The warmth covering her moved away, shoulders growing rigid as she stroked Oliver’s hair. Her sensual lover disappeared once more into the Duke of Hartwood.

“I—am late for an engagement.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

His evening would likely involve the stunning Lady Helen, future Duchess of Hartwood. Jealousy buffered under her skin, heating her blood until Celia tightly contained it. Holding on to such a useless emotion, given the circumstances, would do no good. Oliver and Helen were not betrothed. Not yet.

Which wasn’t to say it didn’t pain her.

Oliver came to his feet in one fluid motion, straightening the sleeves of his coat. His cravat. The front of his trousers. A pained look crossed those handsome, far-too-severe features before he took a wide step back from the chair. “I’ll have a brandy, and then I must go.”

Celia nodded.

He moved to the sideboard, stiff and unyielding, and poured himself a snifter of brandy. Made a disgruntled sound and rearranged all the decanters according to size.

“I cannot stay, Mrs. Barnes.” Marching over to the fireplace, he moved the clock to the center of the mantel once more.

“I did not ask you to stay, Your Grace. Clearly, you are expected elsewhere, given your attire.” She raised a brow. “Nor do I recall inviting you to call upon me.”

Celia recognized that this —whatever it was between them—was difficult for him. There was no hiding the way he flitted about, tidying up everything in his path. She tried to understand, but it didn’t mean she would accept the blame for his appearance tonight.

Oliver’s gaze on her turned brittle.

Celia glared right back. “Do not let me keep you. Feel free to take the brandy. Good evening, Your Grace.”

Oliver didn’t care to be dismissed. He had an entire army of individuals who fawned over him, acceded to his wishes and generally allowed him to walk all over them. But Celia refused to be included in that number.

No matter how splendid Oliver’s mouth.

Frost coated him. Eyes devoid of any emotion. She could have been an impertinent servant, from his glacial manner. Swallowing down the remainder of the brandy, he set the empty snifter on the mantel.

“You must speak to Kemp, or I will do so.” He waved a hand around the room. “The circumstances of your drawing room are deplorable. Dust everywhere.” He made his way to the door, the breadth of his shoulders so rigid, it was difficult to believe he’d had his head between her thighs only moments ago.

He came to an abrupt halt before the drawing room door. “The day after tomorrow,” he snapped. “I will dine with you.”

“Will you? I confess, Your Grace, I am uncertain of my own engagements that day. I’ll send you a note if I am free.”

A growl echoed from the door. His hands clenched at his sides.

Oh, yes . This was incredibly difficult for him. But not impossible. She’d seen the Oliver beneath all his excessive devotion to perfection. And Celia would not be ordered about. Nor dictated to. She might care for Oliver—a great bloody deal, as it happened—but that did not mean she intended to allow him to walk all over her.

She would have his respect, if nothing else.

A bolt of sadness struck her, right in the middle of her chest.

I can have nothing else. Had Celia any sense of self-preservation, she would end things with Oliver before they became even more entangled.

“ Please , my autumn,” he murmured, so low, Celia barely heard him.

Her heart stretched, swelling inside her chest.

“I hope you like lamb, Your Grace.”