Page 25 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

24

W hen Oliver arrived exactly on time to dine with Celia, he walked past her as she perched on the edge of the settee. His eye twitched, a sure sign of his distress over the state of things.

Earlier that day, Celia had given the order, reluctantly, to dust the drawing room as a peace offering to her staid and obsessively tidy duke, however she’d moved the clock, cluttered the sideboard, and once more hidden the Pierre Ferrand behind one of the potted ferns in the corner. Three pillows, pieces of such gaudiness that even Celia’s eyes hurt looking at them, had been added to the settee and chairs facing the fire, each one hideously embroidered and possessing an impressive number of ribbons.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him with a frown. “Is aught amiss?”

The clock was shoved to the middle. He marched to the sideboard, frowned at the jumbled mess of decanters and reached behind the potted fern to retrieve the decanter she’d hidden.

“Mrs. Barnes. This is incredibly childish.”

“Are you threatening me with punishment, Your Grace? As you did the night of the Wolbrook ball?” she asked, features perfectly composed, as if they discussed the weather.

The look Oliver sent her was so scorching, Celia nearly toppled off the settee. A hum started beneath her skin, buzzing between her legs. Incredibly distracting.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, taking a seat across from her. “There is a whole list of things I intend to do to you, Mrs. Barnes.”

Celia swallowed. “Wicked things?”

“Entirely.” The side of his mouth lifted a fraction of an inch. “The taste of you, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, “still lingers on my tongue. I could barely enjoy the fine meal Lord Mallard put before me, or anything else since.”

Oh. Well. The room grew warm.

“A pity, Your Grace. I’m told Lord Mallard sets a wonderful table.” She had heard no such thing. She wasn’t even familiar with Mallard.

“I intend to put my mouth on you again,” he said carelessly. “Mark up all that lovely skin between your thighs.”

A shiver of anticipation ran through her. “Perhaps I’ll respond in kind, Your Grace.”

Oliver inhaled softly. The gold in his eyes blazed fiercely, falling to her mouth. “I’ll want you on your knees.” The rasp of his words struck her skin.

Celia had done a bit more reading since their last encounter, primarily a book that described certain sexual acts in detail. Since she was purported to be a woman of experience and had no one to ask without giving away her own lack of proficiency in such matters, she’d had to resort to the memoirs of Harriet Wilson, a former courtesan of some notoriety. Unfortunately, there had been no illustrations. But Celia had a most vivid imagination.

Her mouth parted, and she deliberately allowed her tongue to peek out.

Another rumble came from Oliver’s chest. Positively feral.

Kemp, damn him, appeared at that exact moment to announce dinner.

Oliver took her arm and led Celia into the dining room, the air between them so charged, she wondered if they would actually make it through the entire meal without falling upon each other like rabid animals.

Once seated, she instructed Kemp to begin serving, watching Oliver settle himself at the table with a great deal of fascination. They’d never dined together before.

Silverware moved until every knife and fork were precisely a finger-width apart beside his plate. A pause between every bite. There was no dangling of his wine glass or toying with the stem. The lamb was cut into a series of tiny rectangles, all which appeared to be the exact same size. He did the same with the potatoes, a slight frown of concentration on his handsome features.

Celia wanted to call an end to the meal. Wrap her arms around Oliver and hold him. Others had doubtless witnessed this same behavior but would never speak of it. Dukes were eccentric and never to be questioned. But this? Less a ducal peculiarity than a method of surviving a childhood spent with the duchess.

I hope the duchess is wandering in Hell.

“Has the lamb upset you, Your Grace?” she teased softly as he continued to study his plate. “Perhaps the potatoes aren’t quartered in the exact manner you prefer. Don’t make a face at the carrots, I beg you.”

“I was only considering.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Not one lady at Lord Mallard’s hurled an insult in my direction. Everyone was exceptionally well-behaved. Utterly respectful of my station.”

