Page 28 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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T he duchess came to mind as Oliver entered Atherby’s box. She had enjoyed the opera, finding it far more acceptable than the theater. But barely. The sopranos, mostly Italian, she declared to be no better than harlots. Foreign. Far too voluptuous. Singing courtesans.

He wished he hadn’t accepted the invitation from Atherby. Not only had Oliver grown to dislike the earl but his presence tonight was purely so that Atherby might flaunt his influence in political matters and his future connection to the Duke of Hartwood. Several of the Barnes cousins, all highly placed in government, would be in attendance.

Oliver’s temper, once so tightly contained, had begun to fray at the edges. His control was slipping in small waves, leaving him feeling as if he stood on the edge of a knife blade. Tonight’s gathering was bound to make things worse. Oliver was acutely aware of his duty, as he had been since the age of ten. His responsibility to the family. The title. Marry Helen. Make her a duchess. Produce an heir so the entire bloody cycle could begin once more.

Claremont’s visit had served as a reminder that the Duke of Hartwood’s life was not his own. He’d decided, once Claremont departed, to speak to Celia. End things properly and amicably. Offer for Helen. Be the duke Oliver was supposed to be.

Yet he had done none of those things.

Not that day, nor any that followed.

A week later, and Oliver remained hesitant to take any action. Some mornings he awoke and took in the vast emptiness of his bed, puzzled that his surroundings seemed too spartan without an array of repulsive, overly embroidered pillows. No strands of copper hair were caught on his clothes. Nor a small, warm body curled into the protection of his.

I miss her.

Oliver hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on Celia’s small touches of affection until he had to go without.

Edmonds, oddly enough, had been quiet the last few mornings, barely expressing his opinions. Very unlike him because Oliver’s butler had an opinion on nearly everything.

“I am attending the opera in Lord Atherby’s box this evening,” Oliver had ventured this morning over a cup of lukewarm coffee. “Something by Donizetti.”

“I don’t care for the opera, Your Grace. However, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the performance.” Edmonds was overly polite. He didn’t even try to read the paper over Oliver’s shoulder, an annoying habit he’d developed over years of service.

“Are you ill?” Oliver had asked.

“No, Your Grace.”

“I believe I’ll offer for Lady Helen at the end of the week.” Merely saying the words had put Oliver’s stomach into knots.

“My congratulations, Your Grace,” came the bland reply before Edmonds bustled out.

Oliver had snapped open his newspaper, pretending to be entirely engrossed, when the butler returned. A plate with his usual breakfast of mushroom, ham and herb omelet was dropped abruptly on the table before him. Toast, burned at the edges. Then Edmonds, who most certainly should be sacked or sent to the farthest regions of the world and sold into indentured servitude, reached across the table. With a flick of his wrist, Edmonds plucked the apricot rose out from the vase before Oliver and tossed it aside without another word.

The omelet, when Oliver took a bite, had been cold and over seasoned. The mushrooms a bit slimy. The toast completely inedible.

Oliver had set down his fork, uncaring if it clattered or wasn’t approximately a finger width from his knife. “If you have something to say, Edmonds,” he said, “feel free to speak.”

“I do not think that wise, Your Grace.” He bowed and departed. Moments later, a footman appeared to serve Oliver more coffee.

Edmonds did not care for Helen, that much was clear.

Well, Oliver had decided, his butler would have to become accustomed to Helen or he would need to find other employment. Without references. Oliver was not going to be his father, a man who had shirked duty, responsibility, and even his title in the pursuit of pleasure.

You will not be such a man, Your Grace.

The duchess had made sure of that, hadn’t she?

Oliver had stared at the remains of his omelet, fingers pressing into the flawless white of the tablecloth. He didn’t even have the comfort of the apricot roses. Or his overfamiliar butler.

As evening and the opera approached, his stomach knotted further. He blamed the omelet and Edmonds, not the sickening of his heart.

Helen came forward at Oliver’s arrival and took his arm, dispelling the memory of Edmonds and his displeasure. Her lashes fluttered in a becoming manner, light pink blooming on her cheeks. “Your Grace, there you are.”

Oliver wanted to shake her free. Atherby was sure to push for a formal announcement tonight, and he could not seem to—his eyes halted at the front of the box. Heart stopping in his chest.

My autumn .

Always in green, his Celia. The strands of her hair, shining in waves of red, apricot, and gold, caught the light of the chandeliers, beckoning him forward. What was she doing here?