“How dreary.” Celia took a sip of her wine. “And dull. A good dinner party should involve a great deal of whispering about the other guests. Thinly veiled insults are to be appreciated along with a sharp wit. And I refuse to fawn over you because of an accident of birth.” She gave a small shrug. “You could just have easily been born to a fishmonger.”

“Were you always like this?” A tiny, lovely smile had replaced the frown. It was the most beautiful thing Celia had ever seen.

“I’m not sure I take your point, Your Grace. Do you mean interesting? Able to turn a phrase? Clever in my remarks?” Celia gave him a saucy wink.

“Outspoken. Opinionated. Disobedient.” The smile widened, and Oliver went from merely attractive to blinding .

Oh . The air in Celia’s lungs froze. Oh, my .

“You should smile more often, Your Grace. Doing so makes you nearly human.”

“So you keep reminding me.” He paused, the cast of his features becoming more somber. “I—find I am more inclined to amusement when in your company. To smile. Though you annoy me to no end.”

Celia burst into laughter. “I don’t like you at all, Your Grace.”

“I suppose you don’t.” He very audaciously winked back at her.

“My mother,” she said, taking another swallow of wine, “was much the same. A joyous woman who believed a bit of laughter might solve all the world’s problems.” She looked down at her plate, then back at her duke. “James thought her a frivolous, vapid creature. But she was nothing of the sort. She was younger than my father. His second wife.”

A vision of Mama, running next to Celia as they picked wildflowers and made daisy crowns, had the moisture gathering behind her eyes.

She cleared her throat. “I was eight when she died. My father never recovered. He followed her shortly after.”

“A horse,” he said in a rough tone, “was the cause, I would guess. Thus you do not ride.”

Celia had spent most of her life not seen, but just now, Oliver saw her.

“Zeus was the stallion’s name.” She looked down at her plate, heart clenching in her chest. “I heard her neck snap when she fell.” Mama had died, and so had hugs. Affection. Warm kisses on a cold day. Laughter. Kensworth Hall became a dark and lonely place. She’d wed Percival to escape it—and James.

Good lord. The irony.

“Never again, Celia, will I ask you to sit a horse. Nor will anyone else. I promise. And should you find a situation objectionable in the future, you will tell me.”

She waved a hand in the air, touched by his protectiveness. Another thing she missed. Having someone care for her welfare.

“It was a long time ago. But I will do so, Your Grace.”

“Oliver. When we are alone.”

“Oliver,” she said with a nod.

The half-smile returned at the sound of his name. Celia didn’t think anyone ever addressed him so informally. Was that frowned upon, for a duke? “Did no one ever call you Oliver? Even when you were a child?”

“Even if it were common, the duchess would not have allowed it. But before I inherited, many of my father’s tenants referred to me by name.” A faraway look entered his eyes. “Or the head groom. Sounded odd, I suppose, to be referred to as Lord Penby while I was mucking the stalls.” He shrugged. “Another title I hold. One of many.”

Celia choked on her wine. “You mucked stalls? In your stables?”

“My father thought a duke should have a small amount of humility. The duchess never knew. It goes without saying she wouldn’t have approved. She threw a fit if I had dirt on my boots.”

Celia recalled Chester’s story, of Oliver’s dressing down in front of his friends at Eton. Horrid duchess. Certainly, a terrible mother.

“Did you enjoy the lamb, Oliver?”

“Excellent. As well as the company.” Heat shimmered in his eyes as he watched Celia.

When the plates were cleared away, Kemp brought out the trifle, full of custard, cake, and an assortment of berries. Setting the trifle on the table, the butler paused, ready to serve them each a plate.

“Kemp,” Oliver said, without looking away from Celia. “We will serve ourselves.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Shut the door behind you. We are not to be disturbed for any reason”—his voice lowered to that deliciously low rumble—“while I enjoy my dessert.”

Celia’s heart skipped a beat.

He isn’t speaking of the trifle.

“If I catch you listening at the door, I’ll have you sent to New South Wales along with Edmonds.”

Kemp paled. Bowed. And scuttled away.

“You shouldn’t frighten him. Kemp is a decent sort and an excellent butler. Who is Edmonds, by the way? Some other poor soul you delight in terrorizing?”

“My butler. Nearly as insolent as you, Mrs. Barnes. You’d like him.” He held out one hand. “Come to me, my autumn.”

Celia rose from her chair and stood before him, her pulse uneven, fluttering beneath her skin as that delicious hum returned once more.

Oliver took her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“You are one of the few, Your Grace, who do not find the shade of my hair vastly offensive,” she murmured as he pulled her into his lap.

“So you keep saying, though I can hardly believe it.” He reached out and pulled a pin from the careful chignon at the base of her neck, staring in fascination as a curl fell to her shoulder.

“When I was a boy, well before becoming a duke…” A wrinkle appeared once more between his brows. “My father would walk the fields with our tenants during the harvest, inspecting every bit of wheat, often with a mug of cider in his hand.”

“The same tenants who called you Oliver?”

“Mm.” He pulled another pin free, then leaned forward, inhaling along her neck.

“Do you like cider, then, Your Grace?”

“I do.” The pronouncement was wistful, as if he longed for that time once more. “My father knew every man, along with their wives and children. A festival was always held at Hartwood House to celebrate the harvest. Father would order an enormous bonfire to be built, the larders of the estate thrown open. He’d bring musicians to play. Lots of drinking and dancing. The trees would shine in shades of gold, red, and orange.”

Celia placed a hand on his chest as his voice roughened. While she could not decipher Oliver’s feelings for his mother, or if he’d had any at all, it was clear he’d loved his father.

His eyes grew shuttered as he tugged on one of her curls, wrapping the bit of orange-red around his finger. “The duchess stopped the tradition but—I am considering reinstating the festival.”

The duchess had controlled not only the Barnes family with her iron will, but also her only child. Forcing him to conform into her idea of what a duke should be: an emotionless, cold individual, bound by duty and responsibility, exacting in nature.

Oliver pulled her close, teeth nipping gently at her bottom lip, pushing aside any further thought. The brush of his mouth along hers was lazy and sensual, deepening into a kiss that stole Celia’s breath. Hands trailed over her shoulders before reaching the line of silk-clad buttons at her back.

“Do you like this gown, Mrs. Barnes?”

“It is not one of my favorites, Your Grace,” she whispered against his mouth.

The buttons popped, one by one, until the fabric sagged over her shoulders. His mouth moved over the slope of her neck.

“Hold still, my autumn.”

The cool press of a knife slid along her back as Oliver carefully cut the strings of her corset and the garment fell free. She took a lungful of air at the sudden release of pressure along her ribs. Then he took a great spoonful of the trifle, dripping with cream, syrup, and berries. “Oops,” he whispered, painting her skin with the mixture.

Celia shivered as his tongue flicked out to drag over the trail of blackberry syrup and bits of cake.

The tearing of her chemise came next, the fragile cotton no match for a still hungry duke. The remainder of her gown became scraps as he ripped the fabric from her body, scattering more of the trifle across the table.

“I’ve made a mess, and you know how I value tidiness, Mrs. Barnes. Allow me to correct my error.” His mouth fell upon her, eating a dollop of cream off her breasts, licking at the bits of blackberry and cake. Sucking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirled until nothing of the dessert remained.

“Delicious. My compliments to your cook, Mrs. Barnes.”

Celia’s breath came in soft pants, desire spiraling and stretching along the lower half of her body. She made a note to have trifle served every time Oliver came to dine.

“I adore a good trifle,” he murmured. Syrup and berries along with cream drizzled over her bare breasts while his tongue lapped at her skin.

“I hadn’t realized,” she whimpered. “I will make note.”

Oliver leaned forward, pushing Celia down until her back was flush against the table. His wine glass fell to the floor, the stem snapping off. The remains of her gown surrounded her, the table and her body covered with trifle. What was left of her chemise and underthings were tossed in the air to land next to the buffet.