Oliver stared at the man beside her.

And in the company of Mr. Edward Shaddick, whose acquaintance Oliver had made over a table of cards some time ago. Whist, as it happened.

Sharp teeth tore into Oliver’s chest, scratching and shredding as he watched Celia lean towards Shaddick to whisper in his ear.

One bloody week, and she’d already replaced Oliver.

I never told her I wished to end things. I never once said ?—

No, he’d only stayed away without explanation, stewing in his indecision. Honor and duty keeping him warm at night instead of Celia. He hadn’t even sent a note to explain his absence.

“Something wrong, Your Grace?” Helen murmured by his side, fingers plucking at his coat. The smile she gave him was far too smug.

“Not at all, my lady. I was only wondering if that was Mr. Shaddick.” He kept his tone mild. “We played cards once. I’d like to renew our acquaintance.”

If I don’t toss him over the balcony .

Atherby came forward to greet Oliver. “Your Grace. I’m so pleased you could join us this evening.”

Also smug.

Oliver glanced around Atherby’s box. The Barnes cousins were already here, as well as the Claremonts. Celia and Shaddick. It was doubtful the earl’s guest list was coincidental but made with a great deal of intent. A neat tableau to force Oliver’s hand.

Atherby, you preening prick. I underestimated you.

Shaddick had attended Harrow and owned a shipbuilding empire, inherited from his father. He was intelligent and wealthy. Older than Oliver. Rather good at whist. Had anyone inquired before tonight, he would have said he liked Shaddick.

“Shaddick seems quite taken with Mrs. Barnes.” Atherby nodded towards Celia. “And she with him.”

Oliver’s fingers scratched at that insistent tearing in his chest. Those damned teeth. He kept his features bland and composed, knowing the entire box was watching.

He turned his gaze from Celia with a careless shrug, pretending no great interest in her, just as Atherby hoped. Prove to everyone that Oliver was finished dallying with the notorious Mrs. Barnes and finally offer for Helen. There was no way to approach Celia without the cousins converging upon him, puncturing Oliver with their jeweled stickpins and censure.

Muted laughter came from Celia as Shaddick leaned closer, whispering in her ear. Her head tilted to the side, catching sight of Oliver.

She looked right through him giving no indication that a week ago, Oliver had been in her bed. Nothing but disinterest.

Oliver sucked in a breath. He had never once, truly, considered that in choosing duty and his family, how it would feel to lose Celia. Really lose her. Know that her affection would now belong to someone else. That he might never hear her laughter again.

My autumn . His heart tightened like a vise in his chest.

No, not mine . That much was clear.

Shaddick rose, took Celia’s hand, and squeezed her fingers. He made his way towards the back of the box and stopped before Oliver. “Your Grace.” Shaddick bowed. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Atherby mentioned you would be in attendance. I had hoped to become reacquainted.”

Helen tugged on Oliver’s arm, wanting to take her seat.

He paid her no heed. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Shaddick. Are you off to have a cheroot?” Oliver had never been jealous of another man in his life, until now. It was a violent, unwelcome sensation, blinding him to nearly everything else.

“I am, indeed,” the other man replied. “Would you care to join me, Your Grace?”

Oliver dropped Helen’s arm and gently pushed her in the direction of Atherby. “I would be honored, Shaddick.” He inclined his head and started towards the door, Shaddick trailing behind, ignoring Helen’s mewl of protest.

“I enjoy the opera a great deal, having lived in Vienna for a time,” Shaddick said, moving towards the exit. “Although I must say I am enjoying the company even more. Mrs. Barnes is enchanting. But I suppose you’re aware,” he laughed softly. “Given she was wed to your cousin, Percival.”

“Cousin is a loose term, Shaddick. The branches of the Barnes family are many. I’ve no idea how I’m related to most of them.” Yet Oliver had been raised to accept the responsibility for every Barnes as the titular head of the family. Lead by example. He’d once been proud of that fact, impressed with his own importance. “I believe there is a balcony on the second floor where the gentlemen are permitted to indulge themselves.”

As they made their way to the second floor, Shaddick said, “I attended Harrow with Percival, as well as Kensworth, the brother of Mrs. Barnes. Monroe. And the others.” There was a hint of distaste as he mentioned each name. “I was two years behind.”

Shaddick had mentioned at their first meeting that he’d gone to Harrow, but Oliver hadn’t realized he’d been there the same time as Percival and Kensworth. “I hadn’t realized you attended together. Were you friendly with Percival?” He stepped out to the terrace, the air cooler and filled with the scent of tobacco.

Shaddick pulled two cheroots from his pocket, handing one to Oliver. “Not really. As I said, I was two years behind. I didn’t witness the accident that befell your cousin, if that is what you’re asking, only heard of it secondhand. Rest assured, Your Grace, I’ve never spoken of it. I told Claremont as much earlier.”

Claremont had never once mentioned his brother had been hurt while attending Harrow, though to be fair, Oliver had barely known Percival. They’d only become acquainted when Percival had asked for an appointment to the East India Company.

“I still find it deplorable…what came about.” Shaddick hesitated, brows drawn together. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m speaking out of turn.”

“You aren’t, Shaddick,” Oliver said, pretending he knew what Shaddick referred to, though he didn’t have a clue. Whatever had happened, clearly distressed the other man. “I share your opinion.”

“It is only that I can’t believe Kensworth gave over his sister. He knew…” Shaddick’s words trailed off once more. “I realize he and Barnes were friends. But I could barely look Kensworth in the eye at Lady Allister’s last week.”

“I can imagine,” Oliver said, wondering what on earth Shaddick was getting at. “I didn’t realize Kensworth was in London.”

“Neither did Mrs. Barnes. He has come for the Season. Lady Kensworth is with child, which I’m sure was the perfect excuse for him to enjoy the delights of town.” Shaddick didn’t bother to hide the dislike of Celia’s brother from Oliver. “Mrs. Barnes was distressed at the news of Kensworth’s arrival in London. She hasn’t spoken to him in years. Not since her wedding day. Though I hardly blame her.” Shaddick tossed aside his cheroot. “Such a betrayal is difficult to overcome.”

“Indeed.” Oliver wasn’t sure what else he could say without giving away the fact he had no bloody idea what Shaddick alluded to. Jealousy had sent him out here to share a cheroot with the other man, not curiosity over Percival or Kensworth.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. I’d like to return to Mrs. Barnes.”

Shaddick wandered off, leaving Oliver full of questions as he looked up at the starlit night sky. Celia had mentioned that Percival and Kensworth had been friends, having both attended Harrow, but little else. The haste of Percival’s marriage to Celia, Oliver had put down to infatuation. Love. The desire of Percival to bed her, something Oliver could understand. Celia had been happy on her wedding day, gazing at her new husband with adoration.

But not Percival. At the time, Oliver had put down his relation’s disregard for his young wife as the usual Barnes stoicism.

But now that Oliver considered that long ago day, Percival had not been the picture of a man anxious to bed his bride. His annoyance with Celia had been apparent, ignoring her at every turn. Belittling her manners. Shamefully, Oliver hadn’t questioned Percival’s treatment of her at the time, because he hadn’t cared.

Why does it matter why Percival wed Celia? Or what Kensworth might have done?

Cursing, Oliver snuffed out the cheroot he held, unsettled by Shaddick’s words. Celia was no longer his concern. She was not his . Their relationship was over, though Oliver should have ended things with her in a much more amicable manner. Not doing so had been cowardly.

Perhaps that was the reason Oliver was so bloody…distressed.

The knot grew larger, squeezing his entire chest. Making his stomach pitch about.

Edmonds had poisoned him with that bloody omelet. Or possibly Rush. Oliver’s valet spent a great deal of time in the kitchens with one of the maids.

You idiot. It’s not poison. It’s your heart.

Oliver leaned against the wall, reluctant to return to Atherby’s box, Lady Helen, and the collection of Barnes cousins. He stood leaning against the stairwell, seeing every imperfection of the plastered walls, which made his annoyance that much worse.

Marriage to Helen meant no insults. No name calling. His entire home would be exceptional. Trifle would be eaten from a plate. Not one hideous, overly feathered pillow would grace the furniture in his drawing room.

God, it sounds so bloody boring.

Rubbing his chest, Oliver started up the stairs once more, irritated he wasn’t more grateful for Atherby’s intervention tonight. The earl had done him a favor, hadn’t he?

The weight pressing along his heart grew heavier.

He was so focused trying to breathe, force himself back to the earl’s box, Oliver didn’t see the person barreling down the stairs from above. Falling back against the wall, a soft form fell against his own. The scent of lilies embraced him.

And the pressure in his chest eased immediately.