“Much better.” Heat burned in his eyes. “I’ll leave the stockings.” One big hand settled possessively on her stomach.

“I confess…” she breathed, wondering how she would make her way up the stairs clad in only trifle. The staff would be horrified. Kemp might flee in terror from the remains of the dining room. “That given your care for your own clothing, you might show the same to mine.”

“I did ask if the gown was a favorite. And as for your corset, you are relieved it is gone.”

Oliver’s hair was delightfully mussed, a thick wave falling over his forehead. Spots of trifle marred his coat. A bit of berry was stuck to his cheek. His fingers slid between her thighs, syrup and cake drawing close to her quim. His tongue followed, lapping up the trail of dessert sliding along her thighs until he gently reached her center. As he licked a dab of cream from her flesh, Oliver’s fingers grabbed at her hips, abruptly flipping Celia to her stomach, ignoring her sound of protest.

A hard swat to her backside followed, the sting of his palm sending a pulse between her thighs.

“That,” Oliver leaned over, lips teasing at her ear, “was for hiding the good brandy.” Another slap. “And that is for not hiding it very well.”

Celia’s back arched, forcing the lower half of her body higher. “I never thought you’d look again behind that bloody plant.”

“Do you think I didn’t notice how you moved the clock? And those pillows. An affront to my sight. Though the drawing room had been dusted.” The sound of his palm once more meeting her skin echoed in the room.

“Oliver, please,” she moaned. Celia’s arousal was so great, she might climax from nothing more than trifle-licking and a little spanking.

“Naughty minx.” He nibbled on the edge of one plump buttock as two fingers sank deep inside her, thrusting gently. “You’re so wet for me, Celia.” His cheek pressed along her back, while he tortured her with his fingers.

Celia bit back a moan.

The tip of his finger pressed against a sensitive spot inside her, then curled. She cried out, hands slapping the table, flinging trifle everywhere.

“You’re making a mess.” He pressed a kiss to the base of her spine, marvelous fingers pressing in exactly the right manner.

Celia’s head fell to the table as the nerves of her body lit up in waves. She bit into a napkin to keep from screaming and possibly cause Kemp to break down the door. Dishes rattled on the table, but Celia hardly noticed. Not with stars bursting in front of her eyes and pleasure enveloping every inch of her skin. She sobbed out his name, her cheek pressed into a blackberry, body trembling from the force of her release.

As Celia lay panting, begging her heart to slow, the rustle of clothing met her ears. Oliver’s fingers retreated to be replaced with something a great deal larger.

Oliver took her in one hard thrust, pushing her body across cream, berries and trifle. He paused, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, one arm pulling up her hips. Savage but gentle. Controlled, yet unrestrained. No matter the chilly demeanor he would retreat to, Celia felt Oliver’s care of her in every press of his body. His mouth made a sensual line down the length of her back, each stroke reawakening her pleasure.

His fingers sank into the flesh of her hips.

“ My autumn,” he whispered to the curve of her neck. “ Mine .” He thrust so hard, Celia placed her hands against the table to keep from sliding off. “Say it.”

“Yes, yours,” she sobbed, that blissful sensation building inside her once more. She had never meant anything more in her life. No vow she’d ever taken. No promise made.

Celia was his. In every way that mattered.

He laced their fingers, his movements rougher. More demanding. Until the room around Celia burst, revealing nothing but dazzling stars once more, this time so bright she was nearly blinded. One hand moved to twist in her hair. Oliver sighed into her, groaning out her name, spilling himself into what remained of her clothing.

The dining room went quiet, except for the ragged sounds of their breathing. A bit of cake fell to the floor with a plop.

Oliver covered her with his body, his thumb stroking along the palm of her hand, murmuring nonsense into the mass of her hair. Beautiful, nonsensical things. My autumn .

Celia bathed in the hard safety of his body, listening to every word, her heart beating with his. For him. She pressed her cheek to the table with a sigh.

I’m in love with the Duke of Hartwood